I knew she was happy to be a brunette, but I asked anyway. The world isn’t safe for blondes.
But then, blondes aren’t safe for the world.
It’s dangerous to be here, but I was just so close!
I chose to be a reporter rather than a cop. Cops speak a lot of jargon, and anyway, I usually end up on crowd control. I don’t want to keep people from seeing my work.
I think it should be displayed in museums. The precise color of each rug, the way the blonde's hair just slightly sticks out. The hidden mystery of pink rosary beads. It all delights me so much.
I got back in the truck and drove aimlessly. The rug in the back rolled around, empty for now. I always had one. The worst thing was saving the world from a blonde and not having anywhere to put it.
Not that I do my work for altruistic reasons. I don’t kill to save the world.
Or because blondes are evil, lying, manipulative bitches.
I kill because it’s fun.
I should learn to relax more in between killings. Let them think I'm in jail or dead, and then I strike again.
The problem is the buzz. Used to be a killing would tide me over for more than a year. Now, I'm lucky if the buzz lasts a few months.
I thought maybe revisiting the site would help, seeing the chaos created by eradicating the world of one more blonde.
But i can feel the itch inside me.
The itch that makes alcoholics take just a sip of alcohol, knowing that it could lead to a three-day bender. The itch that makes a druggie take another hit, risking an overdose.
The itch that looks at every blonde and screams for relief.
There was a girl ahead. Its car had broken down and the poor beast was stranded.
All I saw was the sun shining on its head like a little blond halo.
It’s been five months. The buzz has long since faded, I told myself. I've let so many blondes go . . . Surely, I deserve some sort of treat.
“Hey Sugar. Need a lift?”