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The Blues were approaching slowly with muted shouts. Sulphur’s fetor coated his nostrils, drowning the world in rotten eggs.
“Such an ironic thing for someone to be grateful for,” he thought to himself as he leaned against the cold marble counter-top, gripping one of many bullet wounds with his free hand.
As his head slouched feebly against his ruined chest, his eyes trailed across the still, sweet, slender frame of his beloved, gun in hand. He smiled drunkenly into the abyss, his only remaining comfort found in knowing that she had always dreamed of being the Bonnie to his Clyde.
