The ferocity of the slap rocked her head back; she resettled her stance and lifted her chin, defiant, navy eyes staring him down.

“That all you got?” she wondered, and the curve of her lips twisted into a challenging smirk.

The punch broke her nose; when she lifted her head again, a slow run of blood began to form.

“Yeah, nosebleeds. Never had those before,” she snorted. “C’mon. Stop fucking around. I paid you — now do it.”

The red-eyed man nodded, saying, “Do you want them to be able to recognize you?”

“The hair will be enough,” she said. “As long as the rest looks like a body.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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