TOOTHPICKDICK WASN’T JOKING. Three cans would have been more than enough for my apartment. As it was, I used ten. Puncturing the tenth can, the front door already a bright white cloud, I pulled at the gas mask, paranoid that some of the vapors would get through, my bare spots of skin tingling from it, the urge to take a shower strong. What if my mask is faulty? What if it’s too big? From the sounds of the man before me, his moans, ones that scrape a happy trail through my consciousness, the cans of whatever the hell I bought are doing their job. Doing it well.
I arm the Taser, step forward, clouds of chemicals parting slightly, and aim, at a distance that cannot be missed. Then, I pull. Fire. Smile with satisfaction when he crumples at my feet. I feel capable. Organized. Superior. My hands shake with excitement.
This will be fun.