Nathan wasn?t looking at hermind, no, he was soaking in the lushes curves of her full figure, her shapelylegs, firm thighs. The way her full breasts let the blouse filled out thentaper down to her waist. Her shock of auburn hair that bounced on her shouldersand most of all her face, beautiful full mouth, a cute button nose and thoseeyes, a deep shade of green but now totally vacant, he muttered, ?Like a lambto the slaughter.? She was about 2 inch?s tallerthan Nathan and her little heeled sandals took her another inch so he had tolook up as he moved in front of her, ?Any body hooooommme,? he pressed a fingeron to the front of her blouse over her nipple, ?Ding dong, is Mr Fucking Moyerhome?? Her head moved slowly asthough drawn to the sound, Nathan grinned up at her, ?No, no Fucking Mr Moyer,just Fucking Mrs Moyer, oh dear are we all alone, are we lost and frustrated,do we need some company, do we need some-one to give this a little rub?? therewas a audible in take of breath from Roy. The bottle smashed as it hit the bitumen. Run. Fast. Thirty meters to go. No gunfire. Yet. Twenty meters. Nothing. Yet. Five meters. He made it. He was behind the dumpster. The Package lumbered towards him and made it too. Good. That’s why he trained. If he got out of this alive, he would never again procrastinate about getting out of bed to train. Jessica had always complained about the amount of time he spent training. He always told her that it was about being prepared. For this. She didn’t complain anymore. She was dead. Stop thinking about her. You have to get this fat fuck back and collect your money. That’s all you should be thinking about. Fat fuck. A bit of alliteration. Poetry under gunfire. Had to be a book in that…. Stop fucking around, Hansen. There were still no shots. No footsteps. Just the rain dripping off the dumpster, into the puddles in the bitumen. Just the heavy breathing of his alliterative companion. The Package. The fat fuck. Maybe I’ve lost them. Yeah,.
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