Cupid's Bullet

Draining the dregs of his drink and kicking the chair in, he took her by the hand and led her to the door at the front of the bar. It was nearly closing time and they were out of money. It didn’t matter to them, though. They were already drunk enough. They were drunk on liquor and they were drunk on lust and they were drunk on love. It was to be a perfect midsummer evening. Even the stench of stale beer and old smoke that still clung to the barroom walls had a beautiful aroma tonight.

It had been a decent evening, but it was a poor choice of beer joint. The clientele were less than to be desired. Nobody ever expects classy characters in such establishments, but this place was a little extreme. Travelling between their table and the front door, the young lovers passed a particularly feisty collection of degenerates. Between the dartboard and the slot machines stood a group of men, all below average in height and desperately trying to overcompensate for it. They wore their hair short with too much gel (causing it to stand on end) and cheap, high street shirts buttoned to the neck. They were planning for a wild evening. Having riled themselves up on a cocktail of sour tasting shots of cheap and weak spirits; pints of beer and too many trips to the bathroom to powder their respective noses, it would seem that they didn’t know their own limits and that they liked the looks of their reflections in the mirror a little too much.

They caught a glimpse of the girl and she certainly grabbed their attention. They wanted a piece of her. They sneered. They licked their lips. They bit their lips. They winked. They grunted and they tried to smile. Noticing the unflattering attention being shown her way – rather obviously – she told them all, quite frankly, where they could stick it. They were stunned silent. She was used to this kind of treatment and behaviour from Neanderthal men. She was a beautiful girl and has had to deal with these kinds of creeps on a regular basis since long before she was old enough to attend any kind of drinking establishment. In truth, she had to deal with it nearly every time she would set out in public. She was tired of the unoriginality of it all and had no patience left. She was strong and it was something that impressed every man she allowed into her life.

Outside it was a sticky warm night. Drunk and horny, the young lovers could think of no place better to go than the nearest church’s graveyard. The idea of practicing the art of breeding and creating new life while surrounded by the dead turned them on. They knew exactly where they wanted to go. There was a particularly beautiful tomb that they were both fond of; surrounded by hedges, it was secluded enough that nobody would be able to see them in the act. A gothic boudoir. It gripped their romantic and erotic imagination. It was certainly a better place to head to than the bench of the bus-stop that they currently found themselves on. They were excited and, holding hands, started to pick up the pace, giggling and joyfully bounding their way toward satisfying their sexual desires.

About to cross the road they noticed a beat-up Ford Escort indicating to pull up beside them. It was painted jet black with windows to match. The alloys were chrome. The exhaust was oversized, as was the spoiler and the white racing stripes were obscene and turning a pale yellowish brown colour. The thing approaching them was hideous and it was obvious who would be inside. Rolling down the window one of the guys cried out to the girl. Continually heckling her.

“Alright, treacle!”

“How’s it going, remember us? Course you do. You wouldn’t forget us, you’re gagging for a bit of it!”

“C’mon, ditch this chump, come ride with us. Quit pretending you don’t wanna , ya little bitch. I know you want us”

The driver had unrolled his window too, to show his face, grinning inanely at the situation. It was getting too much for the young lovers though. They didn’t want trouble right now and just wanted to be left alone, with each other. They had a graveyard to get to after all. She had already told them once this evening what she thought of them and now they were trying to keep their cool, to ignore them. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t take any more of it.

“Listen mate, for fuck’s sake leave it out! I mean, doesn’t your boyfriend get jealous of you chatting up other guy’s girls? Or does he like to jerk his tiny prick as he watches you get rejected countless times until you give up and let him fuck you in the arse?”

It was a miracle that he managed to get all of that out, but time seemed to stop. He saw the barrel emerge from the window; he closed his eyes, cowered in panic and fear and heard the shot ring out into the night. He felt nothing. He fell to the floor, panting, as tires screeched and the car disappeared into the distance. Peeling his eyes open slowly, he still felt nothing, he felt numb and assumed it was a combination of shock and adrenalin. He looked over and finally noticed her. What was left of her, that is. Her face was unrecognisable. It was a mess. Flesh and bone; blood, sinew and buck-shot. She loved him enough to have thrown herself in front of the gun. She would’ve happily died for him. He prayed she hadn’t. He wished they had killed him instead. He wished they would come back and kill him too. He wished he told her that he loved her more often. Above all, he really fucking wished he had stayed faithful.