Dude’s, if you haven’t checked out the first installment of me and Mark Henry’s round Robin–go hit up his blog– http://www.markhenry.us/blog/ then come back here

Marty stood next to the broad who’d eyeballed me from across the room. I gave her the once over and fought the urge to tell her to get the fuck over herself. But poor whoeverthehell was dead. Having a go at her would just be disrespectful. 

Instead, I hopped up onto the runway, giving a quick glance to the poor freaks severed head before addressing Marty. “Hands down, this beats our last outing to some crappy day spa for mani-pedi’s. So far, in all of our trips to the designer discount mall, nothing beats a hacked off head.” I knelt down behind the poor dude’s head, repositioning it so it stared straight at her. “So I gotta ask, Marty, ya think you got anything up your Bobbie-Sue sleeve that can camouflage this?”

Marty scrunched up her perfect, walking Bobbie-Sue Cosmetics advertisement of a face at me. “Nina Blackman-Statleon—get away from Rudolfo’s head—now.”

Heh.

There’s was nuthin’ that juiced me more than making Marty growl. It’s gotten to be like a sport for me—to see how long I can sustain her cranky. And fair is fair. I hate this fashion show shit. I hate anything girlie. I. Hate. I really hate scrawny-assed models wearin’ clothes that look like an acid trip. So she deserved me taking an op to get my cubes off at her expense. 

I looked down at her and the frou-frou chick that was with some guy. “So who do you suppose would want to off Raffikki?” 

Marty crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. “Rudolfo, Nina! Jesus, you’re a heathen.” 

I flipped her the bird. “Ricardo, Roberto, Renaldo, what the frig ever. Somebody sure didn’t like him. And seriously, do ya blame them? His clothes suck Raptor balls.”   

Marty cringed, giving an apologetic look to the couple standing next to her. She waved dismissive pink-tipped fingers. “Forgive her. She’s just—well, she’s just. I have no explanation.” 

I ignored Marty, because that’s like a sport for me, too, and turned the guy’s head again, making it move up and down. “Maaaaarrrtttyyyyyy,” I mimicked her high-pitched tone of voice. “I loooovee you. Wanna buy some of my freaky-deaky clothes? Bet they’re gonna have a bargain basement sale on ‘em now that I’m kaput.”

Marty blanched, jumping up on the runway with me. “Put Rudolfo down, now, Elvira. You’re making a scene!” 

I let go of the dude’s head because something else caught my attention. 

The other half of him. 

Sprawled on the runway’s shiny floor. There was a flowery pink piece of paper hanging out of his pants pocket. I yanked it out, unfolding it to read it while I ignored Marty’s hysterical, panic-laced babble about CSI and touching evidence. I skimmed the note, ending it with a grunt. 

Holy somebody sure was hacked off. 

Yeah, this was some jacked-up shite.

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