“Make it real. Make it bleed.” She gives me orders like she’s writing pop songs. I follow her lead, I follow her ass, I follow her bullets into battle. She rides me like I’m a good song on her headphones, like we’re fucking under strobe lights.

Ahead of us, a bunch of bastards. You know the sort. Rednecks and authority figures and cunts named “Phil” and “Bethany Ann”. Twerps and twats, aimed with baseball-bats wrapped in chains and shot through with big spiky nails. Bad people.

I take aim, like I’m looking into the heart of an eclipse. You’re not supposed to that. Unless you’re wearing sunglasses. I’m always wearing sunglasses. Especially when I’m falling in love. Or taking up arms against a sea of oppressors.

Hunter Killer Drones, that’s what I think of them as. 

I squeeze a trigger, and my gun is god. My gun is death upon a pale horse. My gun is my will and karma turned into chemicals and kinetics. My gun is what makes me better, still standing, still shooting, still focused and driving on. 

My enemies, our enemies, they suck violence through the holes we punch in their bodies. We laugh and laugh and laugh, not because it’s cool, but because you gotta do something, and I’m too tired to cry. 

My gun is heavy and my will is strong. I feel like I’ve taken a bunch of sex drugs and been ordered to take charge of an orgy. 

“Kick the charges and light their hears on fire,” she orders me. 

She takes charge. I take orders from her like I’m taking a shot to the gut.

Boldly, bloody, we press on like fake fingernails.