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She found her nicest clothes in a pile and saw they were covered in blood.

She’d broken the heels of her stilettos and tossed them in a dumpster on her flight back to the apartment, then when she’d gotten back she’d torn off her clothes, downed a bottle of gin, and cried herself to sleep. Sure she’d seen people dead, seen people killed, maybe even killed one or two herself in the end (it’s not like she went around checking). But to see a man, even if he was an elzi, rip himself apart like that, and then her friend, well, colleague at least—she’d seen him around—strap himself in like that and then make her snuff him. That wasn’t fair, Friar. You knew what you were doing. You brought me in because you didn’t have the guts to do it yourself. You were a brave sonofabitch, braver than me for sure, but there’s different kinds of brave and you tripped on that last step.

From No Dogs in Philly: A Lovecraftian Cyberpunk Noir. Rated R. FREE forever on Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Google Play. (Amazon users: If the book does not show as free, please log in!)

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