I open the door to his office and enter hell.
        Naked men in chains hanging from ceilings, screaming. Women lost and lonely, crying for warmth and a gentle touch. Young girls posing naked for cameras, forced to play with each other, looking up sadly, unsure what is going on.
        ‘Where is his real office?’ I ask.
        ‘This is his real office,’ MoonCalfCunt replies with a grin. She wears shrill make-up, a pointy hair-do and a corset that is too tight. ‘This is who he is. This is DeceitfulFuck.’
        ‘I’m going to take him away,’ I say. ‘He cannot love you if he went after me.’
        ‘You think he seduced you because he wanted to leave me?’
        ‘If he loves you, why does he fuck me?’
        She rolls on the floor with laughter.
        ‘Listen to yourself, dearie,’ She is barely able to speak this is so funny. ‘He fucks you but he loves me. Don’t you get it?’
        But still … but still …. but still ...
        ‘Why does he fuck me?’ I insist.
        ‘Because you’re the sort of bitch we’re looking for,’ Her long, white Cruella de Vil index finger taps against my forehead. ’Don’t you get it?’
        I can hear myself utter stupid words – love and honesty and …
        ’We use gals like you to complete us,’ she cuts me short and black bugs crawl out of her mouth. ‘You’re the release he needs to keep us together.’
        She undoes her corset. Her breasts are long, thin bags of crumpled paper.
        ‘He says my breasts are not as good as yours,’ she whispers. ‘But my cunt is hot.’
        She takes off her skirt and shows me her pale hole; yellow stubble surrounding what looks like the mouth of a dead rat, skinned alive, with a dry tongue hanging out.
        ‘He loves that cunt,’ she says and takes my hand and forces me to stroke it.
        ‘You can join us anytime you want,’ she giggles and suddenly her face is gone and only a naked snakehead is left – green eyes that don’t blink, a split tongue flicking in and out. ‘Whenever you feel like making a happy couple happier you can fuck us both.’
        I run away, run through more rooms of the hell that is his office until I find him hiding in the toilet.
        He stumbles out, small and embarrassed and blushing. I only recognize him because he is wearing my favourite blue shirt.
        Suddenly, I have a gun in my hand.
        ‘A new game,’ I say. ‘It’s called tell me who you are.’
        He resorts to his usual all purpose bullshit.
        ‘You are wonderful and pretty and mysterious and talented and …’
        ‘Then why do you treat me like some stupid bitch?’
        ‘I …’ He doesn’t continue, his eyes are glued to the gun.
        ‘It’s only a game, right?’ There is a silly hope in his voice.
        I aim for his kneecap but miss.
        Fear sucks all prettiness out of his face. He stares at the bullet hole in the wall.
        ‘Now undress!’ I order.
        He rips off his shirt, explodes out of his trousers, almost falls over when he yanks off his socks and boxers.
        ‘You never were that fast when it was MY life that depended on it, bastard.’
        ‘I don’t like it when you call me that.’
        ‘Shut up, bastard.’
        I point to some clothes on the floor.
        ‘Put those on.’
        ‘I never …’
        ‘Put them on you fuck.’
        He steps into the stockings as eagerly as if they were filled with cow dung. The panties squeeze his balls into pea-sized knots.
        ‘Now the make-up.’
        He hesitates and I pull the trigger again.
        A mirror cracks into a million pieces.
        His fingers tremble. He drops the blusher, breaks off the top of the lipstick and smears it all over his pale face.
        ‘You’re too clumsy,’ I say.
        I aim carefully and finally manage to hit his kneecap.
        ‘Fucking Jewish Nazi bitch,’ he screams.
        ‘Why do you treat me like shit?’ I ask.
        He presses his hands against his knee, soaked in blood. A black puddle forms around his feet. Slowly he sinks down on the floor.
        ‘I have issues,’ he whimpers.
        ‘I gave you my heart and you spat on it. You weakling! You coward!’
        I aim at his head.
        ‘Yes,’ he shouts. ‘You’re right. I’m a weakling and a coward.’
        The gun clicks against my index finger but I don’t shoot. The sound of honesty is too sweet.
        ‘Say it again.’
        ‘I’m a weakling and a coward.’
        ‘Keep saying it.’
        ‘I’m scared.’ His voice is hoarse.
        ‘Keep saying it.’
        ‘I’m scared. I’m Scared. I’M SCARED.’
        I put the gun against his head and bring my mouth close to his ears.
        His hair is soft and his cheeks are hot. He smells of melting honey.
        ‘I love you,’ I whisper.
        Then I pull the trigger.
        I watch the reflections of his face in the broken pieces of mirror.
        A flicker of emotion fills his eyes as he slowly begins to understand what it means to get hurt.
        I have one bullet left.
        In our last embrace death takes all our pains away.