The Endless Struggle
Smith vomited on his boots.
The killer’s nest hosted a plethora of women, throats slit, drained of blood. The expert, a kid called Boston, caressed triangles engraved in the bodies.
Smith shuddered; deja vu.
Noticing his angst, Boston’s youthful eyes gleamed.
“Ready for the back room, old man?”
Smith opened the door, a bathtub overflowed with blood.
Boston descended upon him. Smith fought wildly as his head plunged into a dark viscus grave.
No, not again.
The sick personal fountain of youth.
Wrinkles faded as power emerged.
Smith transformed into youth.
“Till next time, old man,” they whispered to themselves.