Pyrrhic Victory

This is an image post. Inspiration for this sketch came from this image.

“So,” sneers Phyllis, “looks like it’s just the two of us now.”

Cherry Boom-Boom titters and cinches the laces tight on her gloves. They circle each other, feet sliding and uncertain on the sand.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, darlin? Do you know how many nights I’ve fallen asleep seeing your face–” (she spits) “–bloody and trashed, and knowing that I’d be the one to trash it for you?”

Cherry Boom-Boom titters and sends a tremendous roundhouse punch careening into Phyllis’s face. Something pops in her neck and down she goes. This would be where the referee would begin the count (lazily; she’s not getting up again), if there were a referee, but there isn’t, so Cherry Boom-Boom just starts peeling off her gloves, whistling through her teeth.

Phyllis lurches to her feet. Her head hangs limply on her broken neck; she has to prop it up against her fist to talk. “I swore I would kill you when I was eight, darlin, and I keep my promises.”

Cherry Boom-Boom swallows her gum and steps in close, not laughing. Her fists piston in and out, breaking ribs, rupturing organs. When she finally stops, she’s soaked in blood and Phyllis is a red ruin, her face like the inside of a can of dog food. Phyllis titters through broken teeth, and Cherry Boom-Boom would run away if she could, only the sand sucks at her legs and won’t let her go.