Honi Soit

She’s walking down the street like anybody else when some 17 year old donkey pulls a knife on her, on her, and nearly gets her in the back with it, too, except you don’t get to be the grim specter of death for three generations of idiot corpses without growing a sixth sense about these sorts of things. The street is empty by the time the screaming has stopped and she’s hotfooting it away with a pocketful of fingers rattling against her hip for souveniers before she has time to take a breath.

Tits isn’t big on thinking — planning, yes, she’s a downright genius at planning, and a legend of the age at nursing a grudge — but reflecting on her life, not so much. He’s not the first kid she’s dropped into the gutter, but the sheer pointless waste of it gets to her a bit. The lack of ceremony in particular she finds galling; usedtawas folks would at least shout your name before putting the pigsticker in your back at the bodega.

She’s out of sorts the entire time she’s hacking her way back up the chain to the sclerotic billionaire who put out the hit. “Bad for business,” he says, or would if she hadn’t kicked his chair over and gone to work on him with the kid’s own knife.

“We’ve both made some bad life choices, maybe,” she tells his meat when she’s done, but he doesn’t seem to find the chuckle in it; anyway he doesn’t laugh.