she stood there like a scarecrow, those sad sleepless eyes full of scorn & brimstone. her delicate, corrupt body was sheathed in a pearl studded flapper dress, but she was ready to be a bared blade at a moments notice. i sipped on my rye & took some small comfort in the violin case at my feet. anybody who tried to punch my clock would be chewing on a mouthful of lead from my chicago typewriter. so thats how things were. hard-boiled & poached, the two of us had some sort of mexican stand-off around the punch bowl, walzing around it getting glasses of spiked juice then going back to our seats & drinking the good hootch we each brought from home. i couldn't say i minded- she was easy on the eyes & the threat implied with the curl of those moist lips kept me on my toes. she was having similar thoughts about me in my pinstripes, you could tell, but neither of us was nibbling. that worm concealed a fish hook, make no mistake. this was supposed to be a bussiness killing, on both our parts. i like to think i was being paid to committ hari-kari on folk, letting them die with some dignity even if they didn't have the sense to wish it. my internal monolouge was rattling along at the same pace it always is- hate hate hate, that old chestnut. the whole evening felt like an iceberg floating silently towards a luxury liner so far, & that was fine by me.