Weapon
By Nancy V. Sont
He was exhausted. How did she do it? Did she search for ways to be killed? How many times had he untied her? He’d rescued her from slowly mixing chemicals. From a boiler about to explode. From a tidal wave. From being lowered into a frothy brew. From an explosive bed.
He slumped into a soft cloud. Did he dare take a moment off? Would she be falling from an airplane? Off a building? Drowning in a barrel? A vat of cement or a slowly filling box?
He was weary. She was killing him.
“HELP! SUPERMAN!”
Worse than kryptonite.
…Swoosh!
It's always such an embarrassment. Having to do away with someone. It's like announcing to the world that you lack the savvy and the finesse to deal with the problem more creatively. I mean, there have been times, naturally, when I've had to have people eliminated, but it's always saddened me. I've always felt like I've let myself down somehow.
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