Laura and I stared at the body, the sickly yellow glow from a naked bulb illuminating our sudden predicament. I really shouldn't have hit the drug dealer in the head with my purse. I felt that a hundred dollars for a bag of weed was overkill, while the drug dealer thought that we were just a couple of naive college girls trying to be cool. He got uppity. I whacked him with my purse to teach him some manners, and he fell over dead.
"Geez!" Laura leaned over the body and gingerly pushed at a shoulder with her shoe. We studied the misshapen head, the blonde hair matted with blood. "What the hell do you carry in that purse--bricks?"
"Just the one," I was defensive, looking around. I'd never killed anyone before. "And you're the damn hippie who wanted to buy some pot!"
"For the last time, it's for my glaucoma!" My long suffering friend hissed, scanning the deserted street. She sighed loudly, and appeared to be mumbling a prayer to the heavens. Then she eyed me speculatively.
"So what do you want to do with the body?"
I looked up.
"Bury it?"
"Are you crazy? Digging a grave is a bitch, not to mention what it does to good manicures." She looked at her nails. "Besides, we aren't exactly dressed for manual labor."
This was true. We had planned a night out dancing, and had dressed accordingly. My black pencil skirt would definitely not survive a night digging a grave. We visually inspected the area around us. We both reached the conclusion that this guy would not fit into any of the small metal trash cans, but seeing black trash bags sitting next to the cans gave me an idea.
"Let's cut him up," I said, proud of myself. "They'll never find all of him."
Laura stared at me.
"Do you carry around a knife and trash bags in that purse?"
"NO, but I do carry an axe."
The prompt is the third definition of the word bitch.
The prompt is a quote from Groucho Marx: "When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun.'"
