Maneater By Man

Published in Malefaction - Femme Fatale

He spoke to a woman, once, I believe it was his mother.

Stepping over the bar on the floor, he spews

another deathfantasy, inky fingers and squid brain,

Chekov's gun of a blonde; made to be used,

an inevitability of—well, electrons forced through tired synapse,

fire! Crime made by crime, the blonde sits alone

in the bar, motionless. "Aren't all women just waiting

for us?" he types into Reddit, before closing the lid,

and going to bed, alone.