The Ladder Lady

 

She is a mirage in the desert - only I am not in a desert - does that mean the mirage is real? I don't know - all I know is, she materialises out of the sand, monochrome and magnificent, lasciviously wiggles and shoots me dead.

 

...

 

In my death, I ponder. Her entanglement in the rungs was secondary to the gun holster, which was her only form of attire except for the belt around her neck, which was artfully draped over her ladybumps. I am, after all, a man. The distraction rendered thus was the cause of my demise.

 

...

 

I am not dead, I am dreaming.

 

I wake.

 

...

 

The desert.

The sand.

The ladder.

The 1950s-style starlet.

 

Will I be shot dead again, knowing what is to come?

 

...

 

The bondage of the rungs prevents me from retrieving my own 6-shooter and so I am helpless to dodge her intent. Her eyes flash and her head tilts to one side - I feel a blast of empathy as she lowers her guns.

 

I smile.

 

Blam! Blam!

 

Dead again.

 

...

 

It's getting annoying now.

 

"Who are you?" I say, as she materialises again.

 

She flutters her eyelashes.

 

"Don't shoot me again."

 

She raises a weapon.

 

"No..."

 

She pouts and blows me a kiss over the barrel of the pistol.

 

I frown.

 

The kiss thuds into my soul with the impact of a hollow point.

 

...

 

At last she is free!

 

We float.

Rise.

Spiraling orbit.

Entwining double helix.

 

Connecting.

Merging.

Exchanging.

 

"My love."

 

My mouth is dry and moist and hot and tingling and

 

hers is

 

Blam! Blam!

 

...

 

[ - ... perfect ... - ]