by Tracy Davidson
If you’re gonna die, die laughing, that’s what I always say. I make sure all my clients go out that way. I prefer to call them ‘clients.’ It sounds so much more professional than ‘victims.’
Not that it’s genuine laughter of course. Poor things are usually far beyond that kind of reaction. But I’ve perfected a cocktail of gas and drugs that reduces them to hysterics. Literally. So much so, it’s too much for their weakened hearts.
My latest client has stopped laughing. His wide grin is frozen in place, forever. I cut it out, to add to my collection.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Writing Magazine, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.