“Mon Dieu!” I whispered upon opening the door to the ornate Parisian townhome with rose emblem windows and a portico strewn with de-potted lavender.
Staff were sprawled upon the age-darkened, chevron-style oak flooring, throats slit and glistening.
A slick glove wrapped around my throat. “I’m just…a…translator!” I gasped.
“Parfait,” a deep voice rumbled before giving me the obsidian kiss.
I sit here now and translate on paper, staring into the muzzle of a Darne V22 shotgun.
He sits across from me, spouting French boasts. Exploits. Massacres.
I sneeze; my hand jerks. The shotgun kabooms.
“Merde! Work now, death later, madame translator. You’ll ruin my fun.”
Copyright © 2016 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Microcosms: