In Their Sights

Active lifestyles demand frequent laundering. His, no exception. Midst sickly-sweet, cold, evening solitude, devoid of life, clothes, detergent, coins, flew into machine orifices.

Click. Start.

Waiting, shuttered eyes soon shocked open by gunshot. A floating corpse! Another shot, another corpse! More, and more! Then he felt it, steeping his socks, cascading from every machine. Screaming attempts to exit were useless.

The deceased began laughing.

As his terror-veined eyeballs desperately pressed against window glass in vain hope of salvation, the bloody fishbowl filled, along with his lungs. The hitman’s final glug tasted of cold, dead metal.

Buzzer. Load done.