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CHAPTER ONE This is when I realized she was a bitch. I was between jobs, low on funds and counting pennies. I mean, I had a budget for rent and utilities and even a little scratch to take her out to eat. Someplace on the border of being nice, but still cheap. I’d call it quaint and try to make it romantic. I had enough for food and iced tea, cause tea was cheap. She ordered a martini. It was fifteen bucks, top shelf liquor and she watched me while she ordered it, to see what I would say. Nothing. I said nothing. I just skipped my meal, cause the bitch drank all my money. It was the last warning sign in a long list of red flags. Anyone who knows you are struggling, knows they can help out by ordering tea or a coke or hell, even water with lemon, and still spends your money on liquor has something wrong with them. Then the complaining started. Not from me, I was done with her. And I think she could tell. Instead of parting with some dignity, w

"Light 'em up," the jackboot screamed. The men in masks pulled the triggers on their blasters and sent searing blasts into the assembled crowd. They sliced through the people on the front lines, cutting their signs in half. Those at the back wondered at first. What happened? The shouts of rage and anger turned to screams of horror, cut short as the silent crimson beams seared through flesh and cloth and protest. The front surged against the back, attempting to escape, attempting to run. The back pressed against the front, working to reach the action, working to add their voices to the chaos. The crowd squirted sideways, running, hunting for escape. And the jackboots fired on them as they ran, like ducks in a gallery. It became a contest. Who could pop a protester and send them down. The jackboots kept count. The one on the end began shooting legs, seeing how far he could send a protester sliding once they were amputated below the thigh or knee