Female Inflation

The afternoon was a bit of a blur. The police had been called and the school was soon overrun by yellow jacketed scene of crime officers, forensics teams and the mass media clamouring to get a story to go with the bizarre events that unfolded just after lunchtime. Katie and Leanna had both spent the last hour and a half walking around in a daze, being questioned by serious looking men and comforted by well meaning policewomen; they were in shock, after all they had just witnessed a popular young maths teacher pump up like a balloon and explode like one too.

Jamie sighed. It was nearly eight o’clock, and she had begun to regret having accepted Bob’s invitation to meet for dinner. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while, and remembered him as being rather dull. In fact, the only memorable event she recalled with any clarity was the “molotov cocktail” she’d given him. Bored to tears on their first (and only) date, she’d fed him salted peanuts, potato chips and pretzels. Then, she had offered an outrageously thirsty Bob a huge pitcher of a bland concoction consisting of water and the contents of a large box of baking soda.

Nicole needs to get something off her chest, and out of her stomach, but there is a time and a place.

Aaron Nickleback was the best of the best hit men, of the few that were left in the world. Why was he able to find work after so many others had been hunted down by advanced forensic pathology? Simply put, Nickleback was an extremely subtle assasian who understood that he needed to cause deaths in ways so indirect and subtle that they were not even recognizable as hits.