Before I Forget (Inked)

Greed should lick the arrays on Kimbley's palms.

Because he's been making a grab at just that in my head all week and if I don't write that now, right now, at least the idea, it might flit away again, and wouldn't that be a shame.

Like putting his fingers in a light socket. He'd done that a few weeks ago in the mechanic's shop. His hair had grown back instantly; his eyebrows took a few days.

Except, no, this is different, warm and acrid and briny, sweat, salt, gunpowder. Roughened skin that twitches under the pressure of his tongue.

It'd go a little something like that. Probably blow his head off. Heh.

Sleep now.