When Billy pulls out the gun, I'm surprised, to say the least. He must've seen the blood on me before. He must've realized I'm a bit of a crazy ****. I grin. Billy's got some balls. 

"Billy Billy Billy, You're being a very bad boy." I chuckle as I say this. His smile disapears. Apparently, he doesn't see the humor. Hell, maybe he likes being called a bad boy. Wouldn't be surprised.

"Take off your clothes." Billy says, trying to be serious, but I catch the note of nervousness.

"Trying to see my willy Billy?" I ask with a demented smile.

"Do it. It's obvious you're on the run. You don't do what I say, I shoot you, say it was in self defense. You're already a criminal." 

I'm no longer smiling. The sonofabitch has thought it through. I'm about to get buttraped by a queer with a gun, and I never even had that **** cigarette. 

What. The. ****.  

"It's my birthday. I'm finally going to get what I want. Now take off your clothes." Billy says in a very serious tone.

I can't help laughing at my situation, as I pull my shirt over my head. I was a coldblooded murdering ****. If Billy only knew what I was on the run for.

Corpses, some men, some women, some children, bits of flesh, eyeball here, finger there, me standing in the middle of it all,

I block it out.

And yet, here I was about to get raped in the **** by a faggot who wears **** yellow sweatpants. 

I slip down my pants slowly, I'm not wearing underwear, watching his eyes follow my hands excitedly, and I know. My smile widens.

"Here." I say, tossing the pants in a high arc at Billy. His eyes follow them predictably, as if they were some strippers panties, which to him, I guess they were equal to. 

I'm already moving. Before he knows it, I grab the gun in one hand and rip it out of his grasp. My other hand hits him in the face, hard.

The pants hit the floor and then, so does he. I slam my knee onto his chest, gun pointed at his face. Blood is coming from his nose. Probably broken. He's gasping, his eyes are wide with fright. His mouth is moving, making similar noises over and over again. "I'msorryimsorryimsorryimsorryim-"

"I know Billy, or should I call you Willy?" I respond, grabbing my pants and shoving them into his mouth. "Shut up." If he wasn't scared shitless for his life, he'd probably be enjoying this. 

Eleven minutes later, I had him tied to a chair in the kitchen, my pants, well technically, his, still in his mouth. I was dressed as well, having managed to find clothes that fit me decently.

"It didn't have to be like this Willy." I say with a chuckle, tightening the knots. "We could've been friends, could've been buddies, pals, best buds." I look into his eyes, a disappointed look on my face.  "I thought we had something special, but then you had to go and try to assrape me."

I pistolwhip him once, and he grunts in pain. I hit him again. I put the barrel against his head. To shoot or not to shoot, to kill or not to kill, a much better question then Shakespeare ever wrote. 

I catch sight of the microwave, and the neon green time that blinks on the small lcd screen. Power must've gotten cut off and Willy never reset the damned thing. 

I wonder what to do, as the time on that microwave blinks at me over and over again.

11:11.