The Equines of Redemption
If only ladies could recognise Gift Horses, they would give them a wide berth.
She is an attractive woman with just the kind of physique I prefer, erring on the skinny side but with full hips and pert breasts. And the legs! I fancy them long and lean, but with calves with some meat on them.
She smells nice, too, beneath that budget perfume. And she has this overwhelming veracity for adoration that most of them possess after interacting with a smooth operator like me, inhabiting the body of their dear deceased clueless and fumbling partners.
Playing the ladies is an art I master intuitively, along with placing bullets into people. Oh, how the darlings want to believe the wayward are redeemable, preferably by their good spiritual endeavour!
It never occurs to them that condemned criminals can indeed be plain evil.
Which, in essence, describes me.
I gave her the customary spiel I deliver to the dames of the unfortunately and secretly departed, to whose mortal remains I am relocated for the six-month clandestine assignments to use and abuse in the line of duty.
Enjoying the women is simply a perk of a dangerous, thankless job — the fat, ruby cherry on an otherwise sour cake.
I told her I was not the man she married — obviously since I was much more loving — and did not deserve her shininess.
Of course, she might not have declared her love so unconditionally had she known of his wailing vestiges inside me. It’s the undisclosed small details that make all the difference, they say.
And there is a reason our sort has earned the epithet Gift Horse in the black ops community.
You should never look one in the soul.
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