One by One

Vinessa sips her glass of wine, eyeing the hair peeking out from my shirt.

"Have you ever been in love?" she asks. I shrug, drink my shot, then practically shatter the glass on the counter.

"You're not impressing anyone with that," says the bartender, frowning at the mistreated shot glass. Vinessa strokes my arm with her nimble fingers. "I'm a little impressed," she coos.

"Yeah, well, I'm not," says the bartender. "If one of those glasses shatters, you're paying for it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I grumble. I take another shot, closing my eyes as I feel the burn roll down my throat.

Vinessa screams.

"Oh my God," she squeaks, pointing to the corner of the room. A man lies dead there, a bullet hole in his right temple.

"What the hell is this?" I ask. I hop off my stool and walk towards him, though the alcohol is starting to affect the way I walk. People scooch away from the man, leaving a path for me.

The man hangs back with his arms splayed out. A tiny trickle of blood falls from the wound in his forehead to his lapel. As I lean closer, Vinessa squeals. "There's another one," she says. "A woman near the dance floor. I don't know why I didn't notice her before."

"How are these people dying?" I growl. "I don't hear gunshots, and I would definitely hear a silencer from this distance."

"EEE! Another one!" says Vinessa. I turn, and every time I blink, I see another man or woman dead. "What's going on?" I cry. "What is this?"

I blink, and the bartender's draped across the counter, his precious glasses smashed over his head. Blood drips down from his slit throat.

I turn again, and at long last, everyone in the bar is either dying or bleeding out...

...except for Vinessa and I.

I turn to her and I grimace. "You're doing this, aren't you?"

But then I remember her...I had been in love once.

She smiles at me, and she laughs like a drunken hyena. Then she dissolves like paper in a pool of acid rain, leaving nothing behind.

Blood and death surround me. I throw up my hands...

...but that's when I notice it in my left hand. My father's revolver, spattered with blood.

I came to the bar for shots, all right.