My Blonde Friend. And
Along enters an Old Lady. Childish dressing, psycho look. Odd hat, wrong stockings.
SHE addresses to me in a sweet, anxious voice. “Could I come over to your house?
MYSELF - scared/confused- “mmm, no I have issues to attend”
Old Crazy Lady sad. Frowns. Sits alone, single seat. Hangs her head on her hand. Hand over front seat. Face changing into post mortem. Blonde friend screams. The Old Crazy Lady is dead. Her hands are already violentviolet, rotten.
She was already dead when she came in.