His face is near mine, and his elbow's bent and shoving the barrel between my tonsils. And his yells make WAH-WAH-WAHs and his eyes glimmer, but is it the camera or is he …?
And he reclines, and then with his top teeth spading into his lip, Spyder leans into the handle of the Colt and my bottom lip nearly busts under the trigger guard and G-G-GAH.
From my tight stomach, the vomit sewers up my esophagus and crowds around the nozzle and oozes through the cracks in my teeth and sludges over the corners of my mouth. GA-GA. And from my cheeks, it slimes to my earlobes and into the back of my hair. When I smell it, I retch even more and it glops over my chin and trudges down my Adam's apple.
I'm suffocating. I bludgeon his forearm. I rage for his face but he's two feet from my reach. I'm garbling. I'm gagging. And now the puke's frothing over my top lip and mixing with my snot, and my tears are flooding over my temples and tiding into my sideburns. Gunk spatters from my gaping mouth.
“fu*k YOU!” And his eyes s** in my gaze and the camera clicks a last photo. Izzy. And Spyder co*ks the Colt still inside my throat.