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The Butcherlorette

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Shane rode his scooter everywhere and his schedule was surprisingly predictable. After watching his goings-on for a week, Sam rigged up a wire-trap right outside his yard. She watched from a car down the street as he mounted his skateboard, and triggered the wire.

“Ride your scooter all the way to hell,” she said, as flames and bits of Shane flew up into the air.


David wasn’t hard to track down. The international model tweeted his location everywhere he went. The easiest part was finding the right Malaysian fashion show. The hardest part was deciding how to kill him. Backstage, Sam blended in with the female models, and scanned the room for her snooty suitor. He stood at the edge of the stage, waiting to go on. She sauntered up behind him and tapped his shoulder. “So you finally decided to bring me a rose?” he sneered, right before her perfectly manicured nails went through his eyeballs. She left him in a maintenance closet, unconscious, practicing his Blue Steel in a bucket of bleach. Just to be sure.


All she had to do was call Drew. She didn’t tell him why she’d called, or what she wanted, but she knew he’d come. He agreed to meet her in a heartbeat, and he hadn’t even hesitated when she suggested Sydney Tower. They chatted. She got his back against the railing, and her voice almost broke when she whispered, “you’re so brave, Drew.” His confusion turned to terror as she picked him up – he was the lightest of the bachelors – and threw him over the railing. His screams found her even as she saw his body break on the ground below.


The mining town was so small, she knew exactly where to look for Kayne. As the sun rose she found him in his usual yoga spot overlooking his city. He went into a headstand, and his face turned to shock as he caught sight of her. He was just as shocked a second later when her knife punched through his sternum and into his heart. “Aw, shit,” he gurgled.

“Namaste, bitch.”


She’d tracked Tony to a pub the night of a footy game, and found, with delight, that he was sharing a jug with Luke and Kieren. Three blokes with one stone. Excellent. But she had been discouraged against causing collateral damage, so instead of using the explosive grenade in her handbag, she pulled out a smoke grenade – enough to cause a stir and hide herself long enough to dispatch the targets. Smoke billowed. Three necks were sliced open. The bachelors just hadn’t been there for the right reasons.


Davey’s local surf beach was the obvious place to look. Just another surfer. Just another larrikin.

Just another bullet.

She hid in the grass as the sun set and watched him in the water. She took her aim – and changed her mind. He’d assured her he was serious. Could he really be different from all the other guys she’d dated?

He was sitting on the sand now, looking at the waves crest and crash. She squinted. Yes, that was a tear rolling down his cheek.

She holstered her handgun and strode out of the beachgrass. At this range she could hear him sniffling. She drew a garrote from her pocket.

Davey never heard her coming. She drew the wire around his neck and pulled him close. Almost, almost like an embrace.

“Sorry, Davey. You just weren’t boyfriend material.”

His face grew red and his eyes bulged in the setting sun.


When her best friend’s toilet got clogged, she knew who to call. She snuck up on Dave as he worked on the toilet, his back to her.

“Urine trouble now, Dave,” she hissed, and he spun around clumsily, surprised to see her. She pounced, knocking his head against the porcelain to daze him, and shoved his face down into the murky bowl.

“Looks like a bad case of die-arrhea.” Soon, his limbs stopped flailing. After another minute the gurgles and bubbles stopped.

She flushed.


Alex was harder to track down. She found him, eventually, breathing his last in a nursing home. There was nothing for her to do; she watched his chest stop moving, and the nurses came in to pull the sheet over his head.

“What did he die from?” Sam asked.

“Old age,” a nurse said sagely.

Sam found herself nodding. He was rather old.


The café where Will worked was in a quiet corner of his hometown. Of course he was a barista; what else could a “musician” do? At least he’d never tried too hard to impress her. She would go easy on him, just for that. She walked up to the counter and said his name. He turned and smiled when he recognised her.

“Will you accept this bullet?” she asked.

“Sam, what…”

He accepted it whether he wanted or not.


Sam had always enjoyed abseiling, and she knew the spots where Richie worked. It was incredibly easy – far too easy – for her to simply cut the ropes holding him. He never even knew what happened. Hopefully he was cracking a joke to himself on the way down. The fall was several seconds long, long enough for her to say “cool bananas”.


Michael’s rat face was visible ten metres away from where he sat in a restaurant with his date. Now that Sam got a better look at her, it was like looking in a mirror. Maybe Michael really had been there for the right reasons. It was too late now. Sam watched from the car parked across the street as their drinks were delivered, and Michael took a sip of his wine. Seconds later he was convulsing on the ground.


Sasha was by far the hardest. She liked him. Loved him, maybe. She stopped him as he was walking down the street. It was hard looking at him even now, as his clock was about to stop ticking.

“Sam, hey, I was just about to ring you.”

“Sasha. Remember the Stroke Foundation?”

“Ah yeh.”

“They owe me a favour.”

He frowned in confusion. He started yelling as the men in black appeared from nowhere and dragged him into their van.

“Your mural was shit!” Sam yelled as the vehicle thundered away.

They did their job. She checked his autopsy report afterwards. Stroke, just as she’d asked.


With their assassinations out of the way, Sam headed straight to headquarters for assessment. She was escorted to a sparse room, with only a table and a chair inside.

“We’ve been watching, Sam.”

She spun around. Osher stood there, his hands folded in front of his chest. There was a coldness in his eyes that Sam had never seen before. She trembled in her stiletto boots.

Osher levelled his gaze. “Sam.”

She swallowed.

“You’ve eliminated all of the rose recipients.” He extended his hand. “You passed our test. Welcome, Agent Frost, to B.A.C.H.E.L.O.R.E.T.T.E.”