She stood silently, hiding behind the overgrown hedge that grew along the sidewalk, bludgeon in hand.
A sudden intake of breath, she held it, listening intently as unhurried footsteps neared.
She heard conversation; it sounded as though the person was talking to himself, rehearsing an acceptance speech or something similar. His voice was all too familiar.
Then, she heard him utter a phrase that chilled her blood: Crooked Hilary.
Peering through the hedge, she watched the pedestrian approach and pass by her hiding place.
Only after her victim passed by did she exhale and take another deep breath for what happened next.
Bludgeon raised over her head, she crashed through the hedge, an incoherent scream rushing past her blood red lips, spittle running down her chin, smudged mascara ringing her crazed eyes locked upon her target.
Her quarry turned and screamed, too, frightened out of his reverie.
In his last moments, he saw his murderer’s face and recognized her, but he did not have time to speak her name before the bludgeon connected with his skull and silenced him.
She squatted and leaned in close to his ear as he lay dying on the cold sidewalk, and spoke in a whisper:
“This is what happens to people who fuck with me, Donald. In the end, they always get what’s coming to them.”
Hilary stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress pants and idly walked away, leaving a trail of bloody high-heeled shoe impressions behind her, accompanied by bloody drag marks made by the bludgeon she now found too heavy to carry over her shoulder.
She thought she heard a gurgling sound behind her, but did not bother to turn and confirm or deny it.
“I need a fucking drink and a shower.”
She ripped off her bloodied gloves and balled them up, put them in a blazer pocket, pulled out her smart phone and speed-dialled a driver, giving him her location.
“Pick me up – NOW. And be quick about it, fuckers.”