23 “You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he said, shooting her knee cap.

Says:

“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he said, shooting her knee cap. He walked closer to her and looked down at her. She clutched her left knee and was screaming in pain. Blood seeped from between her fingers and began to pool on the cheap motel rug beneath her.

“Then again, I’m lucky you’re not a woman,” he said snatching the wig off of what was now noticeably male. The high-pitched crying stopped and his voice dropped back to what it should’ve been, cussing instead of whimpering.

“I know who you are, and I know why you’re here. My name is Detective John Rafferty, and you, my friend, are what we’ve been calling ‘the hairy lady’,” said the man standing, still holding his gun ready.

“Prove it,” he replied and spit blood on Detective Rafferty’s shoes.

“We plan to,” he said, lighting up and taking a drag on his cigarette before shouting, “Lock ‘im up boys.”

Five men in full body armor and gas masks burst through the front door and picked up the man in drag. As they carried him out, a man in a trench coat and fedora entered the room squeezing past them. He pulled out his notebook and turned to John Rafferty and said, “You think we really got ‘im this time John?”

He took another puff on his cigarette and answered, “Hell, all I know is that this is the third man in drag I’ve had to lure back here. I sure as hell hope so.”