bullet, trigger, cocked, loaded, shoot
Dora was a bad mother: a pusher, a long-time heroin user, and, when shit was bad, a hooker turning tricks to stay alive. She carried a heavy gun as she peddled smack to her usual sordid junkies in the shadows. Her pockets were always filled with drugs, cash and bullets. Dora was usually a cool bitch when everything was calm but when things started going south her survival mode kicked in and her face changed.
Her temper was always triggered when pigs patrolled her turf and when she was running low on resources and was forced to sell what was left of her body to the mean streets. She carried a loaded syringe and, when a john came calling, she would shoot up fast before the client changed his mind and split. She carried a small purse with her gun, hammer cocked back, cash, condoms, and her stash of drugs inside. She was a smooth talker and was quick when dealing her sins. But this time Dora became careless and shot too much crap up her arm before entering the car.
Dora was adrift in another reality while pleasuring her client. She was too far away in her heroin dream to catch the badge, the guns pointed at her, the hand cuffs snapped tightly around her wrists, the recital of her rights.... She awoke in a cell and to the cold reality that her life was now captured, sealed. Dora dropped her head into her palms and wept like a little girl. One of her junkies in the back of the large block stared at her and cracked a satisfied smile. Dora wasn't such a bad mother, now.
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