Tovah’s bat connected. She raced from home to first base, slid,
avoiding her grasping opponent, then twisted and reached for the prize: a semi-automatic
with twelve rounds blessed by Rabbi Weidenseld. That there should have been
thirteen was of no import. She’d saved the last one for herself.
“A gun? I will eat your heart.”
She fired three shots and watched his body begin to
dissolve.
“I am the Scion of Moses, you demonic fuck. Before I die, I’ll
rid this place of you and,” she turned to shoot the goblin head she’d sent down
the field, “everything like you.”
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Written for The Prediction contest: https://predictionfiction.blogspot.com/2019/07/feeling-heat.html
