They say some have a puncher's chance. Some do.
She was always threatening to punch someone in the face, but this time she meant it. Only one problem: she was stuck.
Gleaming sparks of light reflecting off of firework canines and molars, scattering shards of jaw still partially coated in torn, gummy flesh, all highlighted by eerily fluorescent flashes of red spattering on her cocktail dress, these bits and sticky pieces, these memories quickly faded
-- was she dreaming?
-- freak adrenaline?
-- PCP slipped in her drink?
--when she realized that her fist was actually lodged beyond the obliterated mandible of her enemy, cut knuckles resting on the back of the cranial cavity. Over and over she tried to budge, the two-carat diamond of her engagement ring rubbing against the interior of the skull, screeching like a crow.
Oh well, at least the bitch was dead. Disposal of the body would be a snap, then it was the simple matter of conjuring up a little white alibi for the authorities, she was a maestro at that, then nothing ahead but smooth sailing directly to the Caymans. As soon as she managed to pull her fist out of the still-quivering head.