Charlie felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She knew her mother had her faults --  her childhood had been a tangle of strange men and booze punctuated by the stench of cigarettes and pot -- but she had always assumed she loved her. They were little more than grifters, moving from one town to the next, one dingy motel room after another. Hell, her current situation -- that of holding her mother's beloved pistol (the one with the mother-of-pearl handle that Charlie had called "the pretty one, Mama!") to her head didn't exactly speak of an idyllic childhood now, did it?

"It was you."

"No, baby ... oh, baby, don't do this." Her mother was pleading. Charlie felt sick.

"You knew I loved him and you ... this ..." She gestured helplessly to the mess of bodies around her, to the wall where Slick (hopefully) lay like a sack of wheat germ, mangled as fuck.

She closed her eyes. It was never supposed to be this way. She and Slick were supposed to be in a bungalow by the sea by now, and instead ... Well. No sense thinking of what could have been. Charlie steadied herself, willing away the tears. She steeled herself for what was next.

"Mother."

She raised the gun.

"Baby, no!" A whimper.

"You."

She pulled the trigger.

A single tear fell on Charlie's cheek. She brushed it away -- no time for that now. She raised the gun once more and turned to the men on the floor with a hardened smirk.

"Now, gentlemen. What was the arrangement you and my mother had? I think we'd better double it now, don't you?"