Sonic wet himself when he died. Christ, I mean, when I killed him. I was on top of him, with all my weight on the pillow blocking his airways, and I felt the warm trickle shoot down my leg. It wasn't my piss. It soaked right through his lingerie, right from the throbbing, turgid source. I didn't know what to do.

I mean, in general. I was really out of my element. This was my first break-in and it was just supposed to be a simple job. Like, a quick, easy, in through the window and out with the valuables–type of job. But when I threw the brick through the window, he was there, in the room. Tied to a bed, wearing lingerie. All dressed up and nowhere to go, I guess.

I didn't want to kill him but he started screaming and I panicked. I was surprised, though, by how I was so capable of doing it. I'm small, even for a rabbit. It never crossed my mind to really try and kill anyone, let alone someone like Sonic the Hedgehog. It took all my body weight to keep the pillow on his face while he struggled, his muffled begging only barely making it through the pillow, before the shuddering of his body became more mechanical and then finally stopped. Then, the pee.

It felt—I don't know how it felt. Like the usual bad luck. Nothing ever goes right for me.

It felt weird leaving a dead man in piss-soaked panties. So I started pulling them down before I realized that there was no way I would be able to get them over his legs. Even after peeing, he had a massive hard-on. I couldn't rip his panties apart so I just left them there, stretched around his knees.

His hard-on was massive. Longer and thicker than any I had ever seen. I mean, I've mostly been with rabbits and I'm lucky if they have a couple of inches to run a mile with, but Sonic's was like, well—it went all the way to his bellybutton. I don't know how it didn't rip through those panties.

I couldn't help myself. I flicked it. It slapped wet against his belly, of course, with all the urine. I don't know what I was thinking. Adrenaline fogged my brain, maybe. I had put on gloves. Gloves were part of the plan, you know, what with breaking a window and all. I didn't want to leave any fingerprints. And now, I wasn't leaving any fingerprints on his dick.

Then I slid off my pants. I mean, I just wanted to know what it felt like. Here was a man—Sonic the Hedgehog, no less—who was packing, like, really packing. And the size of his tool was like, way bigger than any actual penis I was probably ever going to see. I mean, sure, I'd tried it with toys but I just wanted to know if it felt different with the real thing. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to know, right? He was dead.

Does a fuck make up for a murder? Like, does it even out, karmically? I don't know. All I know is there I was, poised over a tied-up corpse that I made, trying to spread my vulva far enough apart to get the head of his dick in.

It didn't work.

It looked like it would, at first, but then it looked like it was gonna hurt. He was too big, or I was too scared, or, I don't know. Like I said: Nothing ever goes right for me.

So I let it slap against his belly again, and then I sat on it and rocked back and forth, his tool rubbing between my labia. Honestly, it didn't feel good—it just made everywhere in my crotch and inner thighs sticky with his piss. But I was determined to make it work somehow. That's when the door opened.

"I hear someone struggling," Amy said as she walked into the room with a stack of towels and an eight-inch All-American Whopper Dong™, beige, with special attention paid to the fake folds of skin on the testicles. "Sounds like someone's being a naughty b—"

She choked on that last word. Understandably. Her eyes darted between the broken window, her husband tied up on the bed with another woman on top of him, then her husband's open mouth with his tongue lolling out, unresponsive, his eyes rolled back up into his head, the lack of chest movement that would determine breath, and the fact that I had my features obscured by a balaclava, and the fact that he was completely ignoring the fact that his wife (girlfriend?) had walked in on him with another woman, and the fact that he was completely ignoring the fact that he needed to breathe, and Amy put ten and ten together. She dropped the eight-inch All-American Whopper Dong™ and darted back into the hallway. It bounced off the carpet.

"Fuck," I said. I didn't know what to do.

"Fuck." So I grabbed the eight-inch All-American Whopper Dong™.

"Shit. Fuck!" And I ran after her. She was sobbing uncontrollably, trying to stuff herself into a closet in a futile effort to hide from me.

"I'm sorry about this!" I said as I started hitting her in the head with the Whopper Dong™. "I'm so sorry!"

The blows made her crumple on the floor. I climbed on top of her, flipped her over. She was bleeding from the nose already, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," I slammed the Whopper Dong™ into her face, her jaw, anywhere it would connect. "I didn't want this to happen! I didn't want this to happen at all! I'm so sorry!"

I stopped. She wasn't fighting me anymore. Somehow I had knocked some of her teeth out amongst the puddle of her blood soaking into the carpet. I didn't know if I had just knocked her out, so to make sure I went and grabbed the same pillow. I mean, it worked once.

My friend Dan, see, what he does is he finds an empty lot downtown and puts some signs around it, makes it look like a parking space. Gets people to park their cars there, five bucks an hour. It's not his lot, but it doesn't matter. He walks away with tons of cash every weekend.

When I dragged Amy back into the room, her corpse haphazardly left streaks of blood all along the hallway carpet.

My friend Marnie, she's a home security system installer. And if she's installing it into a home that's really, really wealthy, she'll sell the security bypass to a couple of willing friends of hers for a good hundo and 20 percent of the shit they sell to a fence; in return, she lets them know if the security system gets activated for more than a day. It's a good deal.

What I really wanted this whole time was just to feel like I had done something terrifying. Like, taking someone's stuff is one thing. But I wanted to leave a mark. I wanted to break that window. I wanted to take their things in the most violent way possible. I wanted to remind them, and the Mobian upper class, that they were never really safe. That we could still touch them, if we wanted to.

I did touch them, I guess. It took some effort but I finally got Amy's broken jaw over Sonic's piss-soaked priapism, and that's how I left them. I don't know what the cops are going to make of it, but it's really not my place to find out.

But all I have to show for it is this bloodstained eight-inch All-American Whopper Dong™ that no fence will even touch. Just my luck. Nothing ever goes right for me, you know?

S, as in Swiper. No swiping. – 2016