“Cannibal Annie” Smith

I dived into the line of fire like I was some bloomin’ bloody-ass immortal; which I was anything, but. What I was was mortal, and a squatt; ripped to the gills, strung out on crank, squeeze, spaz, overdrive-stimms, and whatnot, as usual. That adrenaline cocktail called TANK, which effectively turns an un-Suited Mundane into a Suit-encased without the overhead of the hardshell plasticine contraption itself. I remember it like it was yesterday; that fateful day during that first purely-homicidal period of my life; the silly season, what the shrinks call a prolonged extended psychotic episode, which lasted two months to-the-day. The day that the silliness ended, was a day that had started off like so many other days did back then; I’d killed someone that I didn’t know, over nothing in particular. Then I was saving someone’s life for no more reason than I’d taken a likin’ to ‘em for no good reason in particular. That person was Fats. I’d assessed her attackers as pros, but that didn’t matter; I’d still decided to intervene. As the rounds ripped through my body I almost got expired. It’s still, years later, the closest that I’ve ever gotten to being zeroed! My life flashed before my eyes, as I was blinded by an unnaturally bright light and deafened by an indescribably loud voice and overcome by the stifling aroma of jasmine! It was the day that I decided to come back in from the cold and reclaim my old life.