There was all kinds of talk about her. When people don’t know, they make up stories. Tall tales of her promiscuity, desires, habits. Most of em made up by men who couldn’t have her. Some stories told by women. Just jealous women.

She worked at a massage joint out on highway 61 just past the truck stop. Big sign that read, All Asian Staff, in green that shined in the middle of the night; she had room number 3, a massage table and candles with a radio playing Chinese music was all it consisted of. The smell of steamed rice hit ya as you walked through the door; that mixed with cheap perfumes on the ladies.

Sunny was her name. She’d touch ya all over with light finger tips while singing softly in your ear. The short brunette made a lot of tips from regular customers and some from men she’d never see again.

I heard he was one of her regulars. Heard he was on a mission from God. That’s what he thought. Said he was all about God, family, and guns. There were those who thought he had a screw loose. Thought he’d gone crazy. The news called it a hate crime. Crazy and hate is a bad combination.

There’s still yellow tape all over saying, Crime Scene, on it. People drive by it everyday. Gossiping women talk about it at Sunday dinners when the kids leave the table. Others don’t know what to say. Just kind of silent about it. We’re all sinners. That’s what the good book says.

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