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Gillian

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Gillian says warmly as she moves in closer, “that you’re wearing a white shirt and white pants. Not to mention white shoes and white socks.”

“Yeah… and that’s my white bike helmet, actually, over there.” The man seems to enjoy the attention; he puffs up a bit. There’s sweat on the bridge of his nose. “Why do you ask, little lady?”

“Just making sure.” Gillian bats her eyelids, leans in, and shoots him four times in the chest.

The critics are largely appreciative, except that jerk Myers at the Post, who calls it “flagrantly Tarantinoid metasploitation.”

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