Job Well Done

He stood at the entrance, rugged old door,
cracked, splintered,
just like their appearances.
"I'm proud of you."
She glared at him and took a hostile step forward.
He raised a white stop sign,
"No need to waste your efforts.
This job is done." He fell against
the crumbling wooden frame.
In his dark eyes he saw the shambles of the apartment.
A fist through the wall,
a bullet hole nearly hit,
bits of concrete and stucco scattered beneath her feet.
He had finished the job,
corruption, heartless, wicked, despair.
Vicious green eyes and thick frowning lips
with fists balled at her side.
No sound breath would ever be uttered
in her body again.
What devastation she would cause, what glorious gore!
He called to mind the famous saying,
"Hell hath no furry like a woman scorned"
and laughed. The poet was wrong.
Hell lived within a woman,
the fire was her eyes,
and here the blaze stood in all its flaming glory.
His job was well done.