But the gun didn’t fire. The trigger clicked empty and the man was on top of her as soon as he heard the sound. His 230 lbs. of Old Milwaukee-fed bulk was straddling her in a reversal of their last, fatal pose.

“Get off of me! I wasn’t gonna kill you, you bastard. Get off me! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe, damn it! I mean it!”

He pulled the gun out of her hand and took the clip out. “Just what the hell are you doing waving a gun around like that? You want to get killed? I could kill you, you know. Self defense.”

“Screw you!”

“What’s in the purse?” he asked.

“Leave me alone! None of your business, bastard!”

“You sure like that word, don’t you? Here, lets take a look. Don’t even think about moving!” He rifled through her purse and pulled out a dinged up Ipod Nano and turned it on with his thumb, scrolling through the song list and laughing out loud.

“Put it back!”

“What the hell? Barry Mannilow? Pretty mellow stuff for a killer! But you ain’t a killer, are you? What’s your name?”