angle.

Deb closed the door to the cubicle and positioned her body to prepare to excrete from her anus. As she was removing her lacy pink panties, she heard a loud thud and a clanging of metal against the ceramic hand washing basins. She froze, her hands clutching her panties, her posture bent in a forward thirty-five degrees angle. In a few minutes, gun shots were being fired at every cubicle of the female washroom. The doors flew open with the ballistic impact of the gunshot on them. As Deb was contemplating jumping over to a neighboring cubicle or running out of her own one to dash for the door, a machinist blow flung the door of her cubicle onto her face in a valorous speed and a bullet punctured her forehead skin, crushing her frontal cranium and kissing the fissures of the convolutions on her brain. As blood sprinkled out in a freak gust and passionate flow, Deb swallowed her own tongue. Her face contorted in retardation and her hands clasped at the air. Her body leaned backwards in a ninety-nine degrees angle and slumped heavily onto the ceramic and plastic bowl of the toilet. The nine-year old boy smirked at the gun and walked out of the washroom.