His friends called him Bullet, thinking him dangerous, volatile, all-around cool. They envied the slicked-back aerodynamics of his hair and the way he wore his tight, cuffed jeans. He didn't bruise when taking a punch, didn't blink when the sirens approached. He was stoic, unchanging, easy-going. Forever clad in leather. Never afraid of anything. He was their Bullet, and they had fun with him all day long.
The guilt didn't hit them until days later, when it plowed right through their consciences. They realized how cruel it had been to name him after the very thing they had used to kill him. That his life had flashed and burnt out like the gunpowder of his namesake. The hole in his greased hair seemed to open wider with each passing hour, like a mouth opening wide to consume them.
So they finally got rid of their cool corpse, though one of them returned later to steal his jeans.
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