Tonight, Schuldig was going to die. Crawford had seen it. He was going to get his brains blown out the back of his head, tied to a chair, as he choked on the barrel of a gun, murmuring vowels sounds that were supposed to be, "are you fucking crazy, you piece of shit fucker?"
Crawford would understand because Schuldig's mental voice would be superimposed over the choking sounds.
"Far from it," he'd answer.
Then Schuldig's eyes going wide and a bang and blood spattering on his suit and wall.
Crawford opened his eyes, and shuddered. Just a daydream after all.
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