Neon coughs like dying life support,
graveyard shift bodies stacked in reports.
Sierra walked out spitting, “Burn this shit down,”
left her chair like a chalk outline in this clown‑show town.
Now Ed’s the last ghost in a humming grave,
running on caffeine, rage, and the urge not to behave.
The boss is a vicious bitch in designer steel,
heels like daggers, smile that makes you kneel.
She chews up paychecks, spits out bones,
calls the carnage “cutting costs” in hushed board tones.
Perfume like gasoline, voice like a blade,
turns every workday into a raid.
Threats become gospel on company letterhead,
she rewrites policy in the blood you bled.
Gaslights the whole floor till they doubt their scars,
makes them thank her while she steals their stars.
Every “coaching” talk is another slow kill,
every “note for your file” is a grave on the hill.
Ed’s done praying to any fake god of HR.
He’s done swallowing glass at her altar bar.
Now he’s hunting. Quiet. Cold. Precise.
Collecting every filthy sin she thinks is nice.
Screenshots stacked like razor wire,
server logs soaked in corporate mire.
His flash drive’s a loaded clip of proof,
each file a bullet aimed straight at her roof.
He’s mapped her empire in bright red Xs,
all the backs she broke, all the lives she wrecks.
No more “maybe karma.” No more “give it time.”
He’s gonna drag her name through her own slime.
Monday hits like a hangover with teeth,
fluorescents buzzing like something beneath.
She struts in, that evil bitch with a shark‑wide grin,
no clue Ed’s about to peel her fucking skin.
“All‑hands,” she purrs, voice sweet like chains,
ready to drain them and drink their pain.
Projector hums like a bomb in the wall,
and Ed’s thumb hovers over send‑all.
Click.
Silence.
Then the detonation.
Her threats, her lies, her rigged reviews,
explode across screens like bad news.
Every blacklist, every crooked score,
every name she buried in the HR floor.
Her voice in text, her venom in quotes,
her hate laid bare in pixel throats.
She lunges for the plug like she can stop the blast,
rips the cord out, but the damage is cast.
Phones scream like sirens in a war‑zone sky,
legal, media, bosses all asking why.
Her face goes corpse‑white under office glare,
the apex predator choking on air.
Security walks in—not for him, for her.
She spits, she rages, a rabid blur.
Claws at Ed’s name like she can rewind,
but the whole damn building saw her mind.
They drag the queen of rot past her trembling throne,
while Ed stands there, arms crossed, carved from stone.
No gun, no blade—just receipts gone wild,
a data‑bomb lit by the quiet child.
Neon flickers over ash and lies,
as her empire dies in fluorescent cries.
Ed walks out slow through the fallout glow,
a ghost finally free of the slaughterhouse show.
BlackHawk
