If looks could kill I’d slay all day. I’d knock ‘em dead like an advertisement featuring a gaggle of leggy 90’s mega, super models donning Versace with long-burn cigarettes dripping from their perfect pouts. If looks could kill hearts would cease beating, final exhales would rush out on busy street corners and multiple 911 calls would cite a vixen as the criminal. My culprit signature would be high heel footprint everywhere I struck and, though the FBI would trace my tousled mane-sightings, I would always be just out of reach and beyond prosecution. That would be if looks could kill.