She screams in futile terror as her hands stretch out with pathetic, weakening force.
The blood loss from her abdomen is slow enough that I get to watch the life gradually fade from her tear-stained eyes through the holes in my mask.
"Why?" They seem to say, as she chokes on crimson liquid.
The threat of the end invigorates me and I pump harder, shaking her body as I press her chest into the pavement with an audible, rhythmic squelching.
Each movement comes with a new gasp here and there, but before long it's all over.
She lays sprawled out in silent perfection as I hastily clean myself off and pack up the defibrillator.
Then, the clapping begins.
I turn to the crowd and take a deep bow, then slip behind a small barrier into a side alley.
My guilty pleasure got so much easier when I started using a sign that read "Performance Art - Please do not interrupt actors."