I approach, cracking my knuckles just because I can and it gets the point across, if the bleak as death look on my face doesn’t already, that I mean business and by business, I mean that I’m going to fuck shit up. Shit being his face. And the rest of him.
The bitch pisses himself.
He’s dressed like a preppy fucker with tight black skinny jeans, the kind of thing that he probably had to grease himself to get on and a black t-shirt advertising a metal band that he probably doesn’t listen to. He looks like a cross between an entitled trust fund kid and a surfer, just because of the bun on his head.
The guy is pretty. A few women have probably fallen under that spell. It’s probably ridiculously easy for him, and I wonder how many he’s victimized, brutalized, ruined, and tortured. Left with the scars that last a lifetime.
I let out a low chuckle, but the sound is scary as hell. Even Tracker raises a brow, from where he stands behind the asshole.
“You know, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it’s not. I guess that isn’t true, but it will be. A pleasure for me, at least. I can promise you that. You’re probably not gonna enjoy what I’m about to do, though.”
The prick squirms in the seat and lets out a high pitched shriek. I want to smack him across the face, bitch style, just for crucifying my eardrums.
“Whatever it is… You have the wrong guy. I didn’t do anything, man. I’ve never even seen you before in my life. Seriously. You have the wrong guy.”
I swivel my eyes to Tracker while I keep cracking and grinding away at my knuckles. Even I have to admit, the sound coming from it nearly turns my own stomach. That bone against bone is nothing compared to the symphony I’m about to create.
“Do we have the wrong guy?”
Tracker slowly shakes his head.
“That’s what I thought.”
I stalk across the room and crouch down near the chair, slamming my face into the little fucker’s just for the artistry of it. Cue more blubbering. Snot bubbles form at the asshole’s nostrils when they flare, scenting my rage and the danger that rolls off me like a poisonous fog. I swear, if he could piss himself again, he would.
I run my index finger down the guy’s clammy cheek and grin when his lips wobble and he starts making all sorts of incoherent noises. “You see, my friend here never makes mistakes. At least not when it comes to this kind of shit. I know we have the right guy and pretty soon you’re gonna confess to everything you’ve done. I’ll give you a choice though, because I’m feeling magnanimous today. You can spill or I can make you spill your guts. Maybe literally. Actually, no. There won’t be any maybe about that. You fucking choose.”
“Oh god. Oh Christ. Please…”
“Nope. No god is gonna save you, and you’ve already sent your soul straight to the devil,” I croon in his ear like a lover. Just because I can, I snake my tongue out and lick at his flesh. Thedisgusting salt of his body comes off in my mouth, and I want to retch all over him, but I keep up the façade.
Which is obviously nothing less than terrifying, like I’m a creature pulled out of his worst nightmare.
He’s not wrong.
I take my time glancing around the room. It’s so beautifully equipped, I nearly pissmypants in delight. “There are so many things in here that I can use. So many. Look at that huge selection of piercing needles right there. Which one do you think I should use first? And where?”
All that exits Cuntface’s throat is a gurgle.
“Right. Your dick. How thoughtful. Balls second? Unless you’d like them first?”
The blubbering escalates into a full on spasmodic choke. Behind him, Tracker grins at me, obviously enjoying himself to the fullest. Yeah. Me too. Or at least I will be.
“The girl you work with was nice enough to leave her equipment all plugged in and ready to go. Thoughtful, really, your co-workers. I bet you like working here. Bet you get a lot of sweet, innocent girls just waiting to be tattooed by a guy like you. And you, of course, never steer them wrong, do you, my friend?”
“N-no,” he stammers, forcing out a word at last.
“So you’ve never once taken home one of your clients and betrayed their trust?”
The guy’s eyes roll in their sockets and his hands strain at the bindings. Jesus. He’s not much of a poker player, that’s for sure. It’s embarrassingly easy and glaringly obvious that thispiece of shit is the worst kind of rapist turd, but I need to hear him say it.
I pull down one of the boxes of needles used for piercings, slide out a long, glistening object, and twirl it between my fingers. My eyes flick to Tracker’s face. I love that he’s standing in the shadowy corner of the room, where the overhead lighting is surprisingly shitty for someone who draws on people for a living. The single hanging fixture over the chair, a modern cage with a burning yellow bulb, is a bit better. It’s all the light I’ll require, at any rate.
“What do you say, brother? Balls or cock first?”
“Honestly, I don’t want to see either,” Tracker drawls, sounding bored. His eyes flick to his nails and he inspects them like he’s looking for dirt. ‘If it was me doing the reminding, since someone seems to have conveniently forgotten he’s a rapist asshole, I’d go straight for the eye. I’d say that would be the best way to jog his memory.”
“No!” The terrified howl that echoes through the room obviously deflated the guy’s lungs, because he sits in the chair, gasping for air like he’s just been sucker punched in the gut. “No, please, don’t! I haven’t done anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m innocent, I swear!”
