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"I see you have no self-respect. Your ex is getting married in hours and you're not even dressed for it." I take a step toward him. Behind me, Manon makes a small, strangled sound. This needs to be quick, for her sake, though she chose to come here and I still don't have the best grip of myself. Later. Along with everything else.

"Listen, man, maybe I went too far, but sh⁠—"

I punch him in the mouth, as hard as I can. His head snaps back and his lip splits against his teeth. It’s only a little satisfying. His blade skids out from under him again and he goes down hard, coughing and spitting a red mess. An incisor skitters across the oil-stained concrete and stops near an empty car spot. I'll retrieve that later and wire it back in for the viewing.

Then he surprises me by getting on his feet pretty fast, and swings at me.He catches me across the jaw and turns my head, and for one white second the concrete tilts. I taste copper. It's a good punch. Honest. Behind me, Manon screams my name.

I roll my jaw. Still hinged. But just in case, I know a guy who does excellent work on mandibles.

"Better," I tell him. "Again."

He obliges. The second one I let hit my ribs, just to confirm what I already know. There's real power in him, but none of it matters, because all of it is half-way balanced on one strip of steel on one foot and a sock in the other. The first is meant for a surface this floor doesn't have. The third punch I catch out of the air by the wrist, and I see his confidence waver a little. He pulls. I don't move. His struggles with his balance and his eyes go from my hand to my face. Whatever he finds there drains the fight out of him faster than the whiskey put it in.

"Wait—" he says.

I break his nose with my forehead. The crunching sound makes me happy, of cartilage folding sideways. Blood gushes down over his mouth and he howls. His feet quit on him entirely, and I catch him by the collar before his knees finish buckling.

Then I go to work.

The first punch caves his cheek. On the second I feel the orbital bone give, that delicate eggshell crack I've only ever felt post-mortem under careful thumbs, and it is so much better like this. His head lolls. He swings again anyway, wild, glancing off my shoulder. Credit to him, the man does not know he's already dead. The fourth punch puts a molar into the back of his throat and he chokes on it, gargling, spraying red with every cough. My knuckles have split and I can no longer tell whose blood is lacquering my fist. It doesn't matter. It'll all be mine soon enough—every bit of his will to live.

Blood roars through my head and I'm loving this. Inflicting worse pain on the man who hurt Manon. Manon, who is sacred, who is watching me do exactly what I promised her, exactly where I promised it.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear screams. Hers. I should care about that but I don't.

I keep going, taking him apart, his face losing its form with every blow. Cheekbone. Brow. The bridge where his nose used to be. He isn't defending himself anymore. Blood spills across the concrete, finds the slope, crawls toward a drain close by.

After a while, a plot twist: the roaring in my head grows louder, because all that blood is rushing somewhere else. Down. Between my fucking legs.

What is wrong with me? I'm getting aroused by killing a man. That's not ideal. They write textbooks about this shit. It’s some kind of disorder. When I finally stop to breathe, I notice the red spots on my shirt. Parts of the dead are all over me, mostly his face. Twenty years I've spent putting faces back on the dead, and this is the first one I've worn to my own wedding. I can't help it. I'm truly the most hilarious man I know.

"Laszlo! Oh my God, he’s not moving. You have to stop. Please stop," Manon says, her voice cracking. I hear her, she’s been screaming at me for a while, but I can't turn my head. All of me is fixed on the body—or what's left of it.

My vision blurs and the concrete tilts once more as my body rebels. I have never been so hard in my life. My breath comes in short, ragged pants. My cock aches.

I let Charles drop in a heap on the ground. The one skate blade tinkles against the concrete like a small, weak bell. I close my eyes and count. I've never taken a life before with my bare hands. It is exhilarating, release and arousal braided together with no clean seam between them. All right. I might be a complete psychopath. Who cares, as long as I sleep at night? And I sleep beautifully.

When I open my eyes, I can see clearly again. He's gone, and I'm faintly disappointed it only took me a few minutes. Four years of restraint since she started with him and it's over that fast. A sharp pain in my knuckle makes itself known, and I see that one of Charles’ teeth is lodged in it like a trophy I didn't ask for. I pluck it out and pocket it. I can hardly feel my fists.

"Shit, Manon. It's going to take me all day to fix him for the funeral. You'll have to tell his mother she can't have an open casket," I inform my future wife, whose mouth is hanging open and eyes are wide as saucers. Terrified. His face is pulp. The eyes are in there somewhere, and even I would have to consult the photographs to remember his face.

I turn to face Manon fully, and now she's staring at my crotch. Not a bit less terrified.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. I'm increasingly aware I need to do something about this quickly, or a church full of people is going to be very disappointed. Also, the caterers were extremely clear about the deposit.

I take my phone out with a hand that leaves a red print on the screen, and call Rafe.

"The rink at Halsted. Level two." I keep my eyes on Manon while I speak. "Bring the crew and the van. One body, quite a mess, and a floor with a drain, so it won't be the worst you've done. Also clean up needed in the locker room. Advise our usual contacts. The family gets the local-gang story. Get him moved and I will iron out the fine details later."

Rafe says he’s on the way and doesn't ask a single question, which is why I like working with him. I put the phone away.

I walk to her slowly and put my hands on her arms. She's calmer now, not shaking, not shouting, which is good because I don't think I could take a scene right now. Maybe the numbness is a reaction in itself. Or maybe considering what just happened to her, she’s got a stronger stomach than I anticipated.

"Manon, darling, don't look. That prick of a hockey player is dead," I tell her, though I'm not sure it's reaching her. “He can’t hurt you anymore. He should not have laid a finger on you that way.”

She takes a half step back, then slaps me. A proper one that nearly takes me off balance. Where did that come from? She's five foot seven and half my size.

"You're sick!" she says, shouting now. "Look at you. I didn't need your help. I could have gotten free of him myself."