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This will serve as a reminder to all.
Rule number three: If you’re powerful enough, fuck the rules. Make your own.
Thumbing through my phone browser, I pull up a video and place the screen before Alex’s face. His swollen eyes struggle to latch on to the images, but he can hear just fine.
“It wasn’t me, boss,” he slurs through busted lips, red-tinged spittle streaming down his chin. “I’m not a rat.”
“Maybe you’re not,” I say, taking a lap around him. “But you did fail to bring me the lovely medical examiner. I’m almost inclined to believe you let those two imbeciles get caught on purpose.”
He tries to shake his head, but only slumps over farther. Pathetic. “No, boss. Some cop cut me off. I promise, there wasn’t anything I could do—”
One of the thugs punches him, effectively silencing his rambling.
I brush my hands down my Armani slacks as I squat before him. I look him in his eyes. “I believe you.”
For a second, his features convey relief. Until he notices the blade in my hand.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you failed me, and now the press have a direct order in their clutches.” I tsk. “That is sloppy, Alex. How did they get it?”
“The van. It’s the only logical place where I—” His eyes squeeze shut as he realizes his mistake. “It’s the only place it could’ve been found,” he finishes.
“Because you left it there.”
He stammers out an excuse, and is greeted with another punch to the face.
I look down at the shiny blade, run it over my sleeve. Back and forth. “Do you know why the devil is so powerful?” I ask. His lips tremble, offering no reply. “Because the world doesn’t believe he exists.” Another effective quote that I enjoy. Kevin Spacey said it best: The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. Though technically, Spacey butchered an even greater quote from Baudelaire. Ah, semantics. The meaning is clear enough. It preaches to my heart.
I drive the blade into his stomach and slice straight up through his sternum.
His garbled cry catches in his throat as blood gurgles up, choking him off. I carve out a section of his chest, peeling the inked insignia from his bones.
“Take his skin,” I order.
As I stand and fling the flesh away, I wipe my hands off on
my handkerchief. Soon Alex does find his voice again. With each razorblade that splits his skin, with every yank of his flesh as it’s stripped from his body, his wails fill the void above, his blood stains the floor.
My once right-hand man, now scorched earth beneath my feet.
No one will doubt me now.
I grab my phone off the floor and pause the video of the news broadcast. Her beautiful face fills the tiny screen, her deep brown eyes staring right into mine. Avery Johnson.
I pull Alex’s gun from my belt, bring it close to my face. Inhale her scent that still clings to the barrel. At least Alex was persuasive in getting her to fulfill her purpose. And now I have a marketable drug for my clients. I just hate loose ends. They’re messy.
“Donavan,” I say, stealing my new right-hand man’s attention away from his clean up. “How many novices do we have in transit?”
He looks up at the ceiling, actually counting out the number on both hands. A blinding rush of fury to stick my blade through his neck grips me.
“Seven, boss,” he finally says.
“The media needs a serial killer,” I say, walking toward the steel door. “So we’ll give them one. If they’re looking for one sadistic man, then they’re not seeking the truth.”
I throw the door open, and the muffled cries of frightened young women echo throughout the warehouse. Bound and gagged, they clamber together, crawling toward the back as if grouping themselves will save just one.
Looking over my suit, I decide it’s already ruined. Blood soaks my sleeves; Alex’s guts have made a disgrace of my shoes. I smile and raise my blade, pointing it at each girl in turn. “Eeny meeny miny moe, who will be the first ho to go.”
As I said, I don’t mind doing the work myself. It’s good to get back to your roots every once in a while. Keeps you sharp. Keeps things in perspective.
