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There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
~Friedrich Nietzsche
1
Cold Fish
Alpha
There’s a misunderstanding in modern culture, that of the psychopath. I blame writers. Hollywood scriptwriters, novelists. They’re lethargic. Want a villain? Make him a psychopathic serial killer!
No motive. No history, really. Just a means to an end for your lazy plot.
The truth, on the contrary, is typically and usually not as entertaining.
Let’s take statistics, shall we? One-percent of the population are high-functioning psychopaths. This is a fact. They’re not serial killers chasing you with a giant kitchen knife, covered in blood, laughing manically… They’re your neighbors, your family, your doctors and your lawyers. They’re the people in authority; the people who you trust.
And you need them.
You need them to be callous and unfeeling when it comes to the tough decisions. You need them to be a cold fish. Wars are not won with empathy. Cities and kingdoms were not built with your indecisive sympathies. Compassion does not prosper.
I take a long drag from my cigarette and sigh out a plume of smoke. I watch the tendrils waft upward, out and over the carnage, as I roll the white filter between my finger and thumb. It’s stained red, matching the dark crimson blanketing the cement.
I loathe stereotypes. So the irony that I’ve now lowered myself to the stereotypical psychopath, for me, is deplorable. I spit on filth like Wells and Mason—men who have no impulse control. I’m above them in every way, and yet here I am, covered in blood after committing a very impulsive act.
“Clean this mess,” I order Donavan, my right-hand man. Having taken Alex’s spot, he hops to, anxious to prove his worth. For now, he’s a good little henchman. Much like Alex King used to be.
An internal ache pangs somewhere beneath my breastbone, the loss of Alex still fresh. It was a necessary sacrifice, but still, I don’t savor the ultimate cost in lowering my ranks. It’s hard to find good, dedicated men. Men who will serve without question. Who will devote their very lives to the job.
In truth, Alex didn’t have to die. I could’ve salvaged him. Could’ve scolded him in some public fashion, and no one would’ve thought less of me. He was my favorite, after all. Groomed and mentored by myself, and the men all looked up to him.
And that, my friends, is why he had to be made an example of.
Not because of his faults or the one mistake that cost me the medical examiner. He had to be taken out because there cannot be dissension in the ranks.
It was the perfect opportunity to disgrace him and reinforce my authority, to which there should never be any question.
King Henry said it best: Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Ah, Shakespeare. The fundament of knowledge. Whenever in doubt, I can always turn to him for guidance.
It’s lonely at the top.
But the second it’s not, the second I feel there’s another soul I can lay my burdens on…that’s the moment I’ll feel a knife in my back.
I kneel beside my once busty blonde and tilt my head. Let my gaze drag over her unseeing eyes, still features. Breathless. Timeless. A moment captured and suspended, immortalizing her, and her torment. She’ll never look as beautiful as she does this very second. Her skin still warm, blushing her cheeks. Glassy eyes widened in an almost awe-like expression.
With a gloved hand, I brush aside the wayward tresses clinging to her lip-gloss. “You have a purpose now, sweetness.”
From the neck down, it’s difficult to distinguish what’s flesh and what’s bone—what’s woman left of her mutilated carcass. The brand my girls don on their thighs was removed with the first flaying. Her lovely, full breasts skinned from her body.
“Wrap her up and deliver the package,” I command.
As I stand, I peer over the sea of dead girls littering the floor. Such a waste, such a shame. And I, the cold fish, swimming in this sea of red. I’m stained by it. It’s how my kingdom was forged, how I now wear my heavy crown, but it’s tainted the very earth I stand upon.
I flick the butt away and step over the blonde. There’s a small niggle of remorse in the pit of my stomach, but it’s easily snuffed out. Like the cherry of my cigarette as it sizzles out in a pool of blood.
2
Armageddon
Quinn
