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I don’t bother fixing a second drink. I unbutton the cuffs of my dress shirt and push both sleeves up to my elbows.
“We would potentially entertain that. He is a big name in the industry. Many would welcome his return,” Fyodor says, stroking his overgrown mustache. “It would make sense considering much of our audience are also members and admirers of him and his talent.”
He goes on discussing the idea of a partnership. I have long ago stopped responding. I disappear down the hall and reappear a few seconds later.
“You should set up a meeting. Your father, yourself, and myself. We can discuss this more. As for me, I must go. I have other plans.” Fyodor checks the gold pocket watch he carries with him and then moves to get up. His eyes lift at the same time I present my surprise.
He barely has a chance to attempt an escape. He tries to dodge the inevitable, but it’s far too late and I’m far too quick.
“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere.”
I swing the meat cleaver as though I’m wielding a sword on the battlefield. In the zero point five seconds it takes for the blunt, deadly blade to make contact, Fyodor’s face freezes with terror. His eyes bulge in their sockets, and his mouth opens in a soundless scream.
The meat cleaver connects with his brow. It’s a clean strike. The blade slices into him and he tips backward. He lands with a resounding thud. I’ve let go of the handle and allowed gravity to take its course. The cleaver sticks out of his head. Blood drips from the split in his skull.
It decorates my five hundred thousand dollar, black marble tiles.
I stand over him and admire the sight—yet another most morbid art piece I’ve created.
Fyodor twitches. He’s no longer all the way alive, however, he’s not all the way dead either.
Yet.
“I hate to do this to you,” I say, reaching forward. I wrestle the blade from where it’s lodged deep in his skull. Once removed, I’m given unobstructed access to his gaping wound. The spongy inside of Fyodor’s head. “Except I don’t hate this at all. You see, you had one use to me—evaluate Lyra Hendrix’s pianist abilities and then offer her employment. You were not tasked to be the decrepit perverted fool you turned out to be. In which case, you are the perfect why to satisfy my urge.”
I set down the bloody cleaver and then grab him by the ankles.
Fyodor babbles out the only simple word he’s capable of. He’s partially conscious, partially out. His lids shut half of the way, the whites of his eyes can still be seen.
“Help… help…”
“There will be no help coming,” I answer, dragging him across the floor of my living room. “We’re only getting started. I’m not sure yet what I want to do with you. Rest assured, it won’t be anything pleasant.”
Fyodor’s limp body slides along my expensive flooring and creates a gruesome trail of blood from start to finish. I drag him until we reach the door next to the laundry room; the door that leads to myrealdungeon a floor below.
A different kind of playroom where I usually take my prey.
When Lyra went wandering my penthouse, I wasn’t angry because she wound up in the laundry room and discovered a bloody shirt in the hamper. Though that is what I led her to believe. I was angry because she was dangerously close to discovering this room instead.
Using my back to prop the door open, I grip Fyodor by the ankles and then heft him inside. Once he crosses over, the next time he comes out, he’ll be in pieces.
* * *
I work hours into the night before I take a break from my project. After a steamy shower and change into clean clothes, I walk out into my living room and discover my phone blinking with notifications.
Lyra’s texted me. Playful messages that I’m sure she’d like me to respond to.
The first one is simple enough, sent over an hour ago.
thinking about u ??
I scroll down to the second message. She’s sent a suggestive photo of herself in sheer lingerie that teases her nipples and pussy as she lays in bed and holds her phone up to the mirror on the wall.
The photo is erotic and enticing. The front of my pants feel tighter within seconds.
However, I find the gesture unnecessary.
Lyra, being a Gen Z young woman of her time, believes she must send me these types of photos to keep my interest. The photos are teasing and provocative, and though I am always aroused by the image of her delectable body, I’d prefer she stop.
