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paletteofpain-blog · 8 years ago

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┌ An audience with the Queen of the Triad ┘

The scenario was cinematic in bland tastes of all the characteristics of mafia movies — lit in the indecisive light of swinging blue bulbs at the back ends of a restaurant kitchen.

Those directors either had their stars line up with the constellations of the Chinese crime organisations; or the sinister syndicates mapped out their paths to comprehend into such screen commonalities. Perhaps to paint the scenario in familiar tones of danger from the silver screen.

Pathetic.

Ravenna Lin; legally and personally acclaimed Ravenna Aveyard — only daughter of Henry Lin, and heiress to the Triad sat with her nearly naked thighs in crisscross over their lengths, fingers occupied in leading through pages on the wooden board in her hand.

In her pleasantly cream tinted overlarge shirt on a folding chair; with white pencil heeled boots and angelic aesthetics; she occupied the appearance of a theatrical producer preparing to direct a placid scene rather than realistic relay of mutilation.

A battered prostitute and one of the Triad's gunman, flagged either side of their shot caller as Ravenna's eyes read the information in collection of this rap sheet, a cold cull in projection against her gray gaze.

The silence she screamed amped up tension in each of her syndicate members present; ever cautious around the ruthless royalty of the Triad.

They know they screwed up; and the words (or the scarcity of them) made apprehension abundant in them.

"Treating me with such measures is bad manners on the night of my return, boys. My appetite for violence has its times."

The words elicit with that dulcet voice as she places the board down upon her thighs.

"I thought I made it very clear on how this business was to run and its limitations.

None of our women are forced to do outside business. And the balls that come about after hours, violently in our girls' homes or anywhere outside their workspace, to have them tended; get cut off.

Was I mistaken?"

"No, Lǎobǎn."

They speak in unison. Gravity meets company with shame as their heads are yanked low by these remorseful set of hands.

An elbow props up a slender forearm, a finger pointed towards the beaten girl, Kat, next to her.

"But haven't you insulted my ability to talk with your lack of understanding then?"

A shameless streak of blood gushed down from the girl's lips, a bruise blued upon the fair bone of her cheek, knees scraped in stripes of scabs of blood with a concussion kissing wound on her skull.

Before they could answer or personally humiliate themselves, the steel gates to the kitchen barge open, Triad men dragging in a man captive in the painful twists of his own limbs — just how she liked these scum tied up.

No tape was stricken upon his lips for coerced silence, his arm was stretched back over his shoulder with his teeth biting into his flesh, bands of thin red marching down his biceps.

A syllable spoken, and he'd utter out his own blood.

Ravenna didn't need to inquire Kat if this was the assailant, she didn't release her hunting dogs to follow the misleading musk of blood.

She tosses the rap sheet board onto the side, the gunman catching it off guard.

Elbow on her thigh, Ravenna's dainty knuckles act as the pedestal for her chin as her gaze takes over the bloodied pig on his knees.

"It's ironic we find you dressed in a wife beater, Mister Mills."

The men under her command in the room chuckle in silence; silently charming her fatal gaze to smoothly rake over them.

Righteous as long as it wasn't their own sin.

The criminal chivalry they offered the girls were only flowing on currency; charged with the freedom, most of these testosterone filled lackies would unleash their abusive appeasement on the women they stand by on.

Women were nothing more than meat bags to them, to carve out the steaks of satisfaction without a delicate hand as long as it fed their primal needs.

As it was for most men.

Their illusion of worldly male dominance allowed them free passes over those under them; and women most often, were.

Ravenna was educated with the lamentable literature of her own experiences and of those around and close to her world of words.

They wouldn't protect these women. Or any gender underneath the right peril.

Neither would her father.

It was her initiative.

For both business and whatever twisted morality she imbued on herself.

"Do you know why our prostitution business runs so smoothly, mister Mills?" Ravenna inquires with graceful patience. "Our girls are ready to do just whatever underneath our wing in those murky rooms for your toddler cocks to be coddled; since they know they'd be at discretion and safety. And if it gets too much for them, we set up terms. All inside our buildings. The whips their backs take, or the ropes they are bound in, they know those scars won't be inflicted outside those dirty walls.

I make sure of that.

–Free his limbs."

She addresses the last line to one of her lackies.

Ravenna rises from her seat as one man unravels Mills from his twist of limbs, a ruthless regality marking each footprint she leaves on granite.

Mills, lethargic and breathless from his bodily bounds collapses upon the floor.

Ravenna crouches down slowly, a painfully perilous beauty in her movements as she continues to talk.

"You've got records and records on sexual assault. A wife and two kids make no difference to you.

What's your kink, Mister Mills? Kissing your knuckles before throwing a punch on female flesh? Does it give you a sense of power you so clearly don't have; a speck of kingly glory in the filth you've shitted yourself to live in?

Say, Kat...-"

Ravenna turns towards the hooker. "-Did he even kiss his fist to soften the blow on your sweet face? Was he even that kind?"

Kat blinks in shock at the blatant question, on edge against the Queen's razor rage under sheath of grace.

She just shakes her head to say no.

Ravenna's tongue tip strikes in sequence against the top of her mouth, displaying her mock disapproval as her attention returns to Mills.

"We Chinese can be sort of big on manners, Mister Mills. You've clearly not obeyed any rule of that.

What can I punish you with?"

Ravenna turns to her crew. "Did you bring my makeshift tattoo shop, boys?"

They nod and leave, knowing it was time to bring in her inking guns.

Finger tips against soft lips, seemingly lost in wander; Ravenna asks.

"What does he usually like to do with you, Kat?"

"Eat me. I get bloody from it at times, I think."

A nerve rattles.

"Lip tat, it is, Mills. Fair warning, I don't think there'd be any lip left after all that ink.

I'll go easy on you and then the boys can beat you up and we let you leave crippled, at minimum. Fair deal, I say."

With a laudable audacity, Mills tosses his bloody spit at her feet, tainting the white of her boots.

"Fuck you, you bitch.

I ain't doing nothing to her your father didn't do to give birth to your crazy ass."

Yixing, her named commander, takes a step forward, knowing the skin of patience was about to wear thin.

Reining it in, Ravenna stands up, turning to Yixing as a distraction.

"You've made the boys grow awfully lazy if this is the amount of time that it takes them to bring in simple instruments."

Before Yixing could answer, the steel gates barge open again, the crew bringing in her armoury.

Mills grows frantic at the sight, his speech loses its hinges and his life loses its insurance.

"AND SHE AIN'T DOING ANYTHING YOUR MOMMA DIDN'T TO SPRING YOU OUT HER LEGS."

Everyone in her crew freezes, as if suspended in the stoppage of time.

"Shit." Yixing breathes as Ravenna turns, walking with fury breathing underneath her steps as her feet meets home with thunder against Mills's abdomen, rolling him over to his side as he groans in agony.

Memories unwelcome barge through the doors of her mind, blurring her vision with the unfocused lens of misery and rage. Her mother's smile; her glassed over eyes.

The flat of her heel plants itself against the pig's cheek, the thin length of the pencil of her heel being driven into the cavity of his ear, puncturing his hearing and mostly drilling a hole into his brain as his screams of agony pang fear into the bones of humans.

Her teeth merely clench to communicate madness with one another as her jaw tightens, while the useless melt of his brain drains out of his opposing ear.

"My 'momma' did far worse for me, scum."

Ravenna strikes out her feet, the bloodied vertical steel coming out of his skull with a sickly pop that stirs the whole room into sickness.

Screams were the sermons of agony; and everyone either hung their head in prayer in gratitude of this not being their fate and some stared in maddened marvel at this ungodly work.

Ravenna takes off her heels with a grace that refuses to be countered off, shoes hanging on two fingers as she hands the evidence over to Yixing.

He takes them and before her final decree could leave her lips, Mills shouts out one line of fatal incrimination.

"BUT THE BITCH AGREED TO THIS FOR EXTRA BUCKS.

FUCKING SHIT MAN."

Ravenna didn't even need to turn her head.

Kat, dumb enough to not weave her web of escape with lies and blame his dying delirium, decided to make a run for it.

She couldn't escape, her lackies were there to imprison her.

"PLEASE, PLEASE!" Kat screams. "I NEEDED MONEY FOR-"

She stops in some smartness, knowing whatever she confessed to next would worsen her brutality.

Unfazed, Ravenna's attention remains on Yixing as he takes her bloody boots dutifully.

"She has a kid." He says simply.

"I know." Ravenna replies.

"Make her watch. Look into the other girls. Grill them. For questions, that is.

Toss Mills into the meat grinder and tape Kat's eyes open if you have to.

Then feed the hounds his remains and have one of the lackies take them out for a shit when they're done digesting evidence."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ravenna turns, bare feet as she paints the last steps of her creation of chaos.

Volitions of violence filled her palette of pain; and the strokes fell upon hated pages and her skin alike.

{END}

#solos #intro #an audience

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