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The Executrix Pt. 2 - #Throwback

Back at it again with the second part of this fun little anecdote. This half has all my favorite parts, so open them eyes real wide and I’ll blow a load of messy fun into them.

Trust me, I can tell you from experience, you’ll get used to it.

***

"Harper, get the bitch in the back of the van and get her mouth shut - blindfolded, too," Tyler says, walking out of my field of vision. "It's finally time."

The big one - Harper, I'm assuming - wraps his beefy arms around my shoulders and drags me backwards. Someone sweaty and skinny appears from behind me, skin pale and lit up by constellations of acne scarring, and takes up my legs up from the ground so I can't kick.

I don't know exactly what this is, but if you'll allow me to state the obvious, it ain't fucking good.

"Keep a hold of her, Dennis," Harper says, backing up frantically to some unseen location.

"I'm freaking trying. Keep moving, lard-ass," he says, trying to hide the fact he's freaking the fuck out right now, and failing.

"Fuck you."

Tyler, Al, Harper, and Dennis. I have all their names now at least.

Before I can process my circumstances any better, I'm thrown into the back of a van - arms bound, blindfolded, gagged. Then we're moving, and the two largest ones - Harper and Al - are keeping me in place, shoving twin gun barrels into my temples from either side.

"You make one fucking move," Al says. "I won't hesitate."

I'm vibrating in silent, warm darkness like-- no, that one's too easy. We're in there for like half an hour, is what I'm saying, and the whole time I can hear them all muttering to each other over the rumble of the engine. Especially Tyler, who's practically giddy, like a kid on the day he first discovers PornHub.

"We're doing it, man, we're actually fucking doing it," he keeps saying.

And I can't help but feel that I'm "it."

Soon enough, we stop, and the back doors open and I'm once again acquainted with the cold touch of the outside air, as I'm manhandled out onto the blacktop by Al and Harper.

"I'm not sure we should be doing this," says Dennis, the wimpy one, as he crawls out of the driver's seat.

"It's too late to back out now, Den," Tyler says. "We're going all in."

I'd have made a joke to relieve the tension, but a strip of duct tape was putting the kibosh on that for me.

A typewriter-burst of quick footsteps as I'm dragged into an unfamiliar building through heavy-sounding metal doors. They're all around me, like bodyguards on Opposite Day. Harper and Al carrying me, Dennis - from the sound of his strained breaths - carrying a weapon that's too big for him.

Smooth fingers grope at my face, and the blindfold is pulled off.

"Welcome to Hell," Tyler says.

I'm being carried down what looks like the hallway of a small hospital. It's plain and sterile, '50s-style. If ever you've watched a documentary on the horrors of those old catholic mental hospitals, you've seen a place just like this.

Dennis is carrying some kind of submachine gun, by the way, in case you were in suspense about that. I don't really give a shit about what kind, I just know it could probably turn a body into a sack of corned beef if you shot it enough.

"I bought this place up last Summer," Tyler, still walking, says. "For a couple years now, I've been feeling this dull ache, like sexual tension - but no matter who I fucked, or how often I fuck, it just doesn't go away. It's the same with you boys, right?"

"Yup."

"Yeah."

Dennis pauses, and murmurs, "I guess so."

"And I realised," Tyler continues. "Me and the boys just need to get some blood on our hands. But if we cut up some poor bum in an alley, we've gotta finish too quick, and besides, those bastards probably wish for death. You, though?"

He turns and grins at me for this part.

"You really wanna live, I can tell. You're strong. So it'll be a real joy breaking you - plus, you came out here to kill me, so you probably didn't tell anyone where you were going," he says. "Be honoured, though, you're gonna be our first. That's pretty special, isn't it?"

Great. Perfect. Wonderful. I'm Baby's-First-Murder.

One thing I do have to give them, though, they've really gonna above and beyond with the prep. Each room seems to have a keypad lock and sturdy doors, probably a remnant of whoever was kept in this place before Bradley-Boy retrofitted his murder dungeon into it. Sheets of plastic everywhere, non-stick flooring.

As places to die go, it's pretty deluxe.

"Take her to the meat locker," Tyler says. "I'm gonna get prepped."

He peels away from the rest of the group, tapping the code into a nearby keypad, and disappearing behind one of those heavy, metal doors. They've already dragged me off before I get a chance to get a good look.

"We're not gonna let Tyler have all the fun," Al says, his voice a nasally snicker. "He may own this place and the gear, but we're gonna take turns. We're all gonna get to enjoy taking you apart."

Al's a natural born ass-kisser, you can smell it on him.

We veer off from the hallway of Tyler's Marvellous Murder Compound, into what looks like a break-room with a coffee machine on one of the counters and a huge, oak conference table in the centre of the room.

On one of the other counters, there's an expensive-looking double barrel shotgun, and Al picks it up.

"I'm gonna get an espresso, you want anything?" Al asks.

Dennis leans against the table and shakes his head. He's got a sad, droopy face like one of those handbag dogs that really want to escape their genetics, and you can tell the poor kid's heart just isn't in it.

"Cappuccino," Harper says, holding me with both hands. He's a big guy, probably six five, and built like a barrel. Equal parts muscle and fat in a way that almost makes my mouth water.

While Al interfaces with the Keurig and Dennis reconsiders his life choices, Harper drags me down a long, dark hallway towards what has to be the meat locker. He's got me in a one-arm bear hug, but I don't resist, even when he's tapping in the code with his free hand, not even paying full attention to me.

The door opens, he drags the both of us inside, and we're locked in.

"And here we are," he says with a chuckle.

Inside the so-called Meat Locker is an NSPCA nightmare: large meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, butchery equipment fixed to the walls, and several large, plastic bags full of dead cats and dogs - most decapitated, all frozen. Seems, like most budding serial killers, Tyler and his boys were using people's pets to practice, and letting all the meat go to waste.

Sick bastards.

There's an icy, metal door and another keypad standing between me and freedom - not to mention a linebacker-sized slab of beef with a burgeoning love of sadism - but hey, I'd been through worse odds.

Harper just drops me - my hands still bound - onto the concrete floor. He leans in and rips the duct tape off my mouth with his thick, meaty fingers, and smiles.

"You can scream, or cry, or beg," he says. "All these rooms are soundproofed out the ass, so it won't do you any good. All you can do is pray it's over quickly and hope God is kinder to you than us."

I just laugh at him and feel his dick shrivel in his pants.

"What's so funny?" he asks, gritting his teeth towards the end.

I laugh harder.

"That fucking line, man," I say. "Talk about corny, Jesus. I bet you were rehearsing it in your head on the walk over, weren't you?"

He grimaces. It's the look a man gets when you pull out the butt plug too fast, like you're trying to start a lawnmower.

"And zip ties? Come on, dude, you can do better than that."

"What?"

I throw the inert piece of black plastic at his face, and hold up both of my free hands towards him, like I'm asking for a high-ten.

"Guess I'm stronger than I look, huh?"

That grimace just dissolves into a second of perfect, beautiful panic. His hand shoots out to the side, groping through the air for a weapon, but he doesn't quite reach the cleaver on the wall.

But I reach him.

Before he can even say anything, I'm up on my feet, and I've slammed his head into the wall with a dull thud that makes him crumple like a cartoon accordion against the wall, eyes swivelling all over in his stupid face, blood trickling off his fat lower lip.

He's too dazed to even yell in pain at first, but when I stamp on his groin, he finds his lungs again in a long, shrill scream.

He swings wide for my legs, there's a lot of power behind it, but he's predictable. The guy's a tank - real strong, but real slow. I just hop over the punch like I'm jumping rope, and kick him in the chest.

"That's the problem with guys like you, Harper. You've got plenty of enthusiasm, but you've got no technique."

He wheezes out a pained "help", his face covered in blood, tears, and snot - the golden trio of a man who's finally aware he's fucked with the wrong person.

Well, not person, but you know what I mean.

"Let's get you up," I say, grabbing him by the shoulders.

I lift him up without much effort - he's still too dazed to really thrash, until I slide one of the ceiling meat hooks into the back of his clavicle and leave him hanging there, blood soaking through his shirt and dripping off of the swell of his ass. He's screaming in gorgeous agony the whole time.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he keeps screaming, but nobody's there to enjoy it but me.

When he's calmed down a little, I take his hand, and move those big, meaty fingers close to my mouth.

I can feel the skin of my face splitting all the way up to the jaw, and the fangs sprouting. Three rows, like a shark, all razor-sharp, all designed for the sole purpose of turning anything I so choose into a yummy meat purée.

Harper sees it too, and he starts screaming again.

"Tell you what," I say, licking a long, black tongue over my arsenal of fangs. "I'm just gonna do my thing. If you want me to stop, the safe word is the access code."

I separate his index finger from the pack, and one loud, meaty chomp later, I'm gulping it down, and feeling all that delectable, warm blood squirt from the stump.

Warm, coppery cocoa.

Meanwhile, Harper is discovering a new level of agony.

I take his middle finger, and do the same.

"This is good shit, Harper," I say. "I'm really gonna look forward to eating the rest of you once I've killed your friends."

I take his ring finger, and he finally cracks.

"2416!" he screams. "For fuck's sake, it's 2416!"

The mutilated hand falls to his side, spraying an arc of blood like a Catherine wheel onto the floor of the meat locker. While he's busy mourning his missing digits, I turn to the side and input the key-code.

A beep and a green light. Success!

I open the door and start walking out of it, before turning to say, "try not to die while I'm gone, Harper, I'll like you better warm!" then finally fucking off down the hall.

Harper, Al, Dennis, and Tyler. These are tonight's specials.

I can hear the splutter of the coffee machine before I hear Al, and when he hears me, he makes a fatal assumption that I can't help but love him for.

"Yo, Harp, it's getting cold," he calls out, expecting to see his dumbass friend emerge from the hall, rather than a bloodstained lady with a face like an enamel garbage disposal.

"Hey, Al," I say.

He gasps when he sees me. Feels good, feels right.

"Your turn."

He drops his coffee cup, shattering it, and scrambles for the shotgun that he's left on the counter.

I'm fast, but so is he - he manages to offload a shell, blasting a hail of searing-hot buckshot into the air in front of him, and I only just manage to dodge it.

"Shit!" he says, voice high with fear.

There's a yard between us. He levels the shotgun again, but I manage to close the distance and push the barrel sideways, his blast firing impotently off into the coffee machine while I push him to the ground and straddle him, black claws now growing from my fingertips.

"I know how you feel," I say, staring down at his terrified face, watching my black spittle drip onto him, "this night's not going how either of us pictured it, but I'm better at rolling with the punches."

I start leaning down towards him, fangs ready to render his punk-bitch face open, when a cold hand closes around my shoulder and pulls me off of him, before I can even realise what's happening.

Harper. That big, freezer-burned dipshit had wandered out of the meat locker after me, spilling gouts of blood along the way, all to save his shithead friend.

"Get away from him!" he slurs.

"I thought I already dealt with you, asshole!" I yell at him, as he swings his mutilated pincer hand towards me.

As expected, he's still an uncoordinated slab of muscle, swinging haphazardly for me with all the grace and finesse of a grizzly bear on heroin. I have to duck and weave around his fists - I'm stronger, but he's bigger, and he knows how to throw his weight around.

"I'm not gonna let you get away with this!" he says, speech so slurred he sounds like Sylvester Stallone now.

I hear the soft click of a double-barrel shotgun reloading behind me, just in time.

Without turning to see, I leap sideways under the conference table, as the blast Al intended for me rips Harper in half at the waist instead. He tumbles back, with an abdomen that looks like pulled pork, and finally dies.

Al screams like he means it, and I'm fucking furious.

"You dumb son of a bitch!" I scream from under the table. "The biggest one here, and you go and ruin the fucking meat!"

The second shell blasts a hole through the table to the left of me.

He's out again, and I seize my chance.

One strong push from underneath, and I flip the table. It's thick and heavy, and from the sudden yelp followed by a meaty thud, I can safely assume my plan’s paid off.

The shotgun clatters across the ground, and Al’s pinned underneath the table, reaching feebly for it, groaning in pain.

"Well, well, well," I say, walking over to him. "That was some nice shooting, Al, I bet Harper never saw that coming."

"Fuck you," he says.

And I stomp on his face. But I don't stop at one, oh no, I keep stomping. Stomp, stomp, stomp, crunch, splatter, squish, splash, yum. By the time I'm done, to call the Jackson Pollock painting on the end of Al's neck a head is staggeringly generous.

I'm gonna need new shoes.

When I look up, I see Dennis, the nervous one, his face streaked with tears, standing in the doorway.

He's aiming the machine gun at me, hands shaking. The poor little lamb is crying.

"Don't move," he says. "Please."

I give him the softest smile a person with sixty teeth can manage, and make sure he can see both of my hands.

When he's steadier, I step forwards.

"Stop!" he croaks.

"Dennis, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you," I say. "Let's just talk, okay?"

He falls silent, and I take another few steps forwards.

"I could tell, from the moment I came in here, that you weren't like the others. You didn't want this, did you?"

Dennis slowly, but resolutely, shakes his head.

"I knew it," I say, stepping closer. "You were pressured into it, weren't you? By Tyler and the others? You were afraid of them, but you never wanted what they wanted. I can just feel it in my bones."

Another few steps, I'm right in front of him. He's so calm.

I gently place a hand on the barrel of the machine gun, and lower it.

"See? It's okay, Dennis, it's okay."

And then he starts sobbing, and I feel awkward as hell.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it," he keeps saying, and he leans forward to hug me. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't wanna hurt anyone, I swear."

"Uh, there there," I say, patting him on the back.

"I didn't want any of this. I'm so sorry," he says with another sob.

"Dennis?"

"Yeah?"

He looks up at me, his face red and puffy from the crying.

With one bite, I take his eyes, nose, and cheeks. His body starts seizing and spasming, flopping like an air-drowned fish. With a second bite, I take his entire upper jaw too, leaving him a gory, human Pacman, and I let him drop to the ground in a heap, gulping down my mouthful.

What? It's been a long night, I'm hungry.

Picking up Dennis' machine gun, I stroll out into the hall, knowing I only have one last corpse to make.

Time to see how Tyler's doing.

Seeing as I don't have a meatbag to torture for the code to Tyler's private murder studio, I take a more traditional approach: firing the contents of the machine gun into the keypad and lock, until the door slides gently open, and I can hear a panicked heartbeat ringing out like a dinner bell on the other side.

"What the fuck?" Tyler says.

I step inside.

The room looks like an ER put together by exclusively by Nazi war criminals. A metal dissection table fitted with straps, bordered by a tray of pointy, extravagant instruments of pain that'd make even the most hardcore S&M dungeon proprietors blush.

Tyler's in the corner, dressed in surgical scrubs, quaking in his designer shoes and holding a long blade. All that cockiness from earlier is trickling down his left leg.

"Hey, Tyler," I say, making sure he can see his friends' blood on me. "How's it going?"

"Harper! Al! Get in here!" he shrieks past me. "Dennis! Please!"

That gets a laugh out of me.

"Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy," I say, coming a little closer. "Just you and me."

He's sweating like Chris Hansen just told him he's got the chat logs. Nothing make me hungrier than fear.

"Look, I can pay you, you know I'm good for it."

"Hmm. Nah, I'm good."

"I can give you anything money can buy."

"You're just not getting it, Tyler. We made a deal, and I don't go back on my deals."

Tyler panics, he lunges forward, knife extended.

"You fucking whore!" he screams.

The blade meets flesh and pierces. When Tyler realizes what he's done, he sees that his knife is sticking through the palm of my hand, and my clawed fingers are curling around his knuckles, piercing his flesh.

He lets out the prelude to a trembling scream.

"I prefer 'sex worker'."

A decent kick to the chest and he tumbles backwards, wheezing, unarmed, pants-shittingly terrified.

I pull his knife out of my hand like I'm plucking a splinter, and toss it to the side, giggling.

"Just out of curiosity, did you really think that'd work or were you just throwing shit at a wall?" I ask.

"You're a fucking monster," he wheezes out.

"I mean, I'm not the one with the murder compound and the freezer full of dead pets, but sure," I say. "Hey, lemme show you something cool, it'll help put things into perspective."

While Tyler marinates, I head over to his tray of sharp toys.

"These were for me, right?" I ask.

No answer. He's too busy trying not to cry.

"Watch this."

One by one, I pick up each of his funny little tools and force them into my chest. I maintain eye contact, watching his face fall every time a glinting blade disappears into me, and the realization dawns on him just that little bit more that he was fucked from square one. Scalpels, ice picks, pen knives, potato peelers, wooden spikes, six inch nails, box cutters, linoleum knives, paring knives, dental equipment.

"Look, ma, I'm a pincushion!" I say, both hands raised.

I clench my many teeth and squeeze, like I'm trying to take a shit after a few weeks without fiber, and the foreign objects - the entire contents of terrible Tyler's torture-tastic tool tray - force themselves out of me and clatter to the floor with a musical tingle.

My wounds blink shut, like eyes ashamed to look at him.

"So many people have tried to kill me, Tyler. Mongol warlords, spartan warriors, Viking berserkers, revered samurai, honorable knights, and more uncaught serial killers than I can even count - and they all tasted fucking delicious. What the hell made you think that you, some punk rich kid, ever even had a chance?"

Of course, he doesn't have an answer, except to whisper: "please."

I fall to my hands and knees, and start crawling towards him. He backs up until there's nowhere to back up to, and then I'm on top of him, his eyes meet mine, and he sees the drool dripping from my fangs.

"Now, how was it you said you wanted this done again? Oh, right, manually..."

His screams - like his sweet, tender flesh - are exquisite.

All things considered, four meals for the price of one. Not a bad night. Not a bad night at all.

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The 24 Hour Cafeteria

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The Executrix Pt.1  - #Throwback

Another golden oldie. I’ve had weirder nights. Gonna split it into two parts because it’s longer than Ron Jeremy - if you have a problem with that, you can eat my ass.

***

A lot of people consider prostitution to be the world's oldest profession - that's how I started all this last time. But, for something older than a T-Rex's asshole, there's always a request that can still surprise you.

Imagine, for a second, that a three-hour-long session of cock-and-ball torture is your idea of a quiet day at the office. Imagine you know what the Fried Clam Slammer is, and you can think about it without losing your appetite. Also - imagine, if you can, satisfying that appetite by eating cheating dirtbags for fun and profit, and doing this for a few thousand years.

First of all: if all this is true for you, then congratulations, gorgeous, you're me, and you look phenomenal.

Secondly: imagine what kind of request it'd take to shock you. Something so rare that, even after all this time, it still has the power to raise an eyebrow, like seeing a dick wider than it is long.

So we're in Starbucks - the Agent Smith from the Matrix of coffee franchises - and he's drinking a mocha-locha-frappe-ding-dong or whatever the hell it's called. You know, those drinks that are like half ice-cream and cost so much you have to remortgage your house if you wanna buy one. He's young, attractive, and single, so no scorned beauty or beaux is paying me to chow down on him tonight - but that doesn't mean nobody is paying me.

"You know," he says, his voice smooth and confident, as you can expect from a guy born with a silver spoon between his ass-cheeks. "Part of me was expecting you not to show."

I give him the classic pursed-lip grin, my mouth a crimson check-mark. He's not paying for the Girlfriend Experience - this is just negotiations.

Normally, I'd do this part online, or over the phone, but he's giving me an advance to meet in public for this one. Mr. Playboy doesn't want there to be screenshots, or recordings. And yet, he's not said a word about what he actually wants yet.

Meet Tyler Bradley. I did about ten minutes ago. He's 24 and looks it: fit, athletic, kinda like a black-haired Ken Doll whose features have been moulded and sharpened by the tip of a scalpel. Unlike the last client I told you about, he's catalogue-model-handsome. Not exactly skinny, but not buff either. A less substantial lump of meat.

It'll be easier on my figure, at least.

"Why so coy, Mr. Mysterious?" I ask him, dialling up the flirtatiousness to eleven. "This your first time?"

He smiles at me, the way an adult smiles at a kid who's just asked them where babies come from.

"I'm not a virgin," he says, a little too firmly for someone secure in themselves. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"So you're a regular Don Juan, are you?"

"Yeah. I guess you could say that."

He takes another slurp from his tall cup of overpriced bean juice, and I suddenly feel the urge to smoke.

"Look, I'm all for foreplay, kid, but you're killing me here. Aren't you gonna tell me what you're after?"

"It's a little...niche."

"Niche is my middle name, Hun."

"Really niche. Like, really, really niche."

"Try me."

Another self-conscious slurp.

"Aren't you gonna have anything?" He asks.

"I'm saving room for later. Say, speaking of room, how about we find one?"

Tyler smiles in an attempt to hide the fact the back of his jaw is clenching up. His hands are fidgeting - on the cup, off the cup, on the cup, off the cup - but he never picks it up.

I'm running through different scenarios of what he might ask me: vacuum-bag asphyxiation? Rubber hose oviposition-play? A fisting session that'd put the Rumble in The Jungle to shame?

What I don't expect - and, incidentally, what I get - is a brief autobiography.

"I was born rich. My dad owns Bradley Aeronautics, it's been in the family for a few generations, so I've never really been in want of anything," he says. "I want a Lamborghini? I can have six by dinner. I want a new house? Done. A yacht? Where's the nearest port? So, you know, material goods never meant much to me. It's all just stuff."

"That...must've been tough for you."

"So for me, the only thing that's ever been worth anything is experience. Drugs, booze, women. Chemical highs. Strip clubs. Adrenaline junkie stuff. Just anything that gets the blood pumping, you know? I'd scale Everest, have an orgy with a boatload of Russian supermodels, rail the purest X you've ever seen."

"So what do you want with little ol' me?" I ask, already bored of him.

Tyler glances both ways, and leans across the table towards me, getting all up in my face.

"The one experience I've never had."

"Oh yeah? What can I do that a baker's dozen Russian babes can't?"

"Well, I've heard on the grapevine that this whole hooker thing isn't all you do," he says, that tight little smile uncurling across his face like an expensive rug.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I've been looking into this for a little while now, and I know, sweetheart, I know. You're different. You've been helping people take care of little problems, haven't you? Little problems that don't just go away on their own."

For the first time in longer than I care to mention, I'm feeling a little nervous. Does he...does he know what I am? Does he know what I've been doing to people?

"Now, I'm not sure what you've been doing with the bodies--"

Phew. Thank fuck for that.

"--but I know for a fact, you've been killing people. Not everyone, but some folks who go your way? They never come back, and people sure do take a while to file the missing person's report."

I'm still forcing that lippy smile, and I'm wondering if I can just snap the guy's neck and leave without anyone noticing. I've been outmanoeuvred by this fucking kid. It's almost as embarrassing as the rubber chicken incident - but that's a story for another day.

I have to find an elegant solution to the Tyler problem.

"What's your point?" I ask.

"You're a hooker, and you kill people," he says. "Isn't it obvious that that's really fucking hot? I can't be the only one seeing this."

"Wait, what?"

"I like a lady who can take charge, you know? I'm so used to pushovers, people who'll do anything for me because they know about all the money. It's pathetic. But someone like you? Someone willing to take a life, but isn't afraid to put out, either? That really revs my engine, babe."

"So...let me get this straight," I say, speaking a little quieter than usual. "You want to watch me kill someone?"

Tyler laughs, and shakes his head at me.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I want you to kill me."

And there's the money shot.

"Uh, come again?" I ask.

"You heard me - I've done it all, seen it all, fucked it all. So what's left? The ultimate sexual taboo: death!" He says. "After a certain point, everything just gets kinda played out. Like even your favourite song, if you listen to it enough, it gets dull, right? But I can think of something I've never done: seeing if I can orgasm and flatline at the same time."

What I'm feeling right now is a cocktail of confusion, curiosity, and immense relief. As far as I'm concerned, little Tyler's sexual death-wish suits my purposes just fine - and if I can get paid and he can get off in the process, then everybody wins. A happy ending for all, real Walt Disney stuff.

"Okay, I'm down." I say, "a hundred grand, cash, if possible."

He raises both eyebrows like I've just dropped trou and pissed in his cup of hipster nectar.

"That's a little steep, isn't it?" He says.

"What? You're gonna be dead, dude, it's not like you can use it. And it's a hell of a lot cheaper than six lambos," I say, coming dangerously close to showing off my fangs in a self-satisfied smirk.

He shrugs, as if to say, "fair enough."

"I didn't expect you to be this eager."

"Well, you seem like a sweet kid, I'd be more than happy to murder you."

"Thanks. I'm flattered."

"I know a place nearby, the Restin' Easy, I'm a friend of the manager. He'll be able to clean up once I'm done with you," I tell him.

He pauses and shakes his head again. He does that too much for me to enjoy his company.

"What's the problem, slick?"

"Not there," he says. "There's a warehouse on the edge of town. I want you to kill me there."

A warehouse? A freaking warehouse? That classic romantic getaway location, if you're a meth-addled hobo and the pack of expired sirloins he's about to fuck. A little unsanitary adds character, sure, but I don't wanna feel like I need to hose the little bastard down before I eat him.

But, the customer is always right - if they've got the cash. And Tyler Bradley has the cash.

"Okay, deal."

"Excellent. I'll email you the directions." He says, slurping the last dregs out of his cup.

"So, when do you wanna die, Tyler?"

"We'll say tomorrow night. I'm looking forward to it."

"Likewise. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

***

When you spend every other night drenched in blood, you get worse at noticing red flags. If my vision were a little clearer, I'd have noticed that Tyler Bradley was all red flags - from his weird-as-shit request to his sex-trafficking-racket location choice.

But, if this business has taught me one thing, it's that you miss out on a hell of a lot when you're greedy, hungry, and horny. It's why Sherlock Holmes never solved cases with an empty wallet, an empty stomach, and an eight-inch throbbing hard-on.

So, I turn up at the warehouse, just like Bradley-boy asked. It looks like a forty-foot, metal picnic basket full of black mould, rust, and asbestos, and I thank Satan my lungs aren't human.

As I walk through the gaping doorway, I keep myself amused by trying to figure out how many senses you'd have to lose before this shithole seemed like an appealing place to get your fuck on. Mafioso's don't shoot rats through the back of the head in places like this because of the appealing aesthetic qualities: they do it cause nobody in their right fucking mind would ever wanna go there, unless they were quietly taking care of their own little problem too.

Tyler's standing inside, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and there's an inexplicably clean mattress laying on the grimy floor next to him.

"I brought this along," he says. "I'd hate for you to get tetanus."

"How thoughtful of you. So, you ready to do this?"

"As I'll ever be. The anticipation is really beginning to get to me."

"Then how about we just get it over with?"

We disrobe, nude bodies uncomfortable against the stale, stinking air of the warehouse. He's well-equipped, enough to assume this night won’t be a total write-off, but I'm still pissed about the venue.

Oh well, can't have it all.

He lays across the mattress and waits for me, erect, and I can already tell I'm going to be the one putting all the effort in tonight. You might be wondering, "why not just kill him now and get it over with?" but when I make a deal, I make a deal. You can't compromise on professionalism.

So, I descend on him, and we go at it for about eight minutes until he looks like he's having an asthma attack. I may not be a boat full of Russian supermodels, but I've got a couple thousand years of experience, and you don't make a living fucking and killing for that long without picking up a few choice techniques.

Once he blows his load, we're just sitting on his mattress, an island of white linen on a sea of rat-shit-covered concrete.

"You were pretty good, for what it's worth," I say, wishing I had a cigarette. "It's gonna be a shame to take you out of circulation. Speaking of, how do you want it done? I've not brought any tools so I was hoping you'd have your own, if that's what you're after."

"Manually is fine," he said. "It's more intimate that way."

"Oh, Tyler, you never told me you were a romantic."

I crawl on top of him and start reaching for his neck. This whole thing can end in one quick snap, and then I can leave, the money gets wired to my account, and the whole mess is over with.

Tyler seems nervous. I can't blame him.

"Bye bye, Tyler," I say. "It's been a pleasure."

"We're not done yet," he says.

Then the cold barrel of a gun is being pressed into the back of my head.

Tyler smiles.

"You cut it a little close there, boys," Tyler says, climbing to his feet and picking up his clothes.

"We were enjoying the show," says another voice from behind me.

And I'm just kneeling on this god damn mattress, with a gun to the back of my head, wondering what the fuck is going on.

Two-Face-Tyler is getting dressed again, and a skinny guy - mid-twenties, T-shirt and jeans, redhead - walks over to pass him a new pair of shoes. Some designer bullshit with an Italian name, most likely.

"Thanks, Al," Tyler says.

Al bows out, and I can tell from the smell and from the number of hearts beating that there are two more behind me. One bigger, with a strain to his heartbeat, and the other small, nervous. Heart bumping thirty to the dozen like he's just seen someone holding a toaster above his bathtub.

I've been expecting Tyler to pull some entitled, rich-kid bullshit since I saw the mattress. This whole cracker-ass shakedown is practically signposted, but I’m morbidly curious as to where it's gonna go, so I let them have their fun playing bad boys.

"Hey, hey, let's be reasonable here," I say. "What exactly is going on?"

Tyler, now wearing his douchebag uniform once more, comes strolling over to me, and leans down to meet my eyes directly.

"Thanks for the fuck," he says, grinning like a pervert in a middle school locker room. "But we're just getting started, honey. I wasn't lying when I said I'd done almost everything that money could buy - except one thing."

He reaches out and pats me on the shoulder.

"Don't you wanna die?" I ask him.

"The only one dying tonight is you."

We'll see.

[tabbysgotclaws]

[tabbysgotclaws]

[tabbysgotclaws]

[tabbysgotclaws]

In My  Line of Work - #Throwback

Wrote this shit a thousand fucking years ago (not literally, I think it was about two) but hey, figured it’d be a good way to pop this place’s cherry. Enjoy the sex and bloodshed, babes, it’s what you’re here for, right? <3

***

I've always found it funny that people like to call prostitution "the world's oldest profession." It doesn't speak all that highly of the human race's priorities, does it?

Paint on cave walls.

Discover fire.

Pay someone to fuck you senseless.

Get that in Latin, and we could engrave it at the base of every statue the world over - or better yet, build new statues, all shaped like giant brass cocks at full salute. That's the human mission statement in a nutshell right there: here, we have two types of animal, the ones with the dicks, and the ones getting fucked by them. And we will always - I repeat, always - be the ones with the dicks.

Yes indeed, the world's oldest profession.

I can think of an older one, but we'll get to that later.

It's outside of a motel called Restin' Easy that we lay our scene. Picture this: a gorgeous woman stands up against a sand-blasted brick wall, dressed to the nines in designer silks and a leather jacket. She's taking a long, sincere drag off a slender cigarette, and leaving blood-red lipstick rings on the unburnt white paper of the shaft. She's got the good looks of a 1960s movie star - a regular Audrey Hepburn in the making. Her black hair falls just above her shoulders, and sways gently in the night's breeze.

That's me.

The balding middle-aged man in the tan jacket with a face like a slapped ass, that's Dave. Yeah, Dave with the greasy skin that tosses back the neon rays of the glowing "VACANCY" sign above us. Dave the big spender, flashing the wad of hundreds in his faux-leather wallet.

Dave the asshole. Dave the John.

"Crystal recommended you to me," He says in an unbearably cocky tone, like I'm a new brand of aftershave he's been meaning to try out for a while, "She said you do things no other girl will do. That right?"

"More or less." I say, feigning a provocative grin.

When you've been in the business for as long as I have, you get pretty good at sizing up your customers with a glance. Sometimes, it's necessary to survival - you look the wrong way in this line of work and you've got a seven-inch stiletto buried between the links in your spine. Sex does weird shit to people's heads.

Dave, for all his faults, is easy to read. He wears a look of contempt, like he's too good for the situation he's putting himself in. He's wealthy, and entitled. He doesn't know why he's paying for sex - a man of his stature should be beating the ladies off with a stick, surely.

He probably sells used cars for a living, I think, suppressing a smirk.

"What can I do for you that Crystal can't, sugar?" I ask with an innocent flutter of eyelashes,

He grunts, one side of his mouth curling into a sneer.

"She was a little too...safe, for my taste."

"Too safe for you, huh? Ever considered trying to fuck a bear?"

"No, not like that. I mean, she was too vanilla. She wasn't comfortable with the things I wanted."

I raise an eyebrow and place a well-manicured hand on my hip, cocking my pelvis slightly to the side. Guys like Dave are almost like video games: once you know all the cheat codes, you're in the clear.

"Tell me, honey," I whisper to him in my most sultry drawl, "What is it that you want?"

What I expect is an answer, what I get is a grubby hundred dollar bill fumbled into my palm. Dave keeps scanning from side to side throughout, as though he's afraid of someone seeing him.

That's always a red flag.

"How about we go somewhere private, and then I'll tell you." He says, his voice oozing disdain.

I breathe a plume of smoke into his face and snuff my cigarette against the wall. On one hand, his rudeness pisses me off, on the other, I want it over with sooner rather than later.

The interior of Restin' Easy is everything that the facade would lead you to believe - old and chintzy, but with a certain charm to it, if you can look past the fine layer of sleaze. Think off-white shag carpeting, lamps that haven't been replaced since the seventies, and a pencil-moustached manager picking particles of cocaine from underneath his dirty fingernails. In short, it was my kind of place.

"Hey, John," I call to the manager with a playful smirk, "You got a room for me?"

His name isn't John, I know that much. But he reminds me of John Waters, so the name stays.

Not-really-John flashes me a grin back and fiddles with the lapel of his velvet suit, the lacquer in his hair rendered iridescent by the fizzing halogen tubes that hang above.

"Same as always?" He asks, his lisping voice softer than coffin-lining, "Number Seven's available."

I nod and he tosses me the keys, keeping Dave in tow. He's scowling like I've just spat in his face.

If anything's clear to me, it's that Davey-boy is used to better. He's a pervert with standards.

Smash-cut to room seven, an amateur porn set if ever there was one. In a certain sense, all hotel rooms - big and small, expensive and dirt cheap - feel like the same place, the same liminal area between destinations. They have the same walls, the same beds, the same dusty bibles in the bedside cabinets. Nondescript art of ports never visited and generic forestry grace the walls, and a minibar sits in the corner looking shameful, almost like it knows what it is. A shitty little robber with a conscience.

Dave looks out of place here, like he's being doctored into this image in real-time. He's still wearing that I-can-smell-rot-in-here scowl and avoiding eye contact with me for whatever reason. It doesn't exactly do wonders for my self-esteem, I'll tell you that much.

"So, uh, you ready?" I ask him, searching for an answer buried in the creases of his face, "I hope this doesn't take too long, honey. I'm hungry and the McDonald's closes at ten-thirty."

"It'll take as long as I need it to." He growls, loosening his tie.

I figure the uptight bastard would come-out a handful of sand after a perfunctory screw. He's never made love in his life - just fucked, and fucked badly.

In that moment, my hopes of having any fun tonight die on their asses.

Before I know it, he's pushing me onto the bed and starting to disrobe, revealing to me his fleshy, pale frame. There's a kind of solidness to him - not brick shithouse solid, but drying clay solid. As though with enough warmth, you could start twisting him into the right shape again.

I take off my leather jacket and shirt, and kick off my jeans, until I'm just in my bra and underwear. Without sounding too arrogant, I can tell by the look in his eyes that I'm better than he's had in years - but he's not appreciative, oh no. He looks at me the way I'm assuming Christopher Columbus looked at America - the look of a man ready to fuck shit up royally to assert his limp-dicked dominance over something beautiful.

I'd go into more detail as to what I look like without all those pesky clothes, but it'd cost you, sugar. And I don't come cheap.

Hell, with most of these guys I don't even come at all. See? Little bit of on-the-job humor, just to lighten the mood. What happens next is a little grimmer.

Once he's down to his underwear, Dave starts opening a briefcase he's brought in with him. I start wondering whether he expects me to sign a non-disclosure waiver or some shit, until I realize what he's producing from the case is a leather paddle covered in metal studs.

Naughty, naughty Dave.

"That looks painful," I giggle, fluttering my eyelashes, knowing the absence of fear would emasculate him, "I can see why Crystal turned you down. For a second, I just thought you must have had a funny-shaped dick."

For the record, his dick was of a relatively average shape and size. Nothing terrible, but not exactly remarkable either.

He just grunts, and runs his big, rough hands over the studs.

"You can't get this kind of action at home, huh?" I ask.

"Never in a million years," He says, finally turning to me, "My wife wouldn't allow it. But, then again, my wife isn't here."

He chuckles like a bad villain from a sixties movie would chuckle.

"Y'know, I've seen a lot of hookers, but none of them have been quite as mouthy as you," He says, taking tentative steps towards me as his erection began to bloom in anticipation, "I like that. Breaking you is gonna be a challenge."

I climb further back onto the bed, edging towards the pillows. The quilt feels cheap and rough on my skin - though I don't exactly have any high expectations for Restin' Easy. I don't come here for the comfort, after all.

"Word of advice, Davey-boy," I say with a salacious wink, "Take me before you break me. It'll make the beating more satisfying, don't you think?"

He doesn't say a word, refusing to concede to me, but he agrees. There's a soft thump as the paddle falls to the ground, and he crawls across the bed to me like a goddamn puppy.

I'd have laughed if I wasn't so excited for what comes next.

As expected, the sex is boring. For a man who carries a spiked paddle around in his briefcase like Patrick fucking Bateman, he's got a surprisingly dull preference for the missionary position - a position I'd always thought of as the mayonnaise of sex: good when you're in the mood for it, but too much of it and you lose the will to live.

He does tug my hair, though. I find that a little annoying, especially considering the price of having your hair done these days.

Once he's done and his body practically coughs into mine (thank god for condoms, or I would have caught his cold) he just collapses onto me, gasping and exhausted. It'd take another hour before the sad bastard would have enough energy to beat me.

And I've never been all that patient.

"Wow, slick," I find myself saying, with all the enthusiasm of a text-to-speech generator, "That really was something."

"Y'think?" He asks, wanting me to stroke his ego.

"Well, normally good sex can leave me satisfied," I muse, "But that just left me hungrier."

He gives an annoyed grunt and tries to hoist himself up, still awkwardly straddling me while he does it.

My painted lips are pursed into a tight grin, while my teeth begin growing from my gums and sharpening into vicious points. I have a mouth full of scalpels, and poor, ignorant Dave is none the wiser. This is something I've done before, so I know how to keep it hidden right up until the moment it all ends.

That moment, my dear readers, is now.

Without warning, I grab Dave by the fat folds on the back of his big, sweaty head and pull his face down towards me. My lips curl up over my teeth into a manic, open-mouth smile, showing him the piranha thing I had going on inside.

"Carol sends her regards." I hiss through my fangs with a cruel giggle.

There's a glimmer of terrible recognition in his eyes when I say that name. The universal look of "oh fuck, I've been caught" is plastered liberally across his face. The vain little turd looks terrified before he's even noticed my fangs, or that I've cribbed my one-liner from Game of Thrones.

He doesn't get a chance to respond. Within the next second, I've pulled him down further and clamped my jaws around his thick, piggish neck. He thrashes, but I wrap my legs around his waist and grab his arms, completely immobilizing him.

When I'm not hiding my strength, he's nothing to me.

Dave thrashes weakly while twin geysers of blood evacuate his throat, giving me a warm, refreshing drink - like coppery cocoa, that's always made me feel a little better about it.

It doesn't take him long to die, and when he does, the real feeding starts.

I'll admit, I have a tendency to black out when I'm in the middle of a good meal - like a premature food coma, you see? But, when I come back to the land of the living, I can see by the radium-green numbers on the bedside alarm clock that it's only taken me about fifteen minutes to do the damage I'd done.

When I looked down onto the remains of Dave Whatshisname, I see there's only bones left, and that I'm wearing a stylish, crimson apron courtesy of my meal.

Then, it hits me how full I'm feeling, and I collapse back onto the bed.

Cheap quilts. Easy to replace when there's spillage.

"Dave, you irritating fucker," I say with a groan, poking my bloated stomach, "If I can't button my goddamn jeans after this, I'm charging your wife extra."

Crap. That reminds me.

I lean over, feeling another pain deep in my belly as I do so, and grabbed my phone out of the pocket of my discarded jeans.

Carol. Carol. Carol. I've got her on speed dial.

When she picks up, she just says, "Is it done?"

"What? No 'hello'? Most people are polite to their hired killers, lady."

My indigestion is so bad that I barely have the strength to be sarcastic - oh, who am I kidding? I always have the strength to be sarcastic.

"Just tell me if my shitbag husband is dead."

I give an agonized groan as my stomach gurgles, as though dearly deceased Dave was protesting.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dead, devoured, digesting. Whatever. You paid me yet?"

There's a long sigh down the receiver. Most people have that reaction when they find out I've murdered their husbands, but - to my credit - I never do it without being asked.

They need people dead, and I need to eat. Seems a fair trade to me.

"The money should be in your account."

"Sweet! And it couldn't have come at a better time, Carol. After your lard-ass husband, I'm probably gonna go up a fucking dress size. You owe me for my new wardrobe."

"You don't have to eat them, you know." She says, trying to pretend she's above it all.

"You're saying that from a human perspective. I'm not human, and ergo, we have different dietary needs," I say, wincing again from the pain, "But if you're satisfied with your service, I'm gonna save the biology lesson for when your husband isn't killing me from the inside. Okay?"

"I guess..."

"I need to hear you say it, Carol."

She sighs. Again.

"I am satisfied with my service. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Bye."

I hang up on her unceremoniously and collapse back onto the bed, throwing my phone to the side.

"Ten thou isn't enough for this shit." I groan again, my stomach ache ebbing and worsening as though on some kind of nonsensical schedule.

"Jesus Christ, look at this mess you've made!" I hear a shrill, effeminate voice ring out from the doorway, "I thought I told you to lay down a plastic tarp when you're doing your weird, hitwoman stuff!"

It's John. Not-really-John.

I find myself rolling my eyes at him, as he sashays into the room with a plastic bag and starts picking up the bones.

"That'll blow my cover, John," I say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "I'm posing as a sex worker. You know that. And nobody wants to have sex in a room that looks like the interior designer was Dexter Morgan. It's a pretty major boner dethroner."

John just shrugs and carries on picking up the bones. I always give him a little cut of the proceeds, so he doesn't mind doing some of the cleanup - I ate most of the mess, after all. And now, I'm just laying there, on the precipice of an actual food coma.

I love a happy ending, don't you?

Like I was saying earlier, I've always found it funny that people like to call prostitution "the world's oldest profession." After all, it's not just corny, it's patently untrue.

Before people even dreamt of paying to fuck someone else, they were paying to have them killed. And that, my dear readers, is why I'll always be in business, and why cheaters never prosper.

[tabbysgotclaws]

I guess I’m here now - got some tea (or, well, some other warm liquid) to spill. I’ll treat you to new stories on the weekends, like the ones I told a while back.

If you’re squeamish, now’s your time to clock out. It’ll get real messy.

[tabbysgotclaws]

[tabbysgotclaws]

[tabbysgotclaws]