“You did. All of you. The drugs, the crime. She’s dead because of shit stains like you!” I scream in his face, grabbing his cheeks, bashing the back of his head into the ground over and over again until I drop it into the dirt on a pained groan from the both of us.
Punching him in the face hard, I crack my knuckles in my gloves and his head falls slack, his face smashing to the soft grass under us.
There’s no money in my back pocket but there is my knife, and my lighter. The knife makes a hollow scraping sound as I pull it from its leather sheath, the blade shining in the dim lighting from the lone streetlamp a few paces away. I stare at it for a second, hating the spillage of blood, butheis right, this needs to be fast.
The knife slides across the guys throat so easily, splitting the skin open, spilling the red fluid that controls his life. It pours from him like a waterfall, dousing the front of him, soaking his white shirt in the crimson stain of death.
He gurgles and sputters but never regains consciousness before his eyes fall still and his lips turn a deep blue. He’s dead already, and now he’s going to burn.
“He didn’t suffer enough.” I pant, looking down at the utter mess I’ve made.
The next one will.
The flint on my lighter catches the gas and the flame pops from its tip. It’s beautiful as it dances in the evening breeze, and even more stunning when it catches his clothes up the second I touch it to him.
The fire takes him quickly, enveloping his corpse in a rush of gold, orange and blue. His filth and the grease on him from however long it’s been since he bathed acts as an accelerant, and he bursts into flames like a roman candle. Too bad he’s already dead and isn’t flailing around on the ground screaming in pain.
“You’re right, the next one.” I say, dusting off my hands and walking away from the inferno, leaving him to burn without the care of what else he catches on fire.
The bike fires up with her regular roar, and I take off down the street, headed to my next place. The catacombs will be packed tonight, and I can have my pickings of anyone I want, with more cover to actually play.
Good boy. You’re doing God’s work.
“I am.”
I make my way through the city and pull into the mouth of the tunnel. It’s been awhile since I’ve been here, and I wonder if the remains from that whore in the purple dress are still inside, untouched. If they are, I want to roll in them, to play with them, to desecrate her final resting place, because why not?
Hookers and pimps stroll the outside, their calls to men as they drive by an eerie reminder of the night I was here last, and instead of making me feel disgusted like it did before, it turns me on, solely because of the level of violence I plan on unleashing inside. I even have a slight erection, the first one since I was last buried in my angel.
That was beautiful, if I do say so myself.
I don’t even give the crack whore a chance to offer herself to me when I dismount the bike. She’s dressed like a high school girl, with a plaid mini skirt and a crisp white shirt tied up on her belly, showing off her flat midriff. I wonder how long it’s been since she had a real meal instead of the drugs she pumps into herself. The black marks and scabs on her arms tell me it’s probably been a really long time.
With her shiny blonde hair and wide green eyes, she would be beautiful if she wasn’t a drug riddled fucking whore.
“Come on baby. You’re what I need.” I say, taking her hand roughly and leading her in the mouth of the catacombs.
Her little Mary Jane shoes tap lightly on the pavement as she tries to keep up with my quick, long-legged pace, and she has to practically jog to keep up.
“Excited honey?” She asks, popping a wad of gum in her mouth, keeping up with the schoolgirl persona.
“Yeah something like that.” I say to her, pulling her along, bringing her deeper into the tunnels and away from the majority of the people milling about outside.
The only ones inside the vast, graffiti covered space are the ones already doped out of their fucking gourds, and the ones getting railed by Johns who will never speak a word of what happens in here. It’s perfect.
“What can I do for you?” She asks, trailing her hand down my arm when I pull her against the cold, graffiti covered mural full of gang tags.
“You can fucking die for your sins.”
Yes! Right to it baby! Do it!
“That’s not nice.” She says, her smile wide, her mouth chomping on the gum like a cow chewing cud. “How about I do something else for you?”
If she wasn’t high, if she didn’t have track marks on her, and if she wasn’t so blatantly trying to fuck money out of me, maybe I would consider giving her the pleasure of touching me, maybe even sucking my cock, but nah, she’s too nasty for that. Besides, the only mouth I want to feel wrapped around my dick is dead.
Dead because of trash like this. Trash that needs to be burned!
“Do you like fire?” I ask her, leaning over her, my hand on the wall beside her head.
