Mike sat in his office chair. A cigarette burned down to ash in the stone ashtray, untouched for minutes. He had his phone pressed to his ear and a glass of bourbon in his other hand. He sipped, relishing in the burn of the alcohol.
“Come on, you motherfucker,” he whispered into the receiver. It continued to ring and ring. “Fuck!” Mike said, hanging it up. He drained his glass and picked up his cigarette, which had burned out at the filter. He took the pack from his desk, refilled his glass and lit up a new smoke. He took one hard drag before setting it in the ashtray.
Mike grabbed the phone again, calling Ingrid’s hotel room. It too rang with no answer. He hit the hook button four or five times, waiting for the dial tone. Quickly, he dialed.
“Hello, Kirby Hotel,” a cheery woman said. “How may I direct your call?”
Mike’s mind raced. He couldn’t remember Ingrid’s alias. His frazzled mind was racing and he didn’t think to recall her alias before calling.
“Ah, yes,” he rubbed his head with his glass in hand. “I’m looking for a friend who’s staying at your hotel and I was wondering if you could tell me if she’s still there? I tried her room direct, but she didn’t answer.”
“No problem, sir. And what’s her name?”
Mike squinted, as that would help. Surprisingly, it did. “Janice,” he blurted out. “Janice Spoonhower.”
“One moment,” the receptionist said, the sound of computer keys being expertly hit in the background. “No, she’s still here.” More keystrokes. “She’s scheduled to check out tomorrow morning, sir.”
Mike hung up without answering. Something was wrong. He’d only worked with Ingrid a few times in the past, but she was never late. And Sally, forget about it, being late to him was a killable offense. The man was many things, but tardy wasn’t one of them. Even the clean-up boys, those three dipshits, were late. He opened his desk and grabbed his gun; a nickel-plated Colt 1911 chambered in .45 ACP. He checked to make sure it was loaded and tucked it into his pants. Mike grabbed the cigarette and put it in his mouth as he stood up. He grabbed his jacket and put it on, walking out of his office. He had another phone call to make, but this one couldn’t come from the office. No, this had to be done from a payphone. The boss was very peculiar about that thing, worried the Feds would wiretap the warehouse. All business was supposed to be done from the outside, but Mike was lazy. To the boss, he didn’t fuck around. One stupid mistake and he’d end up in the bottom of the Hudson River.
He checked his watch. It was nearly 10:30pm. The movie should’ve been wrapping up by then. He walked over to the studio room and peaked in. It was crazy to think she could’ve gotten away, but he had to be sure.
A young woman lay on a table in the studio. She was tied down by her wrists and ankles and gagged. If all had gone according to plan, she’d be on her way to the shipping container for a date with a barrel. Instead, she lay there, clothed, scared and very much alive.
“Sorry for the delay,” Mike said, watching the fear wash over her at hearing him. “We’ve hit a bit of a technical snag, but we’ll be starting any minute now.”
She screamed through the gag, but it was no use. It was tight and the room was soundproof. No one could hear anything unless the door was open or they were right next to it.
Mike shut the door, cutting off her muffled cries for help. He tossed his cigarette butt on the concrete floor, stamping it out.
The night air wasn’t cold, but it was far from warm. He checked up and down the block before walking. No cars were running and no boogeymen lurking in the shadows. At least he thought.
The payphone wasn’t far and it was one of three he’d rotate between. It was the closest, so it saw the most action. He slid a few coins in and dialed a number he knew by heart.
The phone was answered on the first ring.
“Speak,” a deep voice on the other side said.
“I need to speak with Lynette.”
“No Lynette here, wrong number,” the phone clicked in Mike’s ear. He shivered, jamming his hands in his pockets. Sometimes the call back took seconds, sometimes minutes, but either way he was waiting. He was just fumbling out another cigarette when the phone rang.
Mike picked it up and before he could utter a word, the voice on the other end spoke.
“Go ahead,” a raspy, older voice said.
“My guys didn’t show. The main event is ready, but the support didn’t show.” There was a pause, one Mike didn’t like. He was in charge of the movie side of the business and he alone. Sure, the boss funded it and made the most profit, but the films were Mike’s baby. His art.
“Ok,” the boss said. “I’m going to send a few guys over, but I’m taking 90 percent from this one.”
Mike seethed, wanting to slam the phone or wrap the cord around the old fucker’s neck until he was blue in the face. 90 percent? 90 fucking percent? The normal was 60/40 and now he was being gouged for 90? He calmed himself, knowing there was no choice. He earned 10 percent or nothing, or possibly a bullet in the back of the head.
“No problem, boss.” Mike said, but he was talking to a dead line.
✽✽✽
Vickie was trying to control her breathing, but was losing the battle. The gag was tight, cutting the corners of her mouth. She knew she was going to die in that room. She knew she was going to die the second the guys in the car took off their masks. No one lets you see their faces after a kidnapping if they intended to let you live.
She fucked up and she knew it. She should’ve listened to her parents and not followed James to New York, but she didn’t listen. Within 6 months of moving in with him, she walked in on him balls deep in their neighbor.
Since then, Vickie was on her own. She found a job fast, but it was waiting tables at a bar in a less than desirable part of town. The money was good, but she had to deal with drunk assholes groping her half the night. That night began with the same routine; get up from her nap, shower, eat and walk to the bar. This night was different. This night a car rolled up, an expensive car with a young guy in the back. She knew it was wrong, but she was a sucker for an Italian boy and walked too close. Like Icarus, she flew too close to the sun and was burned. Three gorilla-sized men in masks pulled up behind her, grabbing her and tossing her in the backseat of another car. A gun was jabbed into her ribs and she was tied up with duct tape. Then, they took the masks off.
Vickie had done what she could against the men, but they simply overpowered her. Before she could make heads or tails of the situation, she was strapped down and gagged. One thing was for sure; if she survived and ever saw James again, she was going to kick him square in the balls.
The greasy looking, mobster-type guy had just left. Her heart was still racing, thinking it was the end, but when he walked away, she did her best to relax. Again and to no avail, Vickie pulled against the bonds. The ropes creaked, but held fast. Sweat ran down her face, wetting her red hair, as she grunted against her gag. Her wrists burned from exertion and the coarse fibers tore at her skin. She stopped, trying to regain her focus before beginning anew.
The doorknob rattled. Her heart raced as she strained her neck to see who was coming in.
The door opened.
✽✽✽
Talia was death.
She was a fucking killer; a predator and anyone deserving of her justice would get it and get it good. But there was one person in particular on her list; Mike. He needed to die and die painfully.
With ease, she entered the unlocked warehouse. The shadows on the edges of the lights seemed darker, more rich. Like silk, the darkness was smooth over Talia’s skin as she slinked from one patch of black to another.
The light in Mike’s office was on, but she knew he wasn’t there. In fact, it didn’t feel very busy at all. She moved through the warehouse, getting closer to the studio. Light poured out from under the studio door. They were shooting a movie. What kind of movie, she didn’t know, but she had a good idea. Well, she certainly had a surprise for them.
Talia stood outside the studio door, one hand on the doorknob, the other on her razor. Slowly, she opened it.
No one was there besides a girl and a video camera. She walked over to the girl, who recoiled from her. Rightfully so; Talia was covered in blood, most dry, some wet and holding a straight razor.
“Shh,” Talia said, putting her razor away and holding her hands up. “I’m not here to hurt you.” She walked over to the girl and grabbed her exposed arm. She closed her eyes, taking it all in…and smiled. “Ok,” she said, moving a piece of loose hair from the girl’s face. “It’s going to be ok. I need your help, Ok?” Talia asked, smiling.
The girl nodded as best as possible.
“Good, good,” Talia said, reaching for the gag. “I’m going to take this off and when I tell you to, I want you to scream. Can you do that?”
Another brain-rattling nod.
“Good,” Talia slipped the gag from the girl’s mouth.
The girl was pretty, even though she was disheveled. Talia looked at her knowing what her fate was to be. Well, that was going to change in a big fucking way.
The warehouse door slammed. Someone else was in the building. Talia looked at the girl, who was preparing to scream. She put a finger to her lips and said, “Shh.” She walked over to the camera and turned it on, hitting ‘record’. With the tape rolling, she went back over to the girl.
The girl looked at Talia, not wanting to listen, but did anyway.
Talia closed her eyes, feeling, sensing, exploring. It was him. It was Mike. She smiled and opened her eyes, which were blood red and glowing. She looked at the girl on the table, watching the scream build at seeing her crimson eyes.
“Scream,” Talia said, but it was too late, the girl was already wailing.
✽✽✽
Mike had just walked back into the warehouse when he heard the scream coming from the studio.
“What the fuck?” he said to himself. The studio was soundproof, unless the door was open.
He drew his gun, taking the safety off and moved toward the studio.
The door was wide open and he could see inside. The girl lay on the table, her gag gone.
“How the fuck?” Mike asked walking into the room.
“Will you walk into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.
Talia stood behind the door, her red eyes staring into Mike’s back as he walked up to the bound girl. She kicked the door shut.
“You,” he said, turning around pointing the gun at her. “You’re fucking dead,” Mike said, almost as a question.
Talia smiled, the razor open in her hand. “Not quite,” she walked toward him and smiled as he backpedaled.
The first gunshot was loud and jarring, but it didn’t hurt. Talia felt the slug hit her demonic flesh, passing through it like nothing. In fact, it kind of tickled.
Mike looked at her in panic, thinking he’d missed. He fired again and again, and before he knew it, he’d run out of ammo.
“Try harder,” said Talia, swinging her hips in a seductive way.
Mike threw the gun at her, missing by a lot. His back hit the wall, triggering his bladder to release. His expensive suit was ruined as hot urine streamed down his leg and into his loafers.
Talia was face to face with him, her red eyes boring into his soul. With blinding speed, she reached out, grabbing him by the throat.
Mike’s eyes bulged and he hoped she’d kill him right then and there. Those eyes held secrets and desires of pain. Her grip was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He pulled at her wrists, but it might as well have been rebar.
“I know you like to make movies,” Talia hissed. “Well, you’re the star of this one,” she put the razor against his eyebrow and sliced. The blade bit through flesh with ease, scoring the bone underneath. It skipped off his eye socket, jumping into his eyeball. The soft membrane popped pleasantly, giving up its fluids.
Mike screamed as half his vision disappeared. The pain was electric, burning him to his core.
Talia continued cutting his face, taking his nose off…slowly.
Blood burst from his damaged nasal cavities as the lump of cartilage that was formally his nose fell to the floor. She pushed the razor into his exposed sinuses and cut. The flesh, soft tissue and cartilage, yielded before her blade as she cut his face in half. A flap of skin hung down as the razor flayed his cheek open, revealing yellowed molars to the light. Blood poured and screams were muffled from the grip on his throat.
“Scream all you want,” she said, licking his blood and ocular fluid from his face, “I’m just getting started.” She dragged him toward one of the cabinets, one she was familiar with. She threw open a door and grabbed a pair of handcuffs.
Mike moaned, trying to pull against her hellish grip, but there was nothing he could do.
“Hold still,” she said, closing her blade and putting it in her pocket. “If you fight, it’ll be worse. I promise,” her voice was sweet, but the hint of venom was lethal.
Mike wanted to fight, but he was a pussy. He knew it since he was a boy. This was who he was and now he was paying for his crimes. His shoulders screamed as he was cuffed behind his back. His one good eye looked at the girl on the table. She was slated for a violent death for the entertainment of other sick fucks.
Talia pulled him away from the girl, leading him to the center of the room. She looked up at the pulley still hanging from the ceiling. The harness was gone, but the latch remained. It was too high for her to reach, so she needed to lower it.
“Now, you stay put. I’ll be right back,” Talia said, whispering in Mike’s ear. Her hand reached down and pulled the razor from her pocket. Silently, wanting it to be a surprise, she opened it. “Can’t have you running away,” she laughed, slashing the steel through the tendons on the back of Mike’s right knee.
“Ahh!” he screamed as the taught flesh yielded to the blade, slicing deep into muscle. He collapsed in a heap, trying to grab his ruined leg, forgetting he was handcuffed.
“Just in case,” Talia, smiled as she walked over to the crank. She wound the handle, lowering the latch on the end of the pulley.
Mike writhed, blood and urine seeping from his expensive suit pants. His shredded face left smears of gore as he flailed.
Talia grabbed the cuffs, hooking them to the pulley. She walked back to the crank and began to lift the doomed man.
Mike tried to fight it, but the hoist began to pull him off the ground. His arms, still behind his back, screamed at the tension building in his joints. With every ounce of strength and resolve he had, he fought the dislocation of his shoulders.
He lost.
Both of Mike’s arms popped from their sockets. Each one sounding like a pine knot in a fire. The only sound louder was his screams.
Talia laughed and stopped cranking.
Mike hung from the ceiling, his muscle and flesh the only thing keeping him from hitting the ground. The metal cuffs dug into his skin, peeling it back around his thumb. A steady stream of blood ran down his wrists as he began to slowly spin.
Talia walked over to him, feeling her body change. She didn’t know how she wanted to end Mike’s miserable life, but she had an idea. Her beautiful face twisted and contorted. Her jaw pushed out and her mouth filled with jagged teeth. Once feminine fingers were now long and tipped with claws of nightmarish sharpness.
Mike thought he knew fear when he saw her glowing, red eyes. Then, he thought he knew terror when he felt her strength. Now, face to face with the creature spawned from Hell, he knew true dread.
Talia stood in front of him with a look of wicked glee on her demonic face. She reached out, gently, with a clawed hand and stopped his spinning.
Mike was hyperventilating. His chest shuddered, quivering beneath his clothes. Sometime during his torture, he’d shit his pants. The smell of shit, piss, blood and fear was lost to him, thanks to Talia removing his nose.
It didn’t go unnoticed by her. She breathed it in, the acrid odor of his fear, a scent she was coming to love, added to the bouquet.
Talia grabbed a handful of Mike’s suit and ripped. The fabric might as well have been tissue paper in her grasp. She shredded, cloth and skin alike, until he was nude. Her claws left bloody furrows in his pale skin, dripping crimson. She stepped back, admiring the crying man in front of her. A man who ruined so many lives, some for nothing more than his own sick pleasure. He was the monster, the demon, not her.
Talia was ready to end his life. This wasn’t for him and there would be no mercy given. No, she needed to kill, to rid the world of the wicked, the predators of weakness. More importantly, she needed to feed. In every movie the hero would have a long speech before dispatching the baddie.
This wasn’t the fucking movies.
Talia attacked. Her hell-born jaws opened wide and latched onto Mike’s left leg. She ripped like a dog with a rabbit, pulling his kneecap off with a tear of tendons, ligaments and meat.
Mike shrieked, but his body was giving out, finally succumbing to the wounds.
Talia bit again, taking a jagged chunk from his thigh.
Mike’s femoral artery tore in a fan of coppery blood, spraying Talia’s face.
Talia drank, slurping his gore. She ran her nails over his flesh as she fell to the ground beneath him. The torrent of blood dripped from his mutilated body, landing on her like crimson raindrops. She rubbed the ichor on her face and neck, taking a moment to lick her hands, savoring the flavor.
The girl on the table, all but forgotten, looked away and vomited on the floor. She hated that man, knew he was evil, but things being done to him were too much for her.
The camera, the camera never blinked or looked away. It watched it all. Captured it all. Turning Talia’s performance into art.
