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I moved to stand behind Ink, wanting to watch what his evil mind was going to make him do now. It was entertaining as hell, watching his demons give him the strength to torture the shit out of this man. And by shit…I meant shit. He had pissed himself twice, and judging by the putrid smell that clung to the air in the small, confined space we were in, I’d say he shit himself as well.

Ink took my knife and tore through the guy’s shirt. The Python cried out, a streak of blood running down his spine. Ink didn’t exactly care whether he sliced the fucker’s skin while he tore through the fabric.

Ink lit the blowtorch, glanced over his shoulder, and winked at me. “Time to get extreme. I’d close my ears if I were you.”

“Nah. Make him scream me a melody.”

Ink laughed. “Got it, boss man.”

The Python tried to look over his shoulder. “Please…what are you—” And then he screamed. No, he fucking wailed and shrieked, the sound reaching a pitch it hadn’t before.

Ink moved the blowtorch—slowly, torturously—the flame burning the skin of the guy’s back.

On and on and on the screams went, an unending sonnet of pain and suffering. It was fucking beautiful. Mix those tormented sounds with the horrid stench of burning flesh, and we had ourselves a fucking party.

Ink laughed manically, consumed by rage and a hunger for torture.

Abruptly, the screams stopped, the Python’s head lolling to the front.

Ink looked at me. “Did the fucker pass out? Tell me the fucker didn’t pass out.”

“Yup. He passed out. Or he’s dead.”

“Seriously? This was just starting to get fun.” Ink threw the blowtorch down on the ground, annoyed that our little Python voodoo doll decided to check out.

I walked around, stared at the fucker’s mutilated face, one ear cleanly cut off, an eye shut and still bleeding from my thumb I had forced into his eye socket earlier. I placed a finger to his neck, not caring that he was covered in blood. My hands were already soaked with it.

“Yup. He’s dead.”

“Oh, come on!” Ink threw my knife across the room and against the wall. “I still have a list of shit I want to do to this motherfucker.”

Stepping back around, I stopped beside him and stared at the corpse’s back. “Nice,” I commented, admiring Ink’s handiwork—a giant, distorted K burned into the flesh. A cruel way of engraving our mark on the fucker’s flesh.

“Symbolic, right?” Ink grinned. “From now on, every one of these fuckers will have this burned into their flesh for what they did to her.”

“Yeah, I feel ya.” I leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette, taking the time to soak it all in. Soon, the adrenaline would subside, and guilt would once again take its place, so I appreciated every goddamn second of relief this bloody scene brought me.

I looked over to where Ink was standing. His face was covered in blood, his eyes wide and unsatisfied. It was safe to assume he wasn’t experiencing these moments of calm. Quiet. The demon raging in him was too strong to be sated by blood and death. It wanted more. It wanted annihilation, war, total chaos.

I tossed my cigarette in a pool of blood, picked up the severed finger, and placed it in the zip-lock bag I brought along specially for it. Slither would receive yet another package with this little surprise in it. Symbolic for the finger he cut off Neon’s hand. Fucker wanted a finger, well, Ink and I would send him several.

Taking a seat across from the hanging corpse, I brushed my fingers up and down my beard. “You don’t blame me. Why?”

Ink didn’t look at me. He was too busy taking mental pictures of the mutilated body and the Python torn into shreds. “I don’t blame you. I blame them.” He nodded toward the corpses.

“It’s because of me—”

“It’s because of you and your father that I’m still breathing today. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

I placed my elbows on my knees and leaned forward. “Even after what happened.”

“Nah, dude.” He crouched while holding the knife in his hand. “You did what you had to do. You had no other choice, and I respect that. I’m not blaming anyone other than these motherfuckers. Besides,” he leaned his head back against the wall, “you’ve been beating yourself up enough. You don’t need me or anyone else to make it worse.”

I snorted. “You’re just being nice because I’m helping you sate that bloodlust of yours. I’m the Robin to your fucking Batman.”

Ink let out a half attempt at a laugh. “Dude, I won’t lie. It feels good slicing my blade across these fuckers’ throats, hearing them gargle and choke on their own fucking blood. But you and I both know you need this just as much as I do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He eyed me pointedly. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be keeping this a secret from the rest of the club. You’re afraid they won’t agree and end up forcing us to stop by voting against it at church. Especially Dutch.”

I shrugged. “True. But something tells me we won’t get any shit from the others by doing this. Everyone is hurt because of what happened. Not just us.”


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