“Get some sleep,” I repeat, rising from the bed. “I’ll watch the cameras, make sure we’re safe.”
Vaughn reaches for the whiskey bottle, drowning his emotions as he chugs, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing some more.
It always baffled me when I watched my college friends down their drinks. I could barely stomach a sip at a time. Soon enough, I abandoned drinking all together.
But today, I could use a glass of wine. I bet it’d numb the uncomfortable feeling coating my skin.
Setting the bottle on the nightstand, Vaughn gives me a curt nod, no more words leaving his lips. There’s less than a quarter of the amber liquid left when he moves himself into his bed, not bothering to change his clothes or get under the sheets.
I switch the TV off, so the blue light doesn’t bother him, and sit by the window, peeking through the gap between the drawn curtains at the empty, dark street.
Thirty seconds later Vaughn starts snoring, the sound so loud it’s curious he doesn’t wake himself up.
I start my favorite playlist on low volume, drowning out his snoring a little, then settle in the armchair, ready to stay awake while Vaughn catches up on much-needed rest.
5
Ryder
The smell of piss hangs thick in the air, irritating my nose. It wouldn’t be half as bad if it didn’t mix with the stench of puke and latex. Despite the breeze filtering through the missing glass in the warehouse windows, the stench is still suffocating.
Broadway’s newest target, Amadeus Tipton—strapped by his ankles and wrists, hangs off a car lift we installed a couple of days ago specifically for this kill.
He whimpers, tears streaming down his face, body convulsing as nausea shakes him from head to toe. He’s gagged now, his pleas and curses nothing more than a muffled noise.
It was Koby’s idea to shove a tennis ball into the man’s mouth. He was tired of the screaming. Delicate little thing.
“I’m never buying you anything again,” he tells Broadway, staring at the knives lining a metal table Arthur’s wheeled close.
He’s not carving the fucker with them. Oh, no. This is much more sinister. Much more elaborate and scarier than a simple flesh-cutting session.
Broadway believes his girl’s rapists deserve the most painful deaths. A reciprocation of the horrors they put her through. That’s exactly what poor Arthur’s been delivering for the past forty minutes.
Sweat trickles down the sides of his face, the latex gloves on his hands reaching past his elbows. A plastic, see-through apron hugs his frame, keeping the various bodily fluids away from his brand-new suit.
Arthur’s trying a little too hard to fit in.
The three-piece he’s wearing must’ve cost a fortune. We rarely slip into suits and never for kills like this. It’s such a waste when tailored garments are stained with blood. Or, as it happens in today’s show: piss, puke, blood, and... semen.
“You know how much that set cost?” Koby whines again, a little pale as he looks away from the knives Arthur’s been shoving into the guy’s ass.
“I’m sorry, Koby,” Broadway chuckles. “But don’t tell me this show isn’t worth whatever you spent.”
He rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging the side of his face. Koby’s much less ostentatious than Broadway when it comes to killing, but he loves a good show. What Broadway planned, and Arthur’s fulfilling, sure makes for a damn good show.
Gruesome, psychotic, nausea inducing, butgood.
“Take five,” Broadway says when Arthur drops the last—and biggest—knife on the table, the handle stained brown and red. “Let him think for a moment.”
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, placing one between his teeth. Exhaling a cloud of gray smoke, one hand in his pocket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the jacket at home or in the back of his G Wagon, Broadway saunters toward the buck-naked man hanging in mid-air.
He’s not playing executioner today, so he’s pulled out all the stops to look the part.
“How are you finding our hospitality?” he asks, yanking the tennis ball out of Amadeus’s mouth. It falls to the ground, straight into a puddle of puke.
My stomach churns because I just fuckingknowBroadway will roll that ball in there before he orders Arthur to jam it back in the guy’s mouth.
“You’re dead,” Amadeus heaves. Bold move. I guess he realized begging won’t help him. “I swear, when I get out—”
