Prologue
Scarlett
Before you embarkon a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
-Confucius
All the world’s a stage, and I’m just one of the many players, baby.
Like that douchebag over there, watching me eat this hot dog. What is it about men and phallic shaped objects? I can’t even pick out a cucumber at the market without their eyes on me. They imagine dirty things while their wives herd the children down the aisles in an orderly fashion and thirst for the vodka at home.
The men, though. They’ll go home, still thinking about that cucumber. And they’ll jerk off to it and then sit on the sofa and watch some inconsequential sports program and grunt out responses when their wives ask them a question.
The American dream.
Sigh.
This hot dog though. Legendary. There’s extra mustard and relish, of course, because… go big or go home. I’m going to eat this whole goddamned hot dog, and I’m not even going to feel a little bit bad about it.
Course, there isn’t a whole awful lot I feel bad about.
It’s important to find humor in the little things. Like the construction worker who trips over a pothole and nearly breaks his neck while he eye-fucks me.
I smile back at him and lean into the cold brick wall behind me. My stilettos are crossed at the ankles on the broken concrete below, and there isn’t a chance he could miss me in this dress.
I like it when they look at me. Because I know what comes next.
His friend catcalls me and asks how much.
“Five thousand,” I yell back with a mouth still half full of food. “To let me watch while you suck a bag of dicks.”
They exchange a dopey look and hurl some verbal insults my way. I flip them the bird before stuffing the last of the hot dog into my mouth and licking my fingers.
Boys. That’s what they are.
Silly little playthings.
On my stage, and in my show, the only players I allow have blue blooded pedigrees. Like the current toy waiting for me just inside the hotel room at my back. Twenty minutes have come and gone since I lured him back here. And being that my windows of time aren’t really an exact science, I need to stop fucking around.
I mentally press stop on the endless reel of chaos running through my head and take a deep breath.
There is nothing good or bad. Only thinking makes it so.
I step back into the room and stare at the heap of privilege and repugnance lying on the dank come-stained carpet.
His eyes are shuttered, his mouth slack as his face droops into his shoulder.
They never see it coming.
This prick didn’t either. Another day, another unconscious prick on a hotel floor. Only this one has purpose, I think. Maybe. He looks exactly like the type of grade A douchebag that would run in Alexander’s pack.
And that’s unfortunate for him.
I nudge him with my toe, confirming that the benzos I slipped into his drink have fully entered his bloodstream.
Every client is different. Some of them need more. Some less. But they always go down in the end.
This one is built like a fucking horse.
