Callisto

The Chainmen (pt. 2)

"You're gonna do the cuttin'," she said with glee and knelt next to the groaning Tribal.

This was always her special moment. This was the part she had obsessed over long after the initial shock of her first kill had flooded her with pain and fear. It was electric: the look in their eyes just before the cutting happened. Before, you'd order lobster at a restaurant and watch them take it out of its little aquarium, but you never got to see its fear, to feel its terror as it realized its life was about to come to a painful, agonizing end. With mammals, it was different. You could see the terror etched on their faces. Their eyes spoke to you as they saw their reflection in the rusted mirror of the knife. They begged you. They pleaded. They screamed, "Not I!" Then you started cutting, started slicing piece by piece. And all the while, you could watch the light in them begin to fade, and if you were observant enough, you could catch the exact moment when the dark angel reached through the pupils and yanked out the light inside. They're never more alone than when that happens. You can't share in it. You can only watch and try to keep from smiling.

But that final sentiment was a thought from back when she was weak. A stupid woman. A dirty woman. Now, she was as pure as starlight.

Now, she smiled as much as she wanted.

She wound the chains around the Tribal's neck and hands, keeping them bound. Then, she placed her good chair next to the basin while the shooter bent him over the side and drew the machete. He struggled meekly against the shooter's grip. This piggy had been appropriately trained during their journey here. She felt Martha hop up and snuggle on her lap. She liked to watch, too.

His eyes, oh God, how they went wide! Then the screams came from the basement.

"You hear that?" she giggled. "That's your lil' piggy friend saying goodbye, just like your lil' piggy wife. Can you oink for me, piggy?" she asked, prodding him with her foot while the shooter positioned himself. "Go on, oink!"

And amid her laughter, something heavy fell from upstairs.

The shooter looked at her dumbly for confirmation. She hated interruptions.

"One of your little ones get upstairs, girl?" she giggled at Martha.

He was still staring at her. God! How had she raised such a damned moron?

"The fuck are you waiting for?" she breathed, barely containing her primal mixture of excitement, fatigue, and rage. "Go up there and get im"!"

He threw the Tribal against the basin and shuffled off upstairs, whistling as he went for the stray dog.

While he was gone, she was suddenly seized by the thrill of being alone with the produce. She savored the moaning of the captive and grabbed him by the scruff of his barely remaining hair. She held him down by his throat and sliced at his skull with her pocket knife, poking little holes here and there, tearing off the thin strands of his hair and tossing them aside. She didn't want to choke on Tribal fuzz. When she was done with his face, she tied him to the chair and spread his legs, securely attaching them to the chair with his chains. She licked her lips and angled the knife at the tip of his scrotum. He was due for a trim.

He tried to scream. But no sound escaped from his lungs. Martha's barking filled the air instead, punctuated now and then by her shrill laughter as she hacked away at the Tribal's bleeding ballsack.

This was usually the part the boy did. But she wasn't going to wait around for her shit-for-brains sissy son. What the hell was taking him so long, anyway?

...

"Ain't no fair," he was saying. "Ain't no fair on me."

He was on the verge of tears when he reached the top of the staircase and kicked at the cabinet in the old bedroom. He shone his makeshift flashlight into the crevices of the bed, the little armoire by the window, and the busted tv and checked the bathroom thoroughly. There was nothing there!