Ichor || mxb

II

"Tsk, tsk, tsk if it isn't little Jakey who decided to fuck up and be a little bitch by snitching about one of our deals." Ethan's voice cut through the silence, inscribed with a sinister tranquility that would make your skin crawl.

"Boss, I s-swear to y-you I-I did-didn't,-" Jake's voided withered as he along with everybody else around knew what was coming. "Ah, Ah, Ah, little Jakey. You know I hate liars don't you good ol' pal?" Ethan cut him off, voice humorous, the rest of the gang chuckling nervously in fear of pissing him off more than he already is.

"Hold his tongue!" Ethan barked. "N-no please! P-please! I'll do anything!" Jake implored. His pleads fell on deaf ears as two bandits held out his tongue muffling his words. Ethan walked over to him, taking his full time, almost as if he relished watching Jake's remorseful face.

The gang leader pulled out his lucky charm, a pocket knife he'd acquired during his early days, before his gang days had started. He kick-started carving in his initials E.G.D onto Jake's tongue earning Jake's first wail of agony, as he tried to squirm and scream on the top of his lungs. "Quit moving around!" He snarled. Though when he felt Jake struggle against the rope more forcefully, by then he had enough and 'accidentally' let his hand slip, cutting off the tongue as a whole.

"Told ya' to stop moving around." Ethan snickered like it was the most amusing thing ever said. His expression briskly twisted into that of a cold nature, as he took out a gun out of his back pocket shooting the almost half passed out man right between the eyes, brain matter blotching onto the floor of the basement and on anybody who stood too close.

"Clean this shit up, then send me up some joints and a girl or two." He casually spoke to nobody at all. Though they all knew better than to not get him what he asked for. As he left the basement heading up to his suit, planning on luxuriating his night with some fine weed and the best bottle of whiskey on the market.

—

Smoke swirled around the room, slightly fogging it up as strippers of all varieties danced around the room skillfully to the thumping beats amplified by speakers from every direction. Bodies swarming the dance floor, some passed out and have been swept to the corners of the room as this life style has proved to be conventional to everybody who lived in the manor, or whoever knew about it.

While the party raged on, the nefarious host sat quietly in his office, drink in one hand and the pocket knife he'd like to call his lucky charm sat in the other. Adequately intoxicated as he allowed his mind run free, his brain quickly filling up with thoughts concerning his business, contemplating his next moves in the industry, who to trust in this hollow-hearted game.

That was until his eye fixated on what he would like to think was his most prized possession, the reason he went on with the trade, it was the only part of his old life that he had left.

Back before he ever got dragged unwillingly into this mess. Back when life wasn't adorned with death, falsehood and sinister morals to abide to.

You either kill or get killed in this game, and Ethan knew that the most.

His pocket knife, metal and miniature, with a snake wrapped up in the center, with his father's initials skillfully carved in cursive, bold text. He remembered the day it was given to him by his father, a twelve year old on top of the world, getting high off the sense of trust and credibility he got from his father.

As thoughts of his father and mother took up most of his brain activity, it wasn't too long till he found himself dwelling on the past.

The day his twelve year old self got the mortifying news of losing not only one, but both his parents, the despair and emptiness he dealt with up until that night. That awful and grisly night.