The enormous buildings that lined the city streets cast an ominous shadow over the park I now sat in. Was it always this dark? The city hummed, everything moved so fast. No time to take in the truth, no time to see what was happening. No one ever notices the desperate whores laying in a pool of their blood in an alley-way. The few people who could make a difference are now corrupt, lost their morals for something more valuable; Money. I stood up throwing my paper into a nearby trash can. The park is now empty, I'm alone in the green city of this vast industrious metropolitan. As I leave my quiet sanctuary I see a newspaper vendor, a man selling t-shirts, and a large woman walking along side her meek son. This was just their alabi, I saw the truth. Before me stood a pedophile selling papers on the side, a crack head whose only alternative to sucking dicks for money is selling t-shirts that say "I <3 Mendilo City" and a abusive whore of a mother. The kids face spoke all the truth I needed, his fear as she gripped his hand walking down the sidewalk. What a bitch, taking something so pure, a clean slate, and rubbing her shit-stain of a life down upon it. It truly saddened me, the kids being corrupted that is.
It wasn't always like this, not at the beginning. Mendilo City was never a great place and a wave of immigration didn’t help. Soon people were losing there jobs left and right to the spics. With poverty came diminishing businesses, people were rapidly becoming homeless and I just sat and watched. I’m no beuracrat, I have no clue how to change all of this political meandering. What I do know is 10 different torture techniques guaranteed to make anyone tell the truth. Things from ripping a guys cuticles clean off, one by one, and pouring ammonia on his delicate exposed skin to the, albeit silly sounding, but effective tickle torture. Giving a guy a Glasgow smile, or permanent shine usually is a nice way to start off, but for those tough guys who intend on protecting their secrets I have to get creative. A personal favorite of mine is the Palestenian hanging, where you tie their hands together, and hang them with their arms pulled backwards.There is something so satisfying hearing a guys shoulder joints tear out of place. I’m no better than them. But once gangs started to come out of the poor and desperate, everything got real bad. I once saw this older gentleman, in his mid-sixties maybe, getting mugged. The man told him that if he gave him his money he'd let him go. A passerby stopped, as if he was going to do something. Well the bastard who was robbing the old guy took the money and slit the guys throat anyway, and the passerby? He walked up to the guy with the knife and beat him to death with a pipe, and took both their money. This city's become full of gasoline, just waiting for a spark.
I don't try to seem better than they are, I mean if it weren't for this hell hole I might not have transformed into what I am. But maybe you can only truly see the dark from inside a cave.
I walked down the dimly lit street, the whores all sang to me as I cascaded further into the ghetto. A bitter song of seduction. I walked up to the diner, an all too familiar place. The last few weeks I ate in this wretched place, the fourth booth from the door, ordering something new each day. I ordered the last meal I'd have to eat in this disgusting establishment, the "Big Burger". The "chef" sat down the plate, the pinkish meat was putrid. I picked up the burger and took a bite, I had to be sure. The ground meat was slick going down my throat, as soon as I came to my usual dialectic conclusion, bile started to erupt from my stomach. I threw my napkin across the table and left the diner at a quick pace. In the alley I purged the food from my system.
**
I sat at my grand desk, atop my Italian carpet, smoking a cigar. Taking in the smoke, and savoring the flavor. "Sir, we have the test subjects in order." My assistant told me
"Good, good. Where are they from this time? Africa? India?"
"Well 6 of them we bought from slavers in South America, the other 4 were homeless men from the inner-city."
"Ah, well I suppose that will do." I took a drink of scotch, "Shall we get to work? Both the German revolutionists want it done by December.
"Sir, with all do respect, it'll take us at least 3 months just to build a stable cure for it."
"Don't worry about that, the German government doesn't need it until February." I sneered and soaked in my surroundings. My mansion built in the country, foundations of human bodies.
*
I sat in the corner, the last ignorant customer left. The last, I swear. The man behind the counter was washing dishes, business was good, a smug smile upon his face. I pulled the stilleto from beneath my cloak, like a poltergeist appearing from the shade I pinned him against the wall.
"Hello Cannibal. I have but one question for a man of such filth. Who supplies you with the meat." I asked him, my hands wrapped tightly over his clavicle, pushing him up against the wall.
"I-I don't know!" He shouted while he squirmed
"Who supplies you?" I threw him against the counter side ways; I could hear his elbow break from the force.
He screamed, "Alright alright! Some company named Vioco, it’s written on all the shipments we get!" He was panting. Anger was fuming in my heart, I turned my back to the screaming man and went into the kitchen; I slid the stove out from the wall and with my stiletto I found and cut the gas line. It filled the air, quite quickly filling the restaurant with putrid air. Stepping back out to the main room the man was still groaning about his elbow. There was a neon light above the counter; with both fists I smashed it. A chorus of sparks took hold of my ears.
"What are you doing?" The man asked between breaths. I looked at him, for a second or two and left the diner.
*
I sat in the cold, my legs dangling off the edge of the building. The light dimming casting ominous shadows over the city, pollution created a violet hue to the sky line. Within the purple skyline I saw an explosion take place, painting the sky with smoke and ash. I breathed silently and laid my head against the brick wall.
I looked into the basement window, the girl was gagged and covered mostly in a blankem I could tell from here that it was damp. Hopefully not saturated with what I thought it was. Barely recognizable from the photo I had been given, bruises etched across her filthy skin, her hair greasy and frayed. I smashed the window and squirmed my body inside. My feet splashed as I landed, it wasn't water, the smell was terrible and I could barely see through the gaseous fumes. I took a flashlight out of my front pocket and turned it on. Creeping toward the young girl, I tapped her on the cheek, she looked blue and devoid of life. The torture she must have endured was etched into her once pretty little face. I ran my fingers along her cheek and neck, taking notice of every small cruelty that had been done to her. I lifted her hair and a few flys flew out from there nesting place. I swatted them away and noticed she had multiple gouges in her neck varying in size and depth. Some seemed to bore straight to her spine. I slowly removed the blanket wishing that I could bring the girl to her parents’ giving them some sort of closure. To my horror, under that blood soaked blanket was Just a torn up spine. My face blank, I walked upstairs. Looking for the sorry bastards that committed this atrocity.
***
I adjusted my tie staring at the door, I examined my notes one last time before entering is office.
"Do you have the results from the first round of subjects?" He said, he sounded almost uninterested. His double chin and pretentious presentation, coupled with his disgusting occupation made me feel sick in his presence.
Nervously I looked at my clip board, "They all shared similar symptoms before, well, death.”
He sat there, looking fat and smug twisting his mustache with his pudgy sausage fingers. “And what were these symptoms?” He questioned huskily, taking deep breaths, his voice seemed to come through pinched sinuses rather than a voice-box.
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