Page 42 of Primal Pursuit

“Savage.”

I cross the street, falling into step behind my target while keeping my eyes open for anything and everything. I keep a safe distance until we’re finally in the darkest part of the alley. Poor bastard doesn’t even see me, not until I have him in a headlock.

I pull out the nasty hunting knife, its hooked blade glinting in the moonlight. With one swift slash, I turn his throat into a fountain of gore, leaving him to gurgle and spew his life onto the ground. I press down hard with my boot and thrust the weapon into his temple as deep as it will go, using all my might to pulverize the softest parts of his brain into a pulp. Some might flinch at the brutality, but I don’t even bat a fucking eyelash.

I anchor against him and pull the knife free, then slip it in the special bag in my backpack before quickly pulling on the coat and cap. And then I saunter off like it’s a blissful evening and I didn’t just slit a man’s throat. Nicoli wants his body to be found. He wants people to think this fucker was murdered, just not by us.

By the time I get to my home, it’s late. I strip down and shower, the knife and the clothes with the blood and gore on their way to be destroyed, and then with rabbitburrowing into my psyche, I pour a large whiskey, down it, smoke the cigarette on the balcony, and then I go to bed where she invades my dreams.

Fucking rabbits.

The next day, I hit up St. Brigid in a three-piece suit, my hair slicked back and my posture as straight as an arrow. I’m going to a church, so I might as well dress up for the occasion.

As soon as the confessional is empty, I move past some old lady and park my ass down.

I clear my throat.

“Oh, Jesus,” comes the priest’s less than pious voice.

I clear my throat again. I know he’s got the place wired for sound and image. He knows who it is.

“Bless me, Father,” I say in a mock Irish accent, “for I have sinned. I called a priest a cunt.”

“Jesus, fuck, Davian.”

“How many Hail Marys is that, and do they all come naked, or do I have to unwrap them myself? Only I’m having a wee bit of trouble with the old hands. And do they take it hard up the ass, or only down the throat?”

He doesn’t answer. Not for a very long moment. “There’s only one sinner here. No cunts.”

“Are priests allowed to say cunt?” I ask, dropping the accent. “And who do they see for confession?”

“Can you go away? I’m working, and you’re loud.”

I grin nastily, right up at where I know his little spycamera is hidden. “Father Tobias, you cunt, how long’s it been?”

“Less than twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I snap my fingers. “I saw you last night with your cock down a woman’s throat. It’s like you wanted it to come out her ass. Poor thing, it’s a wonder she could even breathe.”

“Would you keep your damn voice down?”

“Whatever.” I peer outside the booth then close it all up again. “No one’s looking. And that two-hundred-year-old lady? I think she’s deaf. Possibly blind. And dead.”

“Fuck you, Davian. Get out of here. Do I come to your work?”

“You should. Give them a cut rate on last rites.”

“What do you want, Davian?”

“I happen to know, after a little dark web search with the Elite’s help, that little Poppy Moore lives right nearby. Didn’t get her exact address because where’s the fucking fun in that? But this neighborhood, somewhere close to this church. Does she come for confession?”

“How should I know? I don’t check their fucking panties,” he hisses.

I smirk. “I bet you do if they’re hot and young and panting for the priest.” But then I lean forward. “She’s Catholic. Lapsed. Her mother was. Catholic, I mean.”

“Why?”

“Born that way?”

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