Page 49 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“That fucking—”

Tired, I scoot back and stab down with the knife in my hand, sinking the blade into the flesh of his thigh. That stops his words but doesn’t shut him up as he shouts out in pain. Andrew arches as his head slams back. The veins and arteries in his throat pulse with tension.

“Let’s get back to my questions, Andrew.” I release the knife. Leaving it there as I prop myself up on his knees. “I want information on Thomas Kincaid, and I don’t want to play games. I’m not an idiot. I know you all had something on each other. Dirt. Blackmail. Insurance. Call it whatever you want. I want that information and I want to know where he went.”

“I don’t fucking know!” he screams.

“Then you know how to find him,” I reply.

He shakes his head violently, straining. I grasp his leash and pull him to a stop as the metal prongs on the dog collar cut into his throat. He chokes and coughs as his body shakes and his breathing cuts off.

I hold the leash tighter, clutching it and yanking hard until his eyes bulge. I’m shaking—not in fear—but in righteous anger. For years, this man has been allowed to roam free. Too rich and too untouchable. He’s likely left a long list of victims in his wake and no one has been able to stop him. The justice system, for all the good they do, isn’t enough to stop someone like Andrew Bennington. He’s too elite. Too noticeable. And he can cause them too many problems.

Right now, though, I hold his life in my hands where he once held mine. And I don’t want to let go.

I want to keep choking him until I see the light in his eyes fade and then go dull. I want to watch his body writhe like the slimy worm he is.

“Andrew.” I force his name out of my mouth. He doesn’t deserve it. Not a name. Not another breath. Not a single second longer on this Earth, but I allow it and I only allow it for as long as he’s useful. “Listen carefully.”

He’s still struggling, his face turning red from the lack of oxygen. He has no practice being treated like this. There’s a shuffling noise behind me, boots scuffing across the floor.

“You’re going to kill him before you get what you want.”

“Shut up!” I bark back. I don’t know which of the men said it and I don’t care. They have no idea the evil deeds this man has done. They have no right to fucking stop me.

Andrew is crying. Big fat tears dripping down his flushed, ruddy cheeks. His lips gape open like a fish’s as he tries to draw breath. I hold him like that for another moment or two, just to prove that I can. To prove to him that I hold the power here. Not him. Then, I let him go.

He gasps, sucking in lungfuls of air as he coughs and hacks. I’m numb as I look down at him where I sit. His body continues to strain under me. Normally, I’d feel disgusted by his skin on mine, but I’m too empty. I don’t even feel it.

I reach down and rip the knife I left in his thigh out and he screams. The sound is loud enough to make my head ache. I jerk his leash once more. “If you don’t want me to choke you until you pass out, then I suggest you stop screaming like a little bitch,” I grit out, “and tell me what I want to know.”

“I-I don’t have anything!” he wails.

How easy it is now to see that he was never the god or king he portrayed. His sobbing, slightly hunched form reveals it all. The lackluster tint of his skin. The sallow shadows of his middle-aged features. The slight paunch of his stomach. The floppy grotesque thing between his legs.

Then there’s the blood. Crimson against his thigh. Yes, red. Because he bleeds just like I do. He might have once been massive and terrifying, but at the end of the day, he’s human like the rest of us.

Like I once was.

Pinpricks touch my skin. A buzzing noise fills the back of my head, getting louder and louder until I can’t tune it out anymore. I press the edge of the knife to Andrew’s chest, right over his nipple, cutting through it, and he grits his teeth, whimpering even as he tries to withhold his screams. Guess my threat worked.

“Where is Thomas Kincaid?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “I-I really don’t know.” He gasps for continued breath.

I turn and perform the same incision across his other nipple. Blood drips down his chest, smearing on his stomach and lap. I move forward and feel it on the inside of my thighs. I don’t care.

“Where’s the blackmail you have on your friends?” I ask this time.

Andrew begins to hyperventilate. His body is racked with spasms. The wounds and blood on his body, though, are nothing compared to what he’s done to me.How pathetic. He can’t even take the kind of pain he gives.

I move off of Andrew’s lap and stand over him. No words are coming out of his mouth, so I go to work. The knife in my hand wears out easily. Each cut I make incites Andrew into more screaming and crying and pleading. His begging falls on deaf ears.

The point of the blade digs into his skin as I cut words into his flesh.

Pervert.

Scum.

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