Page 5 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

2

MICKI

Present day…

For as many cigarettes as I’ve had in my life, I still can’t understand their appeal. They stink, the smoke gets in my face, and they feel dirty between my fingertips. Yet, every time I light up, pinching the thin paper and tobacco between my lips as I swipe a flame from a lighter under the open end, a feeling of euphoria comes over me—a release of all the built-up tension that keeps me coming back for more.

I guess this is what it feels like to be an addict. The world hurts until you get that thing you need and then everything feels so much better, if only for a short time.

That’s exactly what I need right now—everything to feel better—but I don’t light my cigarette, not yet. I look down at the man whimpering beneath me. In my head, I list out the profile I’ve created of this man. Or rather, I list out everything I’ve come to know about him:

Eric Truman. Media conglomerate CEO. Billionaire. Husband. Father. Pedophile. Pervert.

He flinches away as I turn the can in my hand upside down and dump the last of the gasoline all over his ruddy, bulbous face, with an unlit cigarette pinched between my lips and smeared with a hint of ruby red lipstick. It’s only once I’m done that I stride around the otherwise empty hole out here in the middle of bum fuck Utah—somewhere deep and far from civilization, somewhere no one would expect his body to end up—and take a seat on the ground, my feet dangling into the twelve-foot deep grave I’ve dug just for him. My muscles are sore from the effort and work it had taken, but it was well worth it.

I take out my lighter and finally burn the end of my cigarette. The smoke fills my lungs on the next inhale. Yup. So much fucking better.

“You know,” I start, blowing out a stream of smoke, “I wonder what Kincaid’s up to right now.” I’m not altogether sure if I’m talking to the soon to be dead man struggling to escape his bindings or to the open empty air.

I wonder absently if he enjoyed the little present I left for him a few weeks back. The house—or rather what was left of it. It was a message. A simple one: I’m coming back, and I’m ready to burn your world to the ground.

Pretty poetic actually—setting fire to the Kincaid family estate—if I do say so myself. That one deserved a pat on the back, a nice mimosa in the morning, and maybe even a new pair of pumps if I were so inclined.

Truman screams behind his gag, trying to gain my attention, and with an irritated huff, I look down. “What?” I snap.

He bites against the dirty, once white fabric tied around his head. It’s soaked with gasoline and spit now and just a little bit of cum. I grin. Yeah, I had fun with Truman before we ended up here—or rather three really big, beefy bikers I met a while back who were game for just about anything as long as money was involved—had fun with him. Sitting back as I watched them jerk off in front of Truman’s indignant and disgusted face had been fucking hilarious.

I don’t know if they believed the whole older boyfriend into younger Domme story, but they hadn’t asked many questions—and none after I’d handed over the three grand. Worth every fucking cent, if you ask me.

He struggles against his bindings, obviously trying to say something. There’s no fucking chance of me jumping into the hole, though, and removing the gag to hear what he has to say, so I just put the cigarette back to my lips and inhale more of the much-needed nicotine. Several minutes later and I’m almost done with the cigarette in my hand when he finally manages to get the gag down his face enough to speak.

“What do you want?” he demands. “Money? Do you want money? I have a lot of it. I’ll give it to you—all you have to do is let me go. I won’t go to the police—”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, shut up,” I groan. “We both know that if you go to the police, you’ll go to the corrupt ones you’ve already bought off, and no, Mr. Truman, I don’t need nor do I want your fucking money.”

He pants, unable to really fill his lungs with much oxygen, not with how trussed up he is. The bindings are cruelly tight for a man of his size. Then again, it could also be the gas fumes getting to him. Either way, I don’t care. “Then what do you want?”

Ah, yes, the question I’ve been waiting for.What do I want?I smile and blow out the last stream of smoke from my cigarette before looking down at him. I carefully get to my feet and adjust my clothes. Nearby my discarded sneakers lay on their sides in the dirt. I could’ve kept them on but it feels almost good to have the soil under my bare feet as I prep my victim for his murder.

“What I want is simple, Mr. Truman,” I state. I lift my cigarette, the ashy end still glowing red. While it’s still in my hand, I keep it carefully away from the opening—and the fumes that are wafting up from the hole in the ground. “I want justice.” I drop the cigarette right on his face and laugh as the burning embers sink into the gasoline.

Truman screams as his face catches fire first, burning into his skin and shifting down to the rest of him. I don’t stay near the hole—the smell of burning flesh and gasoline starting to irritate my senses.

Instead, I stay back, resting against a nearby tree as I pull out another cigarette and light up. I didn’t really think I was a chain smoker, but there’s not much else to do to pass the time as I wait for him to die. Soon, the scent of his burning flesh reaches my nostrils and his screams filter off. It takes more than gas and fire to kill a man, though.

Once he’s passed out from the pain and the fire has died down somewhat, I put my second cigarette out against the bark of the tree and move towards the edge of the hole. Eric Truman’s blackened and burned body twitches, and he gasps for breath even in his near-death state. It sounds like the wheezing of a stuffed-up chimney. It’s enough for me. I pull out my gun and point down, aiming directly at his half-melted skull.

They say that the eyes are the first to go when you’re on fire—I can’t tell from where I stand because his face is ground into the dirt—likely from him trying to put out the flames on his face when they first spread. I’m not curious enough or morbid enough to go down and look.

I probably should feel more guilt or at least some sort of hesitation when I pull the trigger, but I don’t. Maybe because I’ve been waiting so long for this to happen that it doesn’t even feel real. So many people dream of having everything they want, but so few actually achieve it that those who do are left listless and confused when they have it all.

The gun goes off in my hand, the sound echoing throughout the night and forest. My lips twitch in amusement as an old memory resurfaces and an old phrase.If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, did it even happen?Makes me think,if a disgusting pig is slaughtered in the middle of nowhere, but no one cares, did he ever really live?

The thought lasts for a mere moment before drifting away in the face of the work I’ve still got left to do. Murdering people is a lot of work. I put the gun back in its holster around my thigh and reach for the nearby shovel. The last vestiges of the fire die as I begin to push dirt into the hole, filling it up inch by inch. About halfway up, I lay the shovel to the side and move towards the tree from earlier.

I round it and find the bag I stashed there earlier. Thankfully, no other animal or creature has messed with it. Probably because of the gas smell that still lingers in the air. Whatever the case, the poor animal that resides in the sack remains untouched. Far more carefully, I lift the bag and haul it over to the hole.

Now, a small piece of guilt does niggle at the back of my mind. This poor thing had been sickly and of course, already dead when I got it, but it still feels wrong to lay it to rest near something so disgusting. I grit my teeth regardless, though, and slowly lower it into the hole, tossing in a few flowers picked from the nearby shrubbery.

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