Page 30 of Sweet SIN Slaughterhouse

Cutting off my rampant thoughts, her annoying voice penetrates my ears, catching my attention once more. “Mom was a random hookup after he took over as king of The Exiled, the only group I recognize. She found out about her pregnancy after your family fucking slaughtered him. Then hung him from the church, massacred, for days on display,” she screams with hate.

Oh, the bitch is mad.

My brows rise and I whistle. Yikes.

I change direction, ripping her shirt off with my bare hands, exposing her bare breasts, where her brand is. Rushing down the ladder, I grab my handheld kitchen torch, in honor of my brother, and race back to her. Flicking it on, I press hard on the release button and boil her skin.

How dare she wear our brand, our mark, our legacy.

Pest screams and a bit of blood from her mouth lands on my hands, but it’s drying now. What a shame.

She tries moving her body away from the heat, twisting and turning, but I only follow her moves. Smilingin satisfaction, I understand why both my dad and Blaise are drawn to this method. Mom once told me Dad took a flamethrower to a bunch of people in a cult her birth father started, then Dad would tell me my favorite comfort story about how he had his mom burn herself alive in a giant fire off the coast of North Carolina. Dad used intimidation, forcing ol’ Granny to take every step backward into her own death. It’s how my parents met, because their parents got married and Mom’s dad turned out to be a crazy fucking cult leader, could you imagine?

Blaise will spend hours diligently burning people and corpses, and it calms him, the flames, the heat, watching the skin contort and melt and bones turn into dust. It’s fascinating when you think about it.

I fucking love my family.

Focusing back on the bitch, no evidence of the brand remains, only burnt and boiled skin. Letting go of the button, the flame stops and I turn the gas off, whispering, “This is only the beginning of our fun together.”

Moans of pain continue to leave her. “You look fucking stupid.” She tries to take a dig at me mid-scream, but I roll my eyes. I couldn’t give a shit.

Tossing the torch back to the table, I grab a scalpel this time. I don’t care to listen to her speak any further. Plus, this ladder is getting annoying, the pitfall of being short, I suppose.

Squeezing her lips between my fingers, I take the sharp medical grade scalpel and pierce her skin before I start slicing around her lips. I go deep, ensuring the cut isclean for display. Pest tries to shake me off by moving her head, but it doesn’t work. This isn’t my first time. Stupid bitch.

Once freed, I toss them behind me to collect before I leave.

Blood is now gushing out from the incision, covering her white teeth and pouring down her exposed and burnt chest.

Giggling to myself, I think it’s time for my next surprise. But before I can set it up, my phone rings. Who the fuck would call me right now? I wonder, completely forgetting initiation could happen at any moment. Rushing to it, I answer. It’s Dad. I skip all formalities because I am fucking busy. “Is this important?”

“Where are you? Your car is gone,” he questions, and I roll my eyes.

“At my slaughterhouse, and you are ruining the moment. I have to go.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I go to hang up, when I hear, “I’ll come by.”

Huffing out a breath, I plead, “Not this time. Please.” I need this, it’s closure for me and the family. Closure he doesn’t even know he needs. And I would like to keep it that way until I’m done and can speak to him in person.

Dad pauses, so I look at the phone thinking he has hung up and ignored me, but then he responds, “Fuck, fine. But know I’m really fucking bored and your mother will have to tolerate the consequences of that,” beforehanging up. That was easier than I thought, thankfully. Almost too easy, but I won’t question it.

Placing my phone down the front of my top, I continue setting up my showstopper, something I found antiquing years ago and never thought I would get the opportunity to use, until now.

The Judas cradle.

The one I found is made of metal, though some are made of wood.

It sits on four legs, reinforced in the middle for stability and weight, and topped with a beautiful, shiny, sharp pyramid as a seat.

I position it under her bottom, the top pushing slightly into the fabric of her pants and helping the hooks at her hands hold her up. She shakes violently, her words slurred. “No, no, no,”

I think she means,yes, yes, yes, because this is absolutely happening.

One, two, three, you’re going to die bitch.

I smile to myself at the fun mantra I’ve just created.

Once satisfied with the positioning on the Judas Cradle, I find my phone in my top and click the sacred red button the IT guys installed. The red button controls a levy system I had constructed, which lowers our friend here, placing all her weight onto the sharp pyramid top, the lower I drop her. I watch the slow process with great excitement. Fuck, music. Scrolling through my playlist, I find the most iconic song for this moment, “10 Things I Hate About You” by Leah Kate. Pressing play, the guitarstarts, my head bobs, and then it starts to pick up. Screaming along with the chorus, I hop around the screaming bitch before me. At one point I change the words and shout, “Daddy issues.”

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