Page 95 of Viripotent

THIRTY-SEVEN

Vlad

The cool metal in my hand should fucking melt with the anger burning through my body, but it only warms accepting its use. Not giving two fucks about what I’m driving, I take the first car with keys in the ignition. One of those filthy fuckers put their fucking hands on my wife. My fucking wife who is a fucking queen, and they’re not even peasants.

Unworthy fucking pricks.

She was scrubbing her neck. They’re not worth touching shit that she fucking stepped in never mind feeling her pulse under her skin. Especially not under her fucking ear, that one spot always makes her shut the fuck up. It’s the off switch that I fucking found.

I can’t see anything other than the images my mind formulates of destruction. Blood will clean what should never have been fucking touched. The usual calm that settles in my muscles is nowhere in sight and my lips lift without excitement as their shitty little fucking compound comes into view. Satan’s Rejects have fucked up and they’re going to be demolished instead of dismissed by the devil.

The tires screech as I block their gate from closing and the coward who’s supposed to be standing guard fucking runs before I’m even out of the car. I’ve never been a fan of sports; baseball is boring as fuck, but it earns a point for the pro column as the bat sails through the air. The dull thud of it hitting his skull has the first curve of a smile on my face as I fully step out of the car. My steps are easy, feeling like myself again as his head flies forward, and I pick the bat back up.

Ignoring the sound of cars pulling up behind mine blocking their entry, I hum bayu bayushki as everything goes silent and black.

It’s all off.

No sight. No sound.

Gunshots break up my peace and the sounds of screams. I blink back in my body in time as some cunt runs at me, there’s no president patch on his jacket and the fucker ruins my bat. It’s warped, the metal that was straight is now twisted with a large dent, making it form a half-flattened C.

I drop it and ignore the blood around me. There’s a tear in my suit jacket, the threads having come loose, and I straighten my lapels before stepping into their little fucking clubhouse. There are four of them with guns stood closest to me, four further back hiding behind a bar, and three creeping through a hallway. They’re too fucking stupid to think of the reflection against the darkened glass behind the bar and I can see the cunts easily.

I straighten my cuffs as they stare and watch the fear blanch their features. Opening my arms once I’m done, I muse aloud.

“I thought bikers were supposed to be hospitable.”

The dark playfulness has them hesitating and I wipe away the droplets of blood racing down my lapel. Looking back up, their leader is hiding the fucking rat. There’s no one here withany notable title on their little leather vests. My voice darkens, removing any false playfulness due to the topic.

“Now, which one of you filthy fucks touched my wife?”

There’s a teenager stood against the wall, and he looks at the picture of their dickhead president, giving him away. Loyalty is a respectable trait, not when it’s against my family and my body moves automatically. It’s been too long since I went head to head with more than ten at one time. But there’s no ache and my movements are fluid as my mind shuts down.

My ears ring with all the shots being let off and blood drips from my face as I blink back into reality. It’s all hazy and red, seeking more destruction and even in my rage I had foresight to keep three of them alive for my lucid entertainment. Well, barely alive. Their faces are fucked up, but I improved on their genetics so they should fucking thank me, the ugly cunts.

Dima and my brothers stand at each exit without a speck on them. Strange. They don’t have any weapons in their hands, but they must have used something. Fuck it, it’s not my problem. I look towards the three fucks, making a decision on who will live.The youngest one is mid-twenties; he doesn’t have a weapon, and he’s got the most promise with youth and naïvety being on his side. His misguided attempt at fitting in nearly killed him, but being a coward saves his life. Not wanting an easy death, one of them pushes forward, signing his torture with his tongue.

“We didn’t touch that stuck-up bitch,” he spits with blood and spit bubbling from the corners of his mouth.

I’m the only fucking person who gets to call Inessa a bitch, and she isn’t one. She acts like one, there’s a fucking difference.

Imagining his death has me laughing, it’s going to be beautiful, and I wish I could record it. Dropping their weapons like dumb fucks, they both come at me. There’s a split second where their life is literally in my hands, it’s like an aphrodisiacknowing I am in control of their next breath and then I blink again. It’s over.

The worst part of my rage and the fights is not remembering, I want to remember their pain. This is why the warehouses are the only places it can happen, when I have control and my mind at least retains 10% of what I do.

Unrecognizable faces with lifeless eyes stare up at me as the entire room falls silent. There’s not even the sound of fucking breathing and I look around expecting some mythical beast to be behind me. Realization fills me thatIam the fucking beast, and I could skip, I’m so joyous.

My suit is ruined, I’d only worn it twice for fuck’s sake. Inconsiderate fucks, they wouldn’t understand fine tailoring with all the cowhide wrapped around them. Wiping the blood away is useless and I push my hair back as red drips down my face. Looking at the kid, I ignore the wet patch on the front of his jeans, and he repays the kindness, giving everything he knows.

“I swear I didn’t touch her. I wasn’t even there, prez saw your car and thought it was you.”

Fear chokes him as I stand motionless and wait for the bastard to spit it all out.

“H-he licked her, said she tasted as sweet as she looked.”

Every cell in my body hardens, even my fucking ears drop from the weight. When righting a wrong, you leave one fucker alive to show his haunted face to the masses and keep everyone else away. Remembering that, I stop my feet from moving and curl my fingers in to restrain myself.

Changing tactics, I desecrate the dead and collect each fucker’s tongue for my wife. Inessa can have them as a token until I give her the one that’s to blame. The pissy kid whimpers when I get closer to him and turns, giving me his back as he walks out towards a back entrance. Valentin moves around the bar collecting bottles to torch the shithole.

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