Page 43 of Taunting Tarran
‘Why do I get the feeling shit is about to hit the fan, boss?’
‘She’s not here. We’ve got one chance at this. If we don’t find her tonight…’
Sal rests his hand on my arm. ‘Then we better make sure I reserve a booth, cause we’ll be bidding.’
Tonight’s auction has drawn some of the world’s high-profile people, including a few well-known A-list celebrities. And the compounds armed guards are testament to the lengths taken to ensure everything goes smoothly – or as smoothly as such a sinister event can be. The thought of these people returning home to their families after this weekend’s events is a bitter pill to swallow, but my focus has to remain on the task ahead. But I’d be fooling myself if I didn’t admit to having my own fun. I steel myself for what lays ahead, the dark corridors, the tense atmosphere, and the ever watchful eyes of the guards all serving as a backdrop for the night’s grim proceedings. This was a world I knew all too well, where pain and pleasure are intertwined, and Sal and I are about to step into the heart of it all.
Fortunately Sal has a way with words, which secured us a booth last minute. He also managed to ingratiate himself into a few circles to find out if anyone knew where the girls were being held, but to no avail.
‘Only prize winners will be taken to the location,’ he shrugs. I knock back the remainder of my whiskey, licking my lips, relishing in the sharp sting at the back of my throat.
I’d be fooling myself if I was to say I didn’t enjoy being here, being around these people. Here, I don’t have to pretend to benice, normal or even sane. It’s not like serial killers all get together at conventions, and there isn’t a secret club for monsters like us, either. Finding a place where minds twisted in the same way can gather – it’s rare, almost impossible.
The most powerful people around the globe are here, for what this offers, but for now, I’m just one of them – another sick fuck about to buy their new toy. Most of them are paedophile pieces of shit – I’ll enjoy killing them first. Others, contract or serial killers themselves.
Three guards are stationed along the hallway, their presence overwhelming as Sal and I step back into the booth for the second time after a short recess. Eleven girls have been on stage so far, yet none of them have been Tarran.
‘Can we get €25,000 as a starting bid?’ the auctioneer announces, her voice booming over the room. The neon sign above flashes, the strobe of its light matching the energy of the eager participants as they submit their offers.
Sal is concerned, shifting in his seat beside me. ‘Don’t you think we should bid? Then we would know the location.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I want to make sure everyone wins what they came for. No one goes home empty-handed.’
Sal throws me a puzzled look. ‘And you, boss?’ he asks, tinged with uncertainty.
On stage, a girl teeters, barely able to keep herself upright, her legs shaking beneath her.
‘Going once, going twice…SOLD,’ the auctioneer announces.
Sal’s eyes scan the stage,leaning in closer. ‘Are you sure about this?’
I keep my eyes fixed ahead.
‘As usual,’ the voice from the speaker begins, ‘we’ve saved the best ‘til last. We hope you have enjoyed what you’ve seen so far. We’ll be taking another short recess.’
The room falls silent. Sal is mopping the brain matter off his face from the cunt that interrupted us as the large, oak door creaks open.
The auctioneer’s voice is smooth as it echoes around the stage. ‘For our final lot of the evening, bidding will advance in increments of ten thousand euros,’ she announces, pausing long enough to let the gravity of her words settle.
‘Once bidding has closed, winners will be notified via your booth speakers. Payment must be arranged within the hour. Only then will you be allowed to claim your prize – or prizes.’
She lets the room hang in heavy silence before continuing. ‘Failure to arrange payment will result in immediate resale, and the auction will continue.’
The neon sign above flickers, ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, for our last girl of the evening, we have something truly…special.The Butcherbird.’
My gaze snaps towards the oak door, and there stands a girl wearing nothing but underwear and a black hood. My hands curl into fists as the guard whips it off revealing her face.
Tarran.
Hmm. A black hood.Fitting, really. It mirrors the Pied Butcherbird – the most common of its kind – a predator masked in the plumage of death, the black hood stretching from up and over its head, and down the nape of its neck, like that of an executioner.
They thought of everything.
‘Shall we start the bid at €60,000?’
The neon light flashes 60, then 70. Each bid fuelling a raging fire inside me. My fist hammers on my buzzer, the bidding rising over one hundred thousand euros.
‘Did I mention The Butcherbird is only recommended for the most skilled hunters?’ her words hang in the air, sharp and taunting. ‘Over the years, her reputation has garnered quite the following…’
