Page 71 of Property of Necro
Rot presses a button on his computer, and the noise disappears, but the numbers continue to climb. “Necro has a fan club of about three thousand or so,” he explains. “They never miss a live stream, and they’re generous donors.”
“So, they tip him?”
“For his art. Yep. We email ‘em photos of the finished picture whenever he’s through.”
“Are those the images in his office?” I ask.
“Sure are.” Rot affectionately pats my bare thigh. “You pay attention.”
Ignoring his unnecessary praise, I focus on Necro as he paces another slow circle around the concrete room. “This is what he’s been doing since yesterday?”
Ah. Now it makes sense. Why he didn’t meet me this morning. Why I showered alone. Why they live here and don’t go on runs like normal clubs. They don’t need to. This is their purpose. I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before.
“We got a shipment in, and he’s been wound prettyfuckin’ tight lately. The brothers and I agreed to let him take care of the entire lot. It means less coin in our pockets, but he’s our prez.”
“And the woman?”
“They’re always Coffin’s. On occasion, Necro might piece together a bit of art after Coffin finishes the job, but he don’t kill women. Well. Not usually, anyhow.”
Not usually.
I snort at the sentiment.
Standing over the dead man, his booted feet on the outside of either side of the guy’s thighs, Necro swings his weapon with fluid precision and chops the other arm clean off like he’s done this a million times before. He probably has. If I tried, I'd probably hit his collarbone, get the machete stuck, and spend an hour trying to pull it free from the bone.
Setting the machete down, he collects the limbs, pries open the fingers of one hand, and forms them around the man’s wrinkly, limp dick. The other, he sets to the side as he messes around on a tray of tools, where he selects a scalpel. Whoever set up the cameras in this room is a genius. They follow him everywhere, focusing on the right things. You get every detail from his furrowed, overly focused brow to the ripple of his abs as he shifts. Even the dead man’s toes. Something so simple you wouldn’t think about. But they’re thick and yellow from living for years with an untreated foot fungus.
It's all too surreal. Like I’m watching one of the hundreds of horror movies Ted subjected me to. Only the gore isn’t paint and special effects, and the man isn’t apaid actor. Well, I suppose he kind of is. His fans are paying to see whatever he creates.
Kneeling on the floor beside his victim, Necro slices open the man’s sternum, expertly uses a spreader to crack open his ribs, and reaches into the cavity with a bare hand. Rot clicks something on the computer, and one of the cameras zooms in to give everyone a grotesque view of a literal heart being ripped from a person’s chest. It detaches far easier than I’d ever guess. Either that or Necro’s insanely strong. Probably a bit of both.
Resting the organ on the ground, Necro retrieves the other severed limb, fits it into his chest cavity, pries open the fingers, and sets the heart in the man’s palm—so he’s holding his own heart in his hand. As if that isn’t enough, Necro stabs the scalpel through the lifeless organ and just leaves it there as he dusts his hands together before pushing off his knee to stand.
Humming to himself, Rot clicks a handful of keys on his laptop, and the feed dies, to be replaced with a green screen and a note that promises to be back soon, accompanied by a bloodied smiley face emoji.
“So?” Rot prompts to gauge my reaction at the exact moment Creature pops his head into the office. “I’m setting the next room up now. If you’re sure he’ll be ready to go again,” the biker says.
Rot waves him off. “Sure. Go ahead, brother. Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll send the prospects down to clean up and take whatever parts you want to your lab.”
His lab?
Rot has a lab?
A lab for what? Like a mad scientist?
“Make sure they don’t mix bone with organ this time. That was such a clusterfuck last time,” Rot comments.
Creature double-knocks on the doorframe. “Will do,” he says, then looks at me with one focused eye and offers a polite smile that kicks up on one side, considering the other half of his face doesn’t function right. “It’s good to have you here, ma’am.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a ma’am and never to call me that again, but he’s gone before I can get the words out.
“I’m not a ma’am,” I grumble under my breath, and Rot laughs.
“They don’t know what to call ya, Red. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”
“How about they call her mine?” Coffin offers as he strolls in, freshly bathed and smelling of expensive cologne, rocking the sexiest lopsided smirk and no shirt. Always no shirt.
