Page 75 of Property of Necro
Thank fuck. It’s finally showtime.
Nodding once, I stroll out of one room into the next. Propped on the floor in the corner is not who I expect to see. Sola is slumped, her chin on her chest, t-shirt pooled around her waist, giving me and whoever’s watching a clear view of her sweet pussy. The top half of her face is covered with a simple cat mask.
What the fuck is going on?! Why is she here?
Rage boils under my flesh as I step forward to make sure she’s still breathing. But I don’t get a chance to do jack shit because in rushes, a big, muscled Nazi determined to knock my block off.
Posting in front of Sola, ready to protect her with my life, I plant my feet as the biggest dude I’ve fought in ages slams into my stomach like a well-trained linebacker. Gritting my teeth, I absorb the blow. Pain rips up my spine, and I grow hard. Loving it. Needing it. Getting high off it.
Pleasure throbs through my veins, and my musclesengage. Wrapping my arms around the dude’s thick waist, I toss him to the side like he’s a ten-pound sack of rice.
“You’re gonna die,” he seethes, as he rights himself and rushes back for more.
Dodging his fist, I crouch low and punch him in the junk.
Just like that, he drops to his knees. They crack against the concrete floor before he falls to his side and cups himself, howling in pain.
Dumbfuck.
Why do the big ones always make it too easy?
All brawn. No brains.
Pft.
This is why I leave the real torture to my brothers. They play with their kills. They enjoy screaming, begging, and crying. But it’s far too simple. Death comes for us all. It’s life.
Art is forever.
Using a body to create something else.
To express yourself.
That’s what matters.
I don’t collect trophies like Coffin.
I collect art.
Pictures of my art since I can’t keep rooms full of corpses for enjoyment. Even I know that’d stink, and while parts of me don’t function or look like they should, my nose works just fine. Better than most. Even with the mask.
Sola groans in the corner as the racist, rapist, vile piece of shit groans by the door, far from her. He glares at me. I glare back, crossing my arms over my chest, and tilt mychin in challenge, waiting to see what he plans to try next. Whoever set this room up will be punished later. There’s not a single tool or weapon in sight. It’s just me, this dead man, and Sola locked in a concrete box with little cameras stuffed into holes in the walls, live-streaming.
I turn to one and stare straight into the souls of my viewers and my brothers watching on the other side.
You will be punished,I sign.You will pay.
I know Coffin and Rot and their devious natures. We’ve been family for more than half our lives. This has their fingerprints all over it. Rot’s especially.
Throw a sexy, drugged redhead into a room with a killer and her masked hero, and the book basically writes itself. Ugh. That irritatingly sappy, fucked-in-the-head, romantic.
This is real life.
Not a fantasy.
And Rot thinks we need therapy.
He’s the one who put her in here.
