Page 70 of Phantom
“Fuck you, dude. You don’t own this shithole. I can piss wherever I want. You can’t tell me what to do.” His words warn me half a beat before he grabs my shoulder with all his drunken strength.
I don’t budge.
He tries to tug me back, but I dig my heel into the ground and scout my surroundings. The garbage human and I are secluded, but for the camera at the top corner of the wall.
Unfortunately for him, that’smysecurity feed.
I pivot on the balls of my feet and shove him into the corner. The tall hurricane glass in his hand spills all over his shirt and falls into a potted plant.
“You, fucker! You made me spill my drink. Fuckin’ ass—”
He takes a wild swing midcurse, missing me by a mile. When he pulls back to try again, I kick him straight in his knee. He doubles over with a groan and I yank him up by his beads. No doubt he had big plans to throw them and yell obscenities at passersby, but they’re not going to be used by anyone but me tonight.
I pull them taut, choking him, before grabbing his sweaty half-buttoned shirt with my other hand and slamming the man against the wall. His eyes bug out and he grabs in vain at the necklaces with his alcohol-soaked hands. His bum leg tries to kick, but he can’t control it, and he can’t scream out because my grip on the Mardi Gras beads is cutting off his windpipe.
He’s too easy.
The thought annoys me, and I almost ignore it as I watch his pale face turn crimson. I could just choke the life out of my prey with all of this stupid fucking plastic and be done with it. Then I could end his miserable existence right here. But my own moral code makes that impossible.
I’ll never take down the defenseless. And as drunk as this guy has gotten, that’s exactly what he is. Defenseless.
If he were in my dungeon, I’d let him make his choice, trial by water or combat, but he hasn’t done anything to warrant that kind of discipline. My gaze darts around, looking for a suitable punishment to fit the crime, and my eye catches on the wrought iron fleur-de-lis spike above the wall.
Perfect.
I meet my prey’s terrified red eyes. Snot and tears flow from his nose and eyes. I want to kill him just for his weakness. When his eyes start to glaze over, I know it’s time to finish it.
“Never. Put. Your. Hands. On. Anyone. Again. Do you understand?”
He tries to nod but my grip on the beads is too tight and my hold on his lapels too lax.
“Good. Now… fight for your innocence.”
I drop him and catch the thick cord of beads with both hands before he falls completely to the ground. Pushing up with my legs, I reach the top of the fleur-de-lis with my stretched arms and hook the necklaces around the spike.
Once I’ve hung him by the plastic, I let go and watch with satisfaction at the sounds of him struggling for breath and the sight of his body jerking in the Mardi Gras bead noose.
My punishment is just, in my opinion. He used his hands on me, and all he has to do to get free is use those same hands to extricate himself from his necklace.
But he doesn’t. Instead, I study my prey as he dangles, slowly losing oxygen while his feet kick feebly. His face turns that pretty shade of strangled purple I so love to see. Since the bastard won’t help himself, I have to do the work.
I sigh before yanking him down by his shoulders as hard as I can, popping beads left and right from his neck. He lands hard on his ass, and takes a lifesaving gulp of air. I kneel down in his face, careful not to touch any part of him again.
“Do you know who I am?”
He shakes his head, clutching his convulsing neck, now with bright-red bead-shaped bruises already cropping up.
“I’m going to give you my calling card,” I say, twisting my ring on my finger. “When you come to, I want you to ask around about what the symbol on your face means, got it?”
“The… the what—”
I rear back and slam my fist into his forehead, knocking him out flat and leaving a detailed print of a skull on his pale skin. The hit wasn’t as hard as possible, but the indent from my ring might leave a scar. If it does, hopefully he’ll see it every day in the mirror, and remember his lesson. If nothing else, he’ll attribute his wound to the night the Phantom of the French Quarter spared his life.
Before I leave, the light glints on his necklaces and an idea for later sparks in my mind. I remove several of the strands that don’t touch his sweaty neck and are less gaudy. The sparkling black ones and the ones with the skulls particularly catch my eye.
As I stand from my kneeling position, I wipe my bloody ring on the guy’s shirt. I’ll have to wash my hands and beads as soon as possible to cleanse my body of his reeking oils. Using the hand that never touched his skin directly, I check my mask to make sure it’s intact. The skin underneath itches from having to wear the prosthetic earlier, but the adhesive is still in place, so I pocket my new trinkets and continue my journey above ground to my meeting.
I weave through the greenery that usually hides the doorway from patrons and emerge into the restaurant’s open-air bar. The sports fans are newly disappointed, groaning as I pass by them and the brightly colored water fountain. I slip through unnoticed around tables and waitstaff as I navigate my way to St. Peter Street.
