Page 10 of Three
“You think this donor has information on Phoenix?” she asks. And I hum in confirmation.
Phoenix is a new shadowy figure who got on our radar when he started a red room on the dark web, the business of live streaming the beating of young teens for the entertainment of sick viewers.Rague’s husband, Ollie, has a personal vendetta against Phoenix since they almost killed his little brother, Sully.
We still don’t know who Phoenix is. I’ve been playing a cat and mouse game with them for the last few months. But I found out they have their hands deep in drugs, kidnappings, and assassinations. And that’s why August Gene Baker is here with us tonight.
Sari goes back to the lab while Linda and I keep walking until we reach the glass wall of the FUNS room—it allows us to enjoy the show without being seen, since it’s one-way glass. The other walls inside the room are entirely covered in plastic to protect against blood and fluid sprays. I solely took the task to buy it, and today, I chose black, as Raph prefers, with small red skulls. It’s a bit gloomy, but it fucks with the donors, and my brothers as well. It’s a win-win if you ask me. I gotta enjoy the little things.
I tap the code on the door panel and go inside. The donor is sitting naked, bound with metal chains to a chair that is bolted to the floor. Gabe is standing on the left, taken as always by his phone. Without taking his eyes off that thing he leaves the room, closing the door.
I take off my light blue leather gloves and throw them in the trash. They will end up in the incinerator.What a waste.Bought them at a flea market for five bucks. They were my magic pair; they cast their last spell tonight when I met my grizzly.
I look at my bare palm where a long scar—a promise I shared with my brothers—runs diagonally, almost reaching the number three on my wrist. A brand seared on my skin by those scientists who experimented on me as a child. A daily, indelible reminder of what I endured and who I’ve become.
I make a fist, and my eyes are caught by the irregular, burned skin on the back of my hand and fingers, it’s even more evident and jagged when stretched. Those dark days are in the past, but the signs they left will never go away.
A low grunt from my right makes me redirect my attention to the donor. He’s finally waking up, and my body responds to it, to what’s about to happen. My senses are null now, but when I take care of my donors, those ghostlike sensations turn real and unforgettable. The sensation of hot sweat rolling down my skin, of a cold knife in my hand, and the acrid smell and taste of fear.
Sometimes, I think I have a vicious succubus living inside of me, feeding on my senses, only coming out to play when there’s blood or pleasure involved. I just can’t deny the impulsive sucker.
And I’m fucking ready to do some serious damage.
I lift my fist and land it on the donor’s face. The loud crack of a jaw shattering—one can hope—resounds in the room.
“Shit!” The donor curses, either because of the pain or the acknowledgment of his dire situation. No broken jaw then… Damn it!
“If you want people to listen,” I start and pause for effect, “you can’t just tap them on the shoulder anymore. Have to hit them with a sledgehammer.” I point to my right at the long tray filled with different kinds of weapons—dissimilar knives, a rusty hammer, a small saw, a few wooden skewers, and a metal cable, among others—and enjoy the slight but noticeable jerk his body makes. “Only then, you'll notice you've got their strict attention.” I grab the machete off the tray and smile at him. My sense of smell is coming back as my blood is starting to pump fast inside my veins.
“That’s fromSeven. We watched it yesterday.” Michael’s voice comes from the outside galleria.
Raph adds with his perpetual condescending tone, “He got the quote wrong.”
“I had to change it slightly to accommodate the occasion!” I raise my middle finger at the one-way glass’s generaldirection.
“Gandalf, could you be more lame?” Gabe feels the need to utter.
“Eat shit!” I retort.
“You need to turn your voice gruff and monotonic. The way the killer says it in the movie is creepier,” Lori—Ollie’s best friend and our new crazy addition to the family business—suggests.
“Gabe could help you adopt a robotic tone,” Uri’s sleepy voice interjects.
Is everybody out there? “Fuck off! Way to ruin the mood!” I say, not looking at the mirrored wall, but keeping my eyes on the donor as I ask him, “Do you believe in Jesus?”
“No.” He snorts arrogantly, but I can see the fear of pain and death slowly crawling inside him, reaching his widened eyes and trembling hands.
“Good for you since you’re going to meet his estrangedbrother, Lucifer, very soon.”
“Brother? Lucifer is a fallen angel, not God’s son. He’s more a cousin to Jesus.” Uri starts the controversial dialogue.
“An uncle. He’s much older than J.C.,” Lori counters.
“Foster brother?” Michael says cutely.
“They aren’t related,” Gabe declares.
Now is really not the fucking time for a religious discussion.
“He’s a fallen angel. That’s pure justice if you ask me,” Linda comments.
