Vivisepulture (34 page)

Toothpick looked to the others, eyes narrowed. One of the men burst into laughter. Toothpick relaxed, a wide grin spreading across his face as he turned back to Kitty. 

“What’s your name, honey?” he said, eyes searching every inch of her from toe to head. 

“Kitty.” 

He smiled, looking to the other guys. “Kitty wants a hitty!” he said, much to their hilarity. 

But Kitty didn’t flinch. Her voice was urgent. “Do you have any?” she asked.

“Have any
what
?” Toothpick said, looking to the others who gingerly started laughing again, as if he’d just cracked another joke. 

“Smack,” she said, plainly.

The three men stopped laughing. 

Toothpick looked at Kitty, his face suddenly serious. He began to circle her, pacing her like some animal. And then he paused, reaching around her back from behind, grabbing her breasts, squeezing, then relaxing his grip. Satisfied, he moved down towards her crotch. But Kitty still didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. This was normal. This was part of the process of scoring when you went to someone else. And that was fine. 

“Not much here to hold onto,” Toothpick muttered into her ear. “Skinny little bitch, aren’t you?” 

Kitty turned to face him. She tipped her head to one side, looking into his face. She found his hands, pressed them against her breasts again. She tried to puff her chest out, make something more of it, all the while reaching for the zipper to Toothpick’s slacks. She found his cock, began to caress it, still looking at him with her dead, emotionless eyes. But his cock remained flaccid. His eyes grew wide, his hands moving from her breasts, pushing her away.

He looked to the other men, one of them starting to laugh again. But Toothpick was furious. He turned quickly, swinging the back of his hand hard against Kitty’s jaw. It connected, Kitty falling back, hitting her head against the off-white tiles, sliding to the floor. 

Toothpick came at her again. He punched Kitty in the face, pulled back, punched her again. She took it without making a sound, eyes locked closed, lips curled up against her teeth. Both her hands were raised to her face, weakly bending against each blow. 

Her nose broke with a crack. 

She heard Toothpick step away. 

She allowed one eye to open, finding him still towering over her, fist clenched, a half-smile-half-grimace on his face, that fucking pick still rattling between his teeth. His white shirt had blood on it. Her blood.

Kitty pressed one hand against her now bleeding nose, grimaced against the pain. She was shaking all over, her breathing laboured and heavy. She looked at the three men, awaiting their next move. Toothpick had his back turned now, the other two men just staring at her, frozen to the spot. Seemed like they hadn’t counted on this. A laugh at her expense. Rape, maybe. But not this. This was a bridge too far. 

But Toothpick wasn’t done yet. 

He turned to face her once more. He held a slim metal cylinder in his hand. 

Silence filled the room, thick like mist. 

Kitty tried to pull herself up but failed. Her vinyl drains were sticking to the tiles. She was dizzy, panicking. She looked at the other men, tears filling her eyes, pleading.   

The younger man looked at her, guiltily. He placed his hand tentatively on Toothpick’s shoulder. “C-come on, man,” he said, “let’s just leave it, eh?” 

But Toothpick wasn’t listening. He didn’t even look at the other man, his gaze focused entirely on Kitty. He flicked a button on the cylinder, revealing a blade. He smiled, pick still between his teeth. He moved forward and Kitty closed her eyes, raising her arms again... 

Nothing happened. 

Kitty waited for the pain to come, but there was nothing. 

She opened her eyes and found Toothpick standing stalactite still, his face turned towards the door of the bathroom. Kitty followed his gaze. Through blurred vision, she made out the profile of a fourth man. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set. 

“Don’t move a fucking inch,” the newcomer said.  He walked over, helped Kitty up. “Clean yourself up,” he said quietly, without looking at her. 

Kitty did as she was told. She went to the sinks. Turned a tap on, looked in the mirror. Blood still leaked from her mangled nose. She pulled some towels from the dispenser, pressing the thin cloth to her face, the pain surging through her.  

“You like hitting little girls?” she heard the new voice say to Toothpick

“No, sir.” 

“And yet here you are, hitting little girls...” 

Kitty looked back, finding Toothpick staring at her, his eyes watering. He seemed to think for a second, then said, “With respect, sir, she’s not really a little girl.”

The newcomer looked to the other two men, whose eyes dropped immediately to their feet. 

He looked back to Toothpick, said, “Well, what is she then?”

Toothpick allowed another quick glance over to Kitty. He turned back to the newcomer, said in a voice almost inaudible, “She’s a whore, sir.” 

“I can’t hear you, son. You need to speak up.”

“I s-said, she’s a whore.” 

“A whore, you say…” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hmmm.” 

The older man looked to Kitty. “A whore,” he repeated, then looked to the other two men, one of whom smiled nervously. “That’s my daughter you’re calling a whore.”

A stain suddenly formed at the front of Toothpick’s slacks, spreading like a shadow across the crotch and down one leg. He still held the flick knife, even though it was very clear to everyone in the bathrooms that he wouldn’t be using it any time soon. 

“Mr M-M-M_”

“McBride,” the older man said, “but you can call me Paul.” He glanced at the other two men, offering a smile which they both gladly accepted. “Now what say you give that knife…” Toothpick quickly handed it over, but McBride put his hands up, refusing to take it, “No, not to me,” he said, “I want you to give it to one of your friends. Doesn’t matter which one.”   

Toothpick looked at the two men, his eyes darting between them. Neither of them wanted the knife but he forced it on the younger of the two, the one not wearing a suit. The younger man looked surprised, glancing over to Paul McBride.

“Go on, take it!” McBride ordered. 

He grabbed the knife quickly. 

“That’s good,” McBride said, smiling. 

But the poor bastard looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to drop the knife, like it was burning in his hands. 

“Okay, you’ve got the knife. Now I want you to cut your friend with it,” and here McBride pointed back at Toothpick. 

A short whimper came from Toothpick’s mouth. Sweat suddenly broke across his beetroot red forehead. “C-come on…” he sputtered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was your little girl, how would I?!” He fell to his knees, begging now, but McBride wasn’t listening. 

“Get up,” he said. “Get up or I’ll have him slit your throat right now while you kneel.” 

Toothpick, still crying, stood up and looked McBride face on, his eyes pleading. 

The younger man was shaking his head, backing away from his friend, colliding with the other man in the suit, who looked so fucking uncomfortable that Kitty wished McBride would just let him go. But McBride
didn’t
just let him go. He let him stand and wait and sweat. That was Paul McBride’s way.

“Go on. Make your move, kid,” he said to the younger guy with the knife, nodding towards Toothpick.

The silence in the room was thick like tar.

Nervous bile gathered in the pit of Kitty’s  stomach. Her palms were sweating, cold like ice against her bleach-white skin. She didn’t want any of this. She just wanted her hit. 

Toothpick had backed into a corner, face pressed against the cold tiles of the wall, knees bended, arms curled up into a foetus position. He was whimpering, that damn pick no longer rattling, but still somehow hanging from his lips. 

“Go on,” McBride said again to the younger man. 

The kid moved towards Toothpick.  He gripped the knife tight and suddenly stabbed Toothpick in the gut. 

Both men screamed in unison.

“Again!” McBride shouted.  

The kid stabbed again, and then again, finally grabbing the cowering Toothpick by his shirt collar, dragging him across the tiles, mounting him and stabbing repeatedly until the screams faded and died. Only then did he drop the blade. Straddled across the body of his friend, he dipped his head and sobbed hard. 

Kitty went to leave but her father’s booming voice stopped her. 

The doors suddenly opened. A smiling couple staggered into the bathrooms, but one look at Paul McBride’s face, and the carnage on the floor, and they stopped smiling, retreated quickly. 

McBride retrieved the knife from the weeping kid, handling it with his handkerchief. He offered it to the older man in the suit. 

“Me?” the suited man said, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, you,” McBride said. 

The suited man took the knife, at first trying to accept it in the handkerchief, but McBride shook his head. “Just the blade,” he said. 

The suited man accepted the knife in his outstretched hand like it was a dead rat. He looked to McBride, waiting his next command. 

“Roll up your left sleeve,” McBride said.

“W-what?”

“I said_”

But Kitty couldn’t bear it. She ran to Paul McBride, grabbed his hand and looked up at him. 

“No,” she said.

McBride ignored her. 

“Do it!” he boomed. 

Suit was crying now, tears flowing freely down his face. “I can’t!” he sobbed. 

“You can and you will,” McBride yelled, his voice echoing around the room. 

“No, I_”

“FUCKING DO IT!” 

Kitty went to speak again. McBride shushed her, but she grabbed his hand, squeezing it. 

“DADDY!” she shouted. 

He looked down at her, a quizzical look on his face. 

“Daddy, please,” she continued, “I just want to leave now.” 

McBride stared at her intently. There was shock in his face. Maybe anger. For a moment, it looked like he might hit her. It wouldn’t be the first time. Kitty had known the back of McBride’s hand before.. But tonight his face softened. 

“Alright,” he said in a low voice. “Okay.” 

He turned, looked at the suited man holding the knife. “Your prints are all over that,” he said. “And so is his blood,” and here McBride pointed to the dead man on the floor, the kid still straddled across his body, weeping. “If I ever see any of you two again, I will kill you. You hear?” And while both men no doubt heard him loud and clear, neither could find the words to answer. 

Outside, the music was louder than Kitty remembered. The Bar Man stood by the door. He nodded at McBride then moved through to the bathrooms. 

…

The fucking doorbell again. 

Geordie Mac pulled the wiretap from his face, throwing it onto the bed. He rubbed his eyes, lulling himself out of the VR and into the real world. He stood up slowly, reached for his dressing gown once more, pulled it on. He entered the living area, the doorbell ringing once more, causing him to jump and swear. 

He opened the door, finding Kitty McBride, as expected. He was just about to unleash a barrage of swearing when Paul McBride stepped into view. “Hello, Geordie,” he said, smiling, “We’re not disturbing you, I hope?” 

“N-no! Not at all, come in, come in!” Geordie stepped back, ushering the two visitors into his apartment. He showed them to the sofa, feverishly picking things up to allow them to sit more comfortably. “A drink?” he asked, looking to Paul. 

“Please,” McBride said, “Glass of whiskey would be nice.”

“Kitty?” Geordie said, forcing a smile. 

“Just water,” she muttered.  

“Coming right up.” Geordie went to the kitchen, cursing under his breath. His mind was busy, wondering why Paul McBride was visiting him this late.
Just what had that little bitch been saying to him?!

He returned to the living area with a tray full of drinks. Both McBrides were staring at the Box in the corner, playing the latest episode of REALITY EXTREME. Geordie looked at the Box, smiled. “Love this show,” he said, laughing. “The things they make those celebrity types do.”

McBride smiled, accepted the drink, took a sip. 

He looked quickly to Kitty, then to Geordie. He cleared his throat, set his drink on the coffee table by the sofa.

“Geordie, she needs a hit,” he said. 

Geordie sighed, shook his head. He looked quickly to Kitty, finding her staring down at her glass, head bowed. “Paul,” he said softly, “she’s had her rations this week. Ain’t due nothin’ more until tomorrow night. You know I don’t like it when my clients get this dependent, it’s bad for the rep.”

“I know,” Paul said. “That’s why I like you, Geordie. That’s why I do business with you. You’re a good man. You know the rules and you follow them.” 

Geordie felt his face grow warm, reached for his drink.