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Authors: Gustavo Florentin
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a Marine sniper in Afghanistan nine years ago. He knew what it was like to go after a specific target and kill it, not just in self-defense, but as part of another motive, a greater purpose, he had told himself. He had often contemplated the degrees of separation between himself and the men he now pursued as a lawman. So had his ex-wife.
After returning from Afghanistan, he drank heavily to hold at bay the blown up bodies that kept coming back at night. His marriage, held together by the daughter they both loved, was slipping away fast. When his wife got full custody of Brittany, he just got worse. He was banging in sick once a week when he was told to attend counseling or risk his career. It was a solid year before he stopped drinking. He was learning new concepts like relapse and solitude. At least in war, there was the unwavering loyalty of your comrades. Here, you were on your own. He immersed himself in police work for the next few years, making a few feeble attempts to connect with Brittany. But by the time he had straightened himself out on the job, he had neglected his only daughter. When he spoke with her last Christmas, he could tell she couldn’t wait to get off the phone, that she was just talking to him out of politeness or pity. When he hung up, he wished he hadn’t called. How do you make up for an eight year gap? You don’t.
His eyes dropped back to the photos. These were the sort of images that made it easy to forget his own troubles.
In his gut he knew one thing: The killer who did this to Kirsten Schrodinger also took Olivia Wallen.
Masutatsu Nakayama pulled the Macanudo cigar beneath his nostrils, inhaling its beautiful bouquet. After lighting it and laying it down on the ashtray, he reviewed the scene of the last execution, an auction he had won for $220,000.
She was a blonde girl, about sixteen, with large American breasts. He didn’t go through the whole scene, just the foreplay to the death sequence. He didn’t want the effect of the final images to wear off like everything else had in his life. The New York papers had confirmed her brutal death and this conferred the final stamp of authenticity to the scene.
He was intrigued by the new Asian girl being offered. Today he had struggled with the other clients, each man trying to steer the torment his own way. Cultures differed even in their taste for torture and abasement. For example, in Japanese bukkake, the girl must be emotionless as the man cums in her face, she must show
gaman
―endurance. Not like the Western girls who are smiling and showing pleasure in that moment. It is a completely different effect. But Nakayama was impressed with the imagination of his competitors. Client Number Two had won today’s auction with his request that the girl be raped by a specially trained dog, and the Webmaster was able to comply quickly. Nakayama was feeling new sensations, nuances of thought he believed long dead. He contemplated tomorrow’s session.
The first swallow of sake cleansed his mouth of the sickening taste of the bourbon he’d drunk at tonight’s dinner party. As he closed the door behind his last guest, he had told himself that he would no longer partake of these functions. But he had been saying this for years.
He stubbed out the cigar. It was bitter, and a glance at the humidor’s hygrometer indicated no water. The cigars were ruined. He gazed out the window briefly, then wrote a haiku as he had every night since he was a child.
The feast ends and brings
A silence like no other.
Laugh, then, for stillness.
achel needed to talk to Brother Horace again. Had he seen the video? Did he know any of the people in it? First, she needed money. She had already raided her coffee can of coins last week, so she took Olivia’s Medaglia d’Oro can, which was full. Probably over forty dollars’ worth.
TD Bank had a free Penny Arcade. Coinstar would take almost ten percent.
She hit
START
and an animation came up on the screen
After returning from Afghanistan, he drank heavily to hold at bay the blown up bodies that kept coming back at night. His marriage, held together by the daughter they both loved, was slipping away fast. When his wife got full custody of Brittany, he just got worse. He was banging in sick once a week when he was told to attend counseling or risk his career. It was a solid year before he stopped drinking. He was learning new concepts like relapse and solitude. At least in war, there was the unwavering loyalty of your comrades. Here, you were on your own. He immersed himself in police work for the next few years, making a few feeble attempts to connect with Brittany. But by the time he had straightened himself out on the job, he had neglected his only daughter. When he spoke with her last Christmas, he could tell she couldn’t wait to get off the phone, that she was just talking to him out of politeness or pity. When he hung up, he wished he hadn’t called. How do you make up for an eight year gap? You don’t.
His eyes dropped back to the photos. These were the sort of images that made it easy to forget his own troubles.
In his gut he knew one thing: The killer who did this to Kirsten Schrodinger also took Olivia Wallen.
Masutatsu Nakayama pulled the Macanudo cigar beneath his nostrils, inhaling its beautiful bouquet. After lighting it and laying it down on the ashtray, he reviewed the scene of the last execution, an auction he had won for $220,000.
She was a blonde girl, about sixteen, with large American breasts. He didn’t go through the whole scene, just the foreplay to the death sequence. He didn’t want the effect of the final images to wear off like everything else had in his life. The New York papers had confirmed her brutal death and this conferred the final stamp of authenticity to the scene.
He was intrigued by the new Asian girl being offered. Today he had struggled with the other clients, each man trying to steer the torment his own way. Cultures differed even in their taste for torture and abasement. For example, in Japanese bukkake, the girl must be emotionless as the man cums in her face, she must show
gaman
―endurance. Not like the Western girls who are smiling and showing pleasure in that moment. It is a completely different effect. But Nakayama was impressed with the imagination of his competitors. Client Number Two had won today’s auction with his request that the girl be raped by a specially trained dog, and the Webmaster was able to comply quickly. Nakayama was feeling new sensations, nuances of thought he believed long dead. He contemplated tomorrow’s session.
The first swallow of sake cleansed his mouth of the sickening taste of the bourbon he’d drunk at tonight’s dinner party. As he closed the door behind his last guest, he had told himself that he would no longer partake of these functions. But he had been saying this for years.
He stubbed out the cigar. It was bitter, and a glance at the humidor’s hygrometer indicated no water. The cigars were ruined. He gazed out the window briefly, then wrote a haiku as he had every night since he was a child.
The feast ends and brings
A silence like no other.
Laugh, then, for stillness.
achel needed to talk to Brother Horace again. Had he seen the video? Did he know any of the people in it? First, she needed money. She had already raided her coffee can of coins last week, so she took Olivia’s Medaglia d’Oro can, which was full. Probably over forty dollars’ worth.
TD Bank had a free Penny Arcade. Coinstar would take almost ten percent.
She hit
START
and an animation came up on the screen
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