Vir Crudelissimus

     “Did you check everything out, first?” Jougs asked while perusing the refrigerator.

     “You fucking kidding?” Vorant spun toward Jougs and with vehemence continued, “when’d I have time, eh? Ain’t I been takin’ care of the mess?” He dropped the gore covered saw in the sink, turned on the hot water, and growled, “d’you?”

     “Did I what?” Jougs asked with his head inside the refrigerator.

     “Check the site. You were out. D’you?”

     He cracked open a can of Eagle’s Nest Cola, stood up, and slammed it down. After belching, Jougs said, “wasn’t on the way, now was it?” He grabbed a couple slices of lunch meat out of the package, closed the fridge door, and then pulled down a bag of bread. Quickly making a half-assed sandwich, he knotted the bag and tossed it back on top of the fridge.

Sanguine Redundare

     Being in the middle of the Inquisitor’s workroom was like walking into a Heart of the Seven Faeries carnival – so many varieties of red splattered everywhere that it seemed no other colors existed. Knowing the sticky, brick colored drippings to be that miraculous fluid that somehow kept the body functioning was one thing; using a squeegee, an ice scrapper, and tons of alcohol to remove it from the floors, walls, and ceiling was a wholly different thing. Mr. Vorant stood in the basement stairwell staring at the crumpled carcass of the ancient justice, Levi Bayleaf. “What were you even doing there, eh, old man?” Vorant grumbled. Rolling his shoulders, one by one, Vorant prepared himself, thinking, always get the good jobs, don’t ya? He laughed, “o’course, ‘cause they’re a bunch o’silly bitches.” He set the cleaning supplies down next to the door, slipped on a pair of shoe covers, and entered the torture chamber. Quickly surveying the extent of the spatter, Vorant wondered, what does he do? Play in it? Vorant’s entire afternoon was blown. Not that he’d had other plans, just that he hadn’t woken with ‘clean up the Inquisitor’s mess’ on his agenda for the day. He lifted the dead man’s head by the chin, gave it a squeeze and a shake, and then, grabbed the forehead to make the man talk, “too bad for you,” Vorant mocked himself with a nasally West Donian accent. “Too bad for you,” he repeated in his own voice as he dropped the head.