Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Good people don’t have a garage and a large plot of land they keep handy for killing.
Placing my phone on the dock, I hit play, filling the space with C & C Music Factory’s iconic nineties bop Gonna Make You Sweat.
“I love this song. It’s severely underrated,” I yell over the music. “The beat allows me to work more creatively. Do you like music,”—I glare at the driver’s license on the table—“Seamus?”
I hum along to the song as I sharpen the Miyabi knife before holding it to the overhead light. “There’s nothing like Japanese and German steel. No one makes knives or cars like those two countries, and there’s a reason for that.” I swiftly bring down the eight-inch blade on Seamus’ pinky finger, disconnecting it from his hand.
Sweat beads on Seamus’ brow as his muffled screams drown out my music.
“Manners, Seamus,” I mumble as I examine his stout finger. “That’s how you got into this situation, by not having good manners.” I wave the finger, oozing blood, in Seamus’s face. “You think the loss of a finger taught you a lesson?”
Seamus nods frantically as tears stream down his face.
“Hmm, I’m not sure if I believe you,” I say, bringing the freshly severed finger to my nose, the coppery tang of his blood assaulting my nostrils. Shrill screams echo off the concrete walls of the garage as I tear the duct tape from Seamus’s mouth. “I think you can give it more conviction. Go on, Seamus, convince me you’ve learned your lesson. Give me an Oscar-caliber performance.”
“You’re a-ah-a fuck-in’ psy-cho,” Seamus stutters in pain.
The knife slips from my hand, hitting the edge of my boot before it clangs against the concrete slab floor. “Goddammit, Seamus, you almost made me damage my new boots.”
“How is that my fault?” Seamus demands, his voice shaking as tears glide down his chubby cheeks.
Our eyes lock as a smile plays on my lips. “Seamus, do you now see the correlation? If you hadn’t been so rude, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, and I wouldn’t have pulled out my knives.”
With a thin, sharp, paring knife in hand, I approach the whimpering idiot, offering my most charming smile and pointing the tip of the blade toward him. “So you see, dear Seamus, this whole situation is completely of your doing.”
“Okay, man,” Seamus stammers, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath ragged. “I’m sorry. Whatever happened, it was my fault.”
I step closer, filling my lungs with the putrid air before exhaling deeply. “That,” I say as I raise the paring knife and stab him in the cheek, “is not how you apologize.”
Seamus screams, “God, please!”
“God doesn’t answer prayers for the holy. Why would you assume he’d ever hear your call? You’re missing brain cells, aren't you, lad?”
“Why are you doing this? I don’t even know who you are. What do you want? Money?”
“Money has never motivated me. I despise it.” The blade scrapes against my bottom lip as I contemplate my answer. “Actually, no. That’s hypocritical since I have money. Money was the be-all and end-all for me at one point. I was on the brink of destitution, and money was a beaconing light.”
My hands glide over the various knives on my table, all of which I've purchased during my travels. Some people collect mugs. I collect sharp, pointy weapons. There was a time when I worried about where my next meal was coming from. Now, I could fly to Morocco for couscous if the fancy took me. “That’s when money matters, you know. When you’re desperate. Life and death is when it matters. I see rich guys with their pathetic goals of wanting to live on Mars. Those guys are vacant. They need money because they have nothing else. Who fucking needs three hundred billion dollars? It’s gross when you think about it. Kids are being bombed, starved, and beaten across the globe, and those bastards are out there playing power games instead of using their resources to help.”
I stab Seamus again. “On second thought, it wasn’t money. The money was a bonus. I wanted revenge on the man who raped my mother.”
Seamus releases a symphony of grotesque screams as I abandon the blade in his cheek and walk back to my table. Taking out my phone, I open the app and watch as a pretty girl with long dark hair huddles on a leather sofa, her piercing green eyes glued to the pages of a book. She’s reading East of Eden today. All the books she consumes are about the disparity between the rich and the poor. I suppose it would make sense for her to be preoccupied with such thoughts, given that she witnessed the brutality of it every day at her job.
“She’s beautiful, don’t you think?” I shove the screen in Seamus’s face.
“She’s hot,” Seamus says.