Story: Marionettes of Despair
He licked the blood off of his blade and savoured the rusty salinity that coated his tongue. His gloved hands reverently slid along the hilt of his switchblade. Beside him, a woman clicked her tongue impatiently as she watched him toy with a corpse. The man shrieked with delight as he saw his victim’s limb twitch.
“Oh look; this nerve is still functioning!” he gasped, prodding flesh with the knife. Each stroke was made with precision; every droplet that coloured the tip was an object of marvel --only blood made dying real.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” the woman huffed. Large reptilian wings extended from the middle of her shoulder blades. Her wings’ scaly tendrils were separated by a webbed membrane; each tip tapered to a claw. Kizor grinned beneath his shock of red hair.
“What would be the purpose of this vicious slaughter if denied myself the pleasure?” he whispered. A swirl of playful malice seeped through his slitted pupils. She flicked her hair behind her ears without response and left him to his maniacal scrutiny.
“I can’t quite grasp how you find enjoyment in killing; they are just petty humans,” she added indifferently. Kizor closed his eyes with a smile, re-enacting the experience within his mind.
“Their pleas excite me, as I fondle with their fears and memories. I taste of their very life-force the moment their eyes glaze over and they choke on their last silent scream,” he explained.
Serena oiled her way into his arms in a slick, fluid movement.
“I love it seeing you so passionate, even if she was only a weakling,” she nodded towards the dead woman in front of them.
“You should know by now that I do not discriminate simply because they are weak,” Kizor laughed “I don’t care whether they are human or hybrid, black or white, young or old; I am quite happy to kill them all.”
Serena folded her wings back in a swift swoop.
“Your current preference for the mortals has caused quite the controversy between human and hybrid relations,” Serena simpered. Despite her attempt to appear neutral, a trace of concern laced her words.
“I would hunt more of our kin, had the senate not decided to ostracise those of ‘non-human status.’ It is a rather dismal attempt to stop my hunt; human laws don’t apply for us,” Kizor scoffed. He stood up, kicking the body aside.
“You found one to play with about a week ago, didn’t you? A nymph if I recall correctly,” she asked curiously.
“Your memory serves you well however, I had a little too much fun. The vessel was destroyed a few hours ago; his mind couldn’t handle the intrusion.”
“Hmm, that sounds a little troublesome,” Serena sighed
“No matter; there are other ways to satisfy my thirst. Shall we find another?” Kizor held out his arm. He enticed the succubus to partake with a smouldering stare. Serena smiled and entwined his fingers around her own.
“Sure, but only if you’ll spend a bit of private time with me later,” she growled seductively. Kizor shrugged off the charm that would have clouded the minds of lesser men.
“We’ll see,” he said, apathetically. Serena’s wings batted once, as if to stretch weary muscles, before she followed the puppet-master.
They strolled confidently through the streets, completely aware that people watched them, too horrified to emerge from the shadows. Skulking down alleys and secluded lanes, they scanned the night for their next victims. Serena’s ears perked up at the echoes of jingling keys and heavy boots. As Kizor stepped forward, chuckles amongst the bantering men ceased; all three wore cobalt uniforms.
“What business do you two have this late at night?” One of them asked as another raised a torch. The silhouette of webbed wings was illuminated in a glossy gleam.
“What the hell is that?” the third guard gasped. Serena flexed her deltoids and bared fangs as the torch bearer shouted,
“They’re wings! Shoot the b***h!”
An ear-piercing screech escaped her lips as the succubus beat her wings threateningly. Two of the guards flinched, while the third advanced cautiously. With a forceful strike, the approaching guard was knocked off his feet. From the ground, the breeze agitated his face; it tingled where he was struck. The first guard rushed to aid.
“Dave! Are you okay?” Dave gagged slightly in response. Two deep gashes, one across the forehead and the other over his cheek, swelled rapidly.
“I wouldn’t touch him if I were you,” Serena chimed.
David howled; his skin sizzled and blistered. His hands flew the wounds as he hoped for some comfort but within seconds he withdrew them. Waxy flesh melted away from his fingers as he watched in horror. The first guard stumbled backwards in panic.
“Help me!” David gurgled. Sickening screams and tortured sobs were choked into silence. His cheek decomposed and the tongue fell to the concrete beside his exposed jawbone. Both of his comrades were helpless against the venom that dissolved through David’s torso. His legs remained intact; they were attached to a mass of skeletal remains and the muscle tissue that clung, in gooey clumps around his rib cage.
“Well that was fun,” Kizor chuckled “It’s my turn now.”
The guard, who had backed away, drew his pistol with an unsteady hand. With a shark-like grin, Kizor’s gaze pierced through the mind of the second guard. So your name is Michael. Kizor echoed in a sinister whisper. The hybrid’s lips remained drawn back like sanguine curtains and exposed the sadistic ivories; they had remained motionless. Boo! Kizor roared mentally.
Before Michael could draw his gun, a swarm of wasps droned and buzzed around him. He swatted at the air around him, which only proved to provoke a bombardment of sings. Sharp, throbbing jabs struck at his skull; tiny needles were felt prickling his grey matter. Kizor cackled out loud while his victim dropped his gun and pressed his fists over his ears, much to the bewilderment of the captain.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled.
Michael’s muscles petrified; fear gnawed away all sense of logic. The wicked smile branded his mind with permanent torment. He knew if he survived the night, that grin would taunt him forever. The master of manipulation delved deeper into Michael’s darkest memories. He scratched at the surface and scraped out the greasy debris of long-forgotten sentiments. The chill of Kizor’s presence was amplified as he flicked through the scrapbook of memory.
Michael fell to his knees, groaning in mental anguish --for even the most sheltered minds host putrid fragments. Whether they have been swept under the carpet, frayed with guilt, or lurk in neglected cavities, Kizor will drag out the worst experiences he can find.
“David is dead. I know he was your mate, but if you don’t get your a** off the ground, you will be too,” the captain barked.
“Get up!” Michael did not respond; he was absorbed into the depths of regret.
Completely ignorant to the other man, Kizor locked his gaze with the tortured lamb that writhed and groaned before him. Don’t look away.
“Stay away from him! Get back, you mongrel!” The captain tried to maintain his composure as he shuffled closer to the hybrid. Serena took an intimidating step forward; Kizor signalled for her to stop. Both Serena and the captain paused as the puppet-master remained locked into mental conquest. Michael’s arm abruptly swung around and gripped the captain’s shin.
“What the ******** is wrong with you! Let go of me!”
Michael squeezed tighter as his captain squirmed to get free. The captain noticed Michael’s hazel eyes changed to a ghastly blue – akin to those of his captor.
“Mmm, I wonder what your knee tastes like,” Michael wheezed. The blue, cotton trouser leg was ripped open like a plastic bag in Michael’s fist. He giggled and dragged his tongue over the captain’s knee cap. The captain struggled in disgust and gave a swift boot to the side of Michael’s head; it produced no reaction. Michael sneered idly without the devotion that was required. His features were hollowed and barren.
“Bleh your knee is hairy. Do I have hair stuck in my teeth?” he asked and displayed his teeth for inspection.
An icy chill ran down the captain’s spine. The sudden realisation crept over him that, to these monsters, possession was a sport and he was the game. Once they disposed of Michael, he would be next. What would it be like having those…things in my head? The captain looked down at the pitiful shell of his subordinate; he was no longer recognisable. The shadow of Michael’s former self flickered through the bars of his cage, though he lacked the strength to break through Kizor’s iron grasp.
What must he be going through? The thought made the captain shudder. I can’t fight them; I need to get away! It felt as though his heart was being constricted within his chest as the foul creatures inspected his reactions.
“He has caught on to us,” Kizor droned. “His analysis taints his blood with an alkaline taste; I can smell it from here. It is hardly worth the effort to season him with fear. I gave him too long to think and now he has gone stale,” he said and clicked his fingers. Michael let go of the captain and gripped the dagger that was dropped into his hands.
“What a pity. Kill him,” Kizor shrugged.
Michael ran forth and lifted the weapon above his head. As he was about to drive the knife down, his muscles cried in protest. Every fibre of his being fought against Kizor’s control. He squeezed his eyes shut to focus on his internal struggle. With a tug of will, the incontrollable urge to plunge the dagger into his superior’s throat vanished. All was silent and still. He cringed in anticipation.
A warm gush at his wrist confirmed the worst; he couldn’t bear to open his eyes. Open them; take a look at your hand. A squelching gag rattled through the air as Michael’s eyelids were peeled back. The hilt remained firmly in his hand as his eyes skated over the train wreck he had wrought. Michael’s fist had penetrated through the captain’s throat; the knife had severed the captain’s brain stem.
He tried to let go but his hand stubbornly gripped tighter. A rebellious plunge was followed by the crunch of metal against bone. Whenever he tried to look away from the brutal disfigurement, his glance was unwillingly snapped back. Now look what you have done. That man was your friend. He was helpless. the spectral tone murmured. You’re a murderer.
“No! I-“
“You killed him,” Kizor interrupted. Electric-blue irises radiated toxic quantities of self-loathing into Michael’s mind. Every shred of confidence he once possessed was plucked from him; it left him hollow. The void was quickly filled with remorse and disgust until the baneful emotions leaked from his pores. The whole world seemed to contract around him. Unseen eyes and silent tongues scorned him.
“Just ******** kill me already!” he spat.
“You have the means,” Serena replied. She nodded towards the dagger twirling around Michael’s fingertips. He paused. Is this a trick? He knew it would end the pending torment and night-terrors. Would they be merciful? Maybe they want to see me crumble. He closed his eyes and braced himself.
One…Two…Three.
An explosive projection of images burst into his mind. Illusion blended with reality as memory reeled and flickered. The warmth of his kitten as she kneaded his stomach, the sound of his mother’s heartbeat from the womb and the texture Vick’s VapoRub being smothered on his six-year-old chest, all coaxed him into a false sense of security – the thoughts blotched away his guilt. He lowered the dagger to his side.
“Isn’t that nice?” Kizor chirped patronizingly. With a stamp of his feet, spur-like razors emerged from the toes of the boots.
“Don’t come any closer!” Michael waved his weapon threateningly. His palm opened involuntarily and allowed the metal to tinker on the road. Kizor clicked his tongue.
“Tsk, you should know better than that.” He walked over and brushed spidery fingers across Michael’s cheek. Unable to move, the man tried to ignore the glacial prickle against his stubble.
“It seems you need a shave. Here, let me give you a hand,” Kizor breathed. With inhuman speed, he leapt off the ground. The hybrid spun in a whirlwind of motion and delivered a tornado kick that peeled away the surface of Michael’s chin. Michael cried in agony, his raw sinews burned in the breeze. He turned to run.
“Are leaving so soon? Why don’t you stay a little longer?” Kizor sneered. Michael managed to reach the road before Kizor launched at him and slashed at his hamstrings. The guard plummeted to the bitumen. His body, grazed and bruised, thrashed against the invisible weights that pinned him face down. Kizor walked up slowly. His kick-blades smiled dangerously in the glimmer of street lamps. In an instant, he sliced open the the cobalt guard’s uniform. The night air flew up the legs of exposed satin boxers. Michael yelped – that was a little too close for comfort.
“What are you going to do to him?” Serena asked eagerly. Kizor ignored her and blew a billow of air over the nape of his slave’s neck. Michael shivered. The sting of a razor trailed right down to his thighs. Fists were clenched and teeth were ground as Kizor’s foot traced cross-hatch patterns over his prey’s rump. The movements were smooth and slow like those of a scalpel, until it was ripped away.
The blade was thrust into Michael’s colon. Screams could be heard from miles away yet no one dared interfere. The puppet-master twisted his ankle back and forth; his kick-blade scraped against the torn rectal tissue with each turn. He yanked downwards and carved through to Michael’s testicles. With a cruel leer, the manipulator hacked through the man’s scrotum, and swung his foot to Michael’s throat.
“It was fun while it lasted,” Kizor admitted before he stomped down and stifled the guard’s last groan.
Blood splattered against his ashen face is delectable contrast. He kicked repeatedly into the motionless heap at his feet and watched the life ooze away from the source. Puncture wounds draped the body in a curtain of red. He giggled in a fit of ecstasy as flesh squished and squirted with every punt.
The puppet-master gleefully continued to disfigure the remains until a hiss caught his attention.
“Killing humans is rather dull,” Serena huffed as she observed the aftermath. “The thrill extinguishes too quickly. Mine didn’t even put up a fight.”
“I don’t believe the taste of fear will ever get old,” he replied
“We best return before dawn,” the succubus sighed wearily.
Having consumed their fill of blood and slaughter, they slipped into the shadows leaving only carnage in their wake.
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