Page 18 of Wicked Spite
“FUCK!” he screams, the sound echoing off theconfined space of the car. His face contorts in agony, eyes wide with terror.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, leaning in close, my laughter dancing on the edge of sanity. “Didn’t see that coming?”
His cries fuel something deep inside me, a sadistic pleasure that coils around my veins like a venomous snake. I revel in his pain, drinking it in with every gasp and sob.
“You’re a good listener now, aren’t you?” I whisper, my voice soft, like a lullaby. “Now, let’s make sure you never forget this lesson.”
His tears fall and mix with the blood, creating a grotesque show of suffering. And all I can do is laugh. Laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. At how easy it is to bring someone to their knees.
My hand dives into his pile of discarded clothes, fishing out those dirty white briefs. They’re stained and rank, just like his pathetic existence.
“Open wide,” I say, shoving the filthy fabric into his quivering mouth. His eyes widen further, if that’s even possible, as he chokes on the taste of his own filth.
“That’s better,” I purr, leaning in close enough to smell the fear radiating off him. “You know, you really should learn some manners. Grabbing Reagan like that? Tsk tsk. She’s not some toy you can just play with whenever your dick gets twitchy. Actually, you shouldn’t grab any woman like that. And pretending to be absolutely wasted for an excuse is deplorable.”
The guy whimpers, the sound muffled by his underwear gag. His terror is almost palpable, filling the cramped space of the car with a heady, intoxicating aroma.
“See, this is what happens when you let your cock do thethinking,” I continue, my tone conversational, almost friendly. “You end up in situations that are…well, less than ideal. You end up with your balls hanging by an actual thread. You get what I’m saying?” I pause for a moment, giving him a chance to respond. His nod is frantic, desperate, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Good boy,” I croon, patting his cheek with mock affection. “Now, you can leave. Get the fuck out of my sight.”
I get out of the car and slam the door shut. Whistling, I stroll over to a nearby door to a building owned by an offshore entity Wraithwick Incorporated, retrieving a gas can I know is there. The weight of it feels good in my hand, promising, like the prelude to the rest of the evening.
“Whistle while you work,” I sing-song under my breath, the tune light against the fact I just castrated someone. My boots crunch on the gravel as I make my way back. Every step is slow and measured, savoring the anticipation that coils in my gut.
“Knock knock,” I chuckle, throwing open the backseat door. He’s still there, curled up and sobbing. “Oh, you’re still here. You had a chance to leave, and you didn’t. Bummer for you, but a gift for me. Appreciate youuuuuuu.”
The look on his face when he sees the gas can? Priceless. His eyes widen, a fresh wave of terror washing over his features. I take my time, enjoying the slow pour of gasoline onto his trembling form. The sharp scent of fuel mixes with the acrid tang of fear, creating a noxious cocktail that makes my pulse race. I’m also pretty sure he’s shit himself. Honestly rude of him to make me smell that. He definitely needs more fiber in his diet.
“Now, add a little spice,” I flip open my lighter. The flame dances up, highlighting his terrified face.
I touch the flame to the cheap seat. Instantly, the fire leapsto life, hungrily devouring the gasoline-soaked area—and him. His screams pierce the night, mingling with the crackle of flames. And all I feel is a deep satisfaction.
His skin blisters and peels, the scent of burning flesh mingling with the gasoline fumes.
This is the kind of fire you roast wieners on. I should have brought boy scout rations or whatever it those fucking kids do. Then it hits me, and I burst into laughter, doubling over as the realization washes over me.
Holy shit, I’m literally roasting a wiener right now. It ain’t the kind that goes in a hot dog bun but technically I’m still being a boy scout. Where the fuck is my fire starter badge and my cooking badge?
I straighten up, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes, and glance back at the inferno. His screams have dwindled to pitiful whimpers, barely audible over the roaring flames. The smell of now charred meat fills the air, thick and nauseating, but I breathe it in deeply.
I should probably push the car into the lake before it blows up and draws more attention to this area than is necessary. I move to the rear of the car, glancing at the flames licking hungrily at the windows. Thank fuck I remembered to put it in neutral before I got out.
With a grunt, I dig my boots into the gravel and start pushing. The damn thing’s heavier than it looks. The car resists at first, but then gives way, rolling slowly toward the ledge.
Finally, with one last heave, it lurches forward and begins its descent. The tires skitter on loose pebbles, then lose their grip entirely.
Time seems to slow as I watch it roll off the edge. For a brief moment, it hangs suspended above the dark waterbelow, an almost serene pause before chaos resumes. Then gravity asserts itself and the car plunges down like a stone. It hits the water with a deafening splash that sends ripples racing across the lake’s surface.
The once-violent flames hiss angrily as they’re swallowed by the cold embrace of water. Steam billows up in ghostly plumes, curling into the night sky. The lake greedily consumes its new offering, bubbles rising in frantic bursts until they too disappear into silence.
My peaceful fucking night is interrupted by the shrill, incessant ring of my phone. My pulse spikes as Highway to Hell loudly demands my attention. Satan himself is calling. Just fucking lovely.
I should have known my moments of peace wouldn’t last long. Pulling the phone out of my pocket, the name Robert Blackwood glares at me. My fucking father. Or Satan, as Ilovelyrefer to him.
“Yeah?” My voice drips with annoyance.
“Get your ass to the house,” Robert barks. No pleasantries, just demands.
