Page 55 of Vice
This will all be over soon.
This will all be over soon.
I have to repeat it over and over in my head, otherwise I’m not going to be able to keep a lid on my temper. I try to tune out, then. Try not to see anything, or hear anything, but it’s pretty impossible. The crowd is swarming around the bottom of the stairs now that the Servicio have arrived, and it’s like a fucking meat market, people dressed in black, arguing passive aggressively over the people dressed in white. Plato smiles blandly as three people try to talk to him at once, trying to get him to go with them. The girl he was holding hands with laughs strangely as a guy with full sleeve tattoos and a nose piercing picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, like she’s a sack of potatoes. Three other men join him as he carries her through one of the reception room doorways off of the foyer.
There’s no screaming. There are no objections. There is only mild indifference, and the empty, vacant eyes of the Servicio as they are led off one by one by excited, assertive guests.
The couple who were discussing who they would like to play with a moment ago has secured the woman they were admiring, and the guy is making out with her, jamming his tongue into her mouth, cupping the back of her head in his hand as his partner in crime helps herself to a ridiculous amount of cocaine from a shiny metal bowl being held by one of the regular servants. She must deal about ten thousand dollars’ worth of blow out onto a large, flat mirrored tray. The servant hands her two metallic looking straws, bows, and then he walks away, handing someone else a similar mirrored tray, and similar metal straws.
To my right, two men are caressing and stroking another of the women in white. One licks and bites at her neck, while the other undoes the ties at her shoulders that are keeping her dress up, folding down the material to expose her breasts. Both of her nipples are pierced, which seems to excite the guy undressing her. He undoes the top button of his shirt, and then ducks down, taking one of her pink, peaked nipples into his mouth, running his tongue around her areola while kneading and squeezing her other breast.
In front of me, through the ever-shifting sea of people milling around, simply talking, I can see a guy sitting on one of the plush white couches, with a woman on her knees, blowing him while another guy watches. He has his dick in his hand, and he’s slowly stroking it up and down. None of them are part of the Servicio this time. They are all willing participants in what they’re doing. The girl on her knees blowing the first guy pauses in her attentions, grinning up at the guy. She takes his hand, and slowly, cautiously moves it so that he’s touching the other guy’s cock. I can read this moment like a book. The guys know each other. Maybe they’re friends. This is the first time either one of them has had any interaction with another guy, and neither one of them knows how the fuck to react. The girl strokes one of the guy’s faces, and then the other, guiding them together so that their mouths meet in front of her.
They don’t kiss at first. They both freeze, chests rising and falling, but slowly they begin to come to life. The girl sits back on her heels as the two men begin to tentatively make out. It’s not long before the first guy is running his hand up and down the other guy’s hard cock, and his friend is rocking his hips upward, thrusting into his hand.
The scene is like something from Dante’s Inferno. People are exposed everywhere, men and women alike. As the minutes pass by, barely anyone is wearing any clothes and it’s not so easy to pick out the Servicio from the guests. Only when they open their eyes can I tell them apart.
I see Plato through an open doorway, leading through to what looks like a Bedouin tent—there are white silks hanging from the ceiling, and huge, white satin cushions scattered all over the floor—and a group of people are lounging around, watching him. His hands are all over a naked woman, who appears to be a guest. He touches her everywhere, his fingers teasing lightly over her breasts, her stomach, down her sides, between her legs. She’s gripped in ecstasy, though Plato doesn’t seem to be sharing her enjoyment. His dick is rigid, rubbing up against her pussy as he leans up, stroking the woman’s body. I doubt his cock is that way because he’s into what he’s doing. The cocktail in his system must be considerable—he’s definitely been dosed with Viagra, heroin, and god knows what else. Once again our eyes meet across the bustling space, and he doesn’t react. It’s as though he’s looking right through me.
“Dios mio,” someone mutters. “This girl, she is stunning. We should have her, my love.” I glance around, trying to see who spoke, but the crush of Fernando’s guests is pure chaos. I see who they’re talking about, though: Natalia is walking hesitantly down the staircase, her hands pressed flat against her sides, and she looks like she wants to about-face and run back to her room. She’s so incredibly beautiful. Instead of being dressed in white or black, she’s wearing a sheer green silk dress that hits the floor, cut low so that her breasts are almost on display. It’s backless, and hugs her slender figure, accentuating her curves. Her hair has been curled and shimmers as she moves, caramel shot through with spun gold. Her lips are a shock of crimson, complimenting the tan of her skin perfectly. She is the only splash of color in a monochrome world, and she is breathtaking. Men stop what they’re doing as she descends the stairs. Women, too. Her arrival is enough to bring the party to a screeching halt.
“My beautiful daughter, everybody,” Fernando says loudly, making sure everyone hears him. “Natalia, come and stand with me, child. I have someone I would like you to meet.”
Her eyes flicker to me as she passes me by, and I see how uncomfortable she is. I want to reach out and take her hand, to try and reassure her, but with so many people watching her it’s just not possible. She crosses the room, weaving her way through the mass of bodies, until she reaches her father. Fernando laces an arm around her waist, turning back to talk to the tall, slightly overweight man beside him.
I have had enough. Tolerating this bullshit before was difficult, but now that Natalia is here, it’s just unbearable. I have to act, and now. Scanning the room, I search for Harrison. He’s by the front door, talking to a beautiful red headed woman who just so happens to be naked. With his back turned, this is the perfect opportunity for me to slip away. Quickly, before anyone can notice, I head for the kitchen entrance, and toward my target. I place my hand to my ear, making a show of frowning as I pretend to listen to something in the earpiece. When I arrive in front of Art, Harrison’s guard, I tap the device, shrugging at him.
“Fuck. Harrison’s super pissed at you, man. Damn, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.”
His eyes grow wide. “Why? I’m doing what he asked me to do.”
“He’s been trying to get you on the radio for the last ten minutes. Someone’s snooping around near Fernando’s office. He wants you to go check it out, make sure it’s nothing we should be worried about. Says he’s going to report you to Fernando if you don’t get a handle on the situation right now.”
Art looks panicked. “Shit. I swear no one’s passed through this way. I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I’m only telling you what he said, man. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“My headset must be broken. Can I borrow yours for a second?”
This clown must have a really short fucking memory. He must have forgotten all about the night he busted down my bedroom door, and grabbed me when I was wearing nothing more than a towel. I give him a sickly-sweet smile, pushing the kitchen door open behind him.
“Yeah dude. In the kitchen, though. My radio’s on the fritz as well. Can hardly hear a thing.”
Art doesn’t even look worried. He goes ahead of me, disappearing into the hallway that leads to the kitchen, and I’m filled with a sense of euphoria. A little premature, I’ll admit, but it’s about fucking time I let loose on these assholes. Now the time has come and the moment is upon me, I almost don’t want it to end. The anticipation is addictive, but it’s nothing to what I’m about to feel.
The hallway is deserted. It won’t be for long, though. I grab the guy by the back of the collar, spinning him around, and I smash my fist into his face, sending him crashing to the ground. Blood splatters up the wall, and the guy yelps, surprise transforming his face. He scrambles, trying to get hold of his gun, but it’s too fucking late because I already have it in my hand, and I’m ripping it from his belt.
“What the hell?” he yells. “You’re insane!”
I can’t count how many times I’ve been told this recently. Natalia’s told me enough times to make me think it might actually be true. Whether I’m sane or not isn’t something I have time to ponder right now, though. I spin the gun around in my hand and bring the butt down on Art’s head, and his eyes roll back into their sockets. A weird, gurgling noise comes out of his mouth, and his body starts to shake. Ooops. Maybe I hit him too hard. Head wounds can easily kill, depending on where you land them. I didn’t necessarily want the guy dead, per se, but I’m hardly going to hang around and make sure he doesn’t swallow his own tongue or anything. He forfeited any right he might have to my sympathy the moment he decided a paycheck was more important to him than common human decency or morals.
I grab him by the ankles and drag him down the hallway, leaving a long streak of blood on the tiles behind us. Not very subtle, but screw it. The whole world is about to come crashing down around these motherfuckers. They’re not going to be paying attention to a blood streak in a hallway. The kitchen is far from empty. A chef stands at the cook top, focusing on the pans in front of him, and three waiters and a sous chef stand to one side, talking. They look at me when I enter, their mouths falling open, though none of them say a word as I drag the unconscious guy into the room and drop his limp body onto the ground. Slowly, I raise my finger to my lips—ssssshhh.
I leave, running down the hallway, back toward the party. When I open the door, slipping back into the foyer, I’m calm and composed. There’s blood on the cuff of my shirt, though no one will notice. Not with so many groups of people now writhing and grinding on top of each other. I keep my head down as I cross the room. I can hear Fernando talking somewhere loudly behind me, but I don’t turn to find him. I move quickly and efficiently, taking the exit closest to the Bedouin tent room, where Plato is now balls deep inside the woman laid out on the floor. He watches me as I fast walk by the doorway, and then he is gone.
Fernando’s office is easy to find. I’ve sat in there enough times to know how to get there with ease. Surprise, surprise, when I try the handle, the door is locked. There’s a camera above the door, but I’m beyond caring about being seen at this point. I raise my leg and smash my foot into the wood, just below the lock, and the doorframe shatters, sending splinters of wood everywhere.
Inside the office, my goal is mounted to the wall above Fernando’s desk: a small, innocuous looking button, black with a small white circle on it. How many times has Fernando hit that thing in his rage? How many times has he hit it out of sheer boredom? Too many fucking times. I cross the room, my heart hammering away in my chest like a pneumatic drill, and I slam my palm down on the button.
