Author's Note: This one's short and sweet. If you want more, go and read my oneshot "No Turning Back," or check out my Mummy stuff. I've decided I'm going to be updating this fic every other week now, because it seems like people need more time to read in between updates.
So guess what, guys? You finally gave me more than 10 reviews on that last chapter. That means that if you do it on this one too, I'll write a oneshot based on your suggestions. :dangles bait: You know you want it…
Anyway, thanks a million to everyone who reviewed, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
WARNING: This gets slightly graphic and pretty gross. If you're going to be offended, don't read. Then again, if you've been okay so far, you should be fine with this.
Chapter 12
Dark. Loud.
A crowd, smelling all of sweat and alcohol and far-too-strong perfume. A bawdy, sensuous smell, impossibly arousing and disgusting at the same time. The smell of many people all too awake and aware.
Flashing strobe lights, purpleredgreenblue. Pulsating like the crowd concealed within their shadows.
People dancing like there's no tomorrow, sequins and cheap alcohol masking the reality of a life harder than the concrete which is its stage.
Too crowded, not safe. Must sneak in through the back, avoid the bouncers and the girls eager to do service at the front door.
A back alley behind the club, recklessly unguarded. Security is not a priority here. What comes in comes in, onesizefitsall.
A back door opening quietly, smeared and smudged with the grease of ages—blood? The spice of life, plastered on the door like a million flies meeting their deaths at the mercy of a cruelly invisible pane of glass.
Inside, a small back hallway, dark and stinking. A bathroom in a corner, the toilet overflowing with some unknown foulness. The smells of raw sewage and vomit perfume the thick air.
A room at the end of the interminable hallway, dark and cramped. A bed and a small table covered in congealed microwavable food and empty beer bottles. A man sitting on a couch, tall and large, a hairy bear belly sticking out from under his soiled white wife-beater.
The man grunts, half passed out from alcohol poisoning. His skin has a bluish cast to it, oxygen deprivation. He struggles to breathe even in his state of semi-consciousness.
Something runs into the table, knocking over glass bottles with a clang. Something invisible. Something material and yet utterly ethereal.
The man snuffs in his inebriated stupor, tries to sit up, falls back. Knows that there is something wrong here and yet is utterly powerless to do anything about it. Powerless as always, incapacitated by his own greed and amazing narcissism.
Another crash, a bottle shatters. The sound of metal grinding against leather and then something appears in the dim light. A long blade, machete-like and gleaming. Coming closer.
The man gets up, stumbles, catches himself on the table and gets a handful of broken glass. Swearing, he falls to his knees, bleeding.
The blade dives at him with purpose, guided by a hand unseen. He screams as it meets his flesh, there is the sound of bone breaking and then he is on the floor, thrashing as the crimson spreads, staining the gray carpet black in the shadows.
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