I, ASSASSIN
Chapter Eighteen
Warning: this chapter deals with somewhat graphic description of animal slaughter. If that kind of thing disgusts, offends or disturbs, probably skim past it.
The ostentatious and no doubt overpriced silver Lexus was parked outside of the Boudreaux mansion, right between The Grand Master's Rolls Royce and Marius's navy blue Jeep Wrangler (which was ancient but Marius seemed more attached to than his son). Remy felt his stomach churn with apprehension as he parked his Harley along side the Jeep (he dare not park anywhere near the Rolls Royce, he was sure he'd be met with even more disapproval). He couldn't believe it. What was the Lexus doing here? What was that snob with that hideous yappy little dog called Muffin doing at the Boudreaux house?
He dusted himself off as best he could (although he was filthy and there was no brushing it off easily) and headed up the steps of the back porch, which led directly into the utility room (where the washing machine and dryer were) next to the kitchen. He quickly went through the laundry basket in there; the Boudreaux's housekeeper Aceline had taken his dirty clothes from his room yesterday, he'd noticed the dirty pile gone from the chair. Luckily, jeans and a t-shirt were clean (although not ironed). He didn't care, he couldn't turn up to training looking like he'd been rolling around in dust. He didn't need any more disapproval from his mentor.
After throwing the dirty clothes in the washing machine, he hastily washed his face and hair as best he could at the large deep wooden sink – an original feature of the house which even had an old fashioned clothes mangle still bolted next to it. He swept his wet hair back from his face as neatly as possible, hoping it didn't make him look like Christian Bale too much, and he slipped into the kitchen, not even being noticed by Aceline, who was busy peeling by his count, two dozen apples.
" Making something special? " Remy asked in French as he moved up behind her. He unnerved the woman at times, not so much because of his startling mutant eyes, but due to his tendency to (even inadvertently) approach completely silently.
Aceline turned, her brown eyes wide for a moment, she frowned, " Stop sneaking up! I had a knife! " she replied nervously in French. She spoke better French than English, and when she did speak English, it was always mangled and incomprehensible, her accent was thick and lazy.
Remy chewed the inside of his cheek as he looked down at the peeled apples, the small paring knife poised in the woman's chubby fingers. Remy thought her knife was probably small and likely to do less damage than some of the other more dangerous and impressive weapons in this abode. " Sorry, Acelyn, " he said softly, " So are you baking so early in the morning? "
" Madame wants a galette for lunch, " said Aceline disdainfully.
" Madame? " asked Remy, tilting his head, he realised at once she could not mean Bella Donna, whom she called 'bonbon', and had since Bella Donna had been a small child. Aceline had been Bella Donna's nanny first and housekeeper second. Now her position as a nanny was no longer required, but Bella Donna still called the woman 'Nunu', which Remy learned later was one of the first words she'd learned.
" Madame St. Dubois, " answered Aceline, she chewed on a piece of apple skin for a moment, " Monsieur Boudreaux's fiancée. "
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, thought Remy. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, I just robbed that woman in broad daylight right in fucking view of security cameras that were probably followin' me the entire time. I'm dead. I'm fucking dead.
" She come in here talking on her six-hundred dollar phone, looking down her nose-job at me, " grumbled Aceline bitterly, " Then demanded galette for lunch and told me to have her suit dry cleaned! "
" Keep your voice down, " Remy placed a hand on Aceline's shoulder gently, he kept his voice low.
" She don't scare me, " the fiery woman proclaimed.
Ain't her you should be scared of, Remy thought and with that, he took off towards the foyer. There were half a dozen suitcases there at the bottom of the stairs, and what looked to be a 'dog bag' (some kind of designer tote bag for toting around dogs, from what he could tell).
So...Marius got himself a little hot blonde fiancee. Suppose it's about time...he's been single since Bella Donna was a baby. Maybe the distraction will get him to leave me alone for a bit, maybe she'll take his attention. Guy probably needs to get laid.
Just as he was about to turn to head to Marius's study to find him, the Grand Master and the blonde – Madame St. Dubois as she was apparently known – came walking out together from the morning room, speaking in French animatedly.
They stopped, seeing Remy there, and Remy stared at them both, he spied right away that they were holding hands. Remy was somewhere between disgusted and almost amused. Immediately, the first thought that entered his head was Dirty old man! She's almost half your age!
"LeBeau," snorted the old man, Remy hated how he always made his name sound detestable, as if he were using a swear word. The Grand Master made Remy's surname sound like the word cunt. Remy was almost certain this was intentional. "This is Adele St. Dubois."
The woman – Adele – gazed at him almost suspiciously, and Remy wondered if she recognised him. He'd been wearing sunglasses, he'd been wearing different clothes, his hair had been dry and slightly messy from the ride without a helmet.
"Adele is gonna be my bride come October," the Grand Master continued.
"Congratulations," Remy responded curtly, he couldn't force himself to sound enthusiastic. He was too busy thinking what the hell did the woman see in this gruesome and nasty old man. It occurred to him that there were probably only two reasons a woman like Adele would be interested in the old man...and it was most likely that his wealth was the most sizeable of the two.
"Take her suitcases up to our room..."
Remy tilted his head, he couldn't help but feel sceptical about this relationship. He kept his mouth shut all the same. "Which room that be?"
"Blue room, end of the east side of the house," said the Grand Master, sounding rather impatient, as if he'd expected Remy to already know this information. As if this was a well known fact, as if the name 'Grand Master' had been on a gold plaque outside the door.
Remy rolled his eyes with his head turned as he glanced up the stairs. Grand Master. He ain't the Grand Master of anythin'. Grand Master of this guild is Marius. He swoopin' in actin' like he own the place...dick.
"You standin' there waitin' for a fuckin' tip?" demanded the Grand Master, as Remy hovered.
"Sorry, was just takin' a moment," Remy felt his cheeks grow red, more from anger than humiliation.
" Go with him, make sure he keeps his sticky fingers to himself, " warned The Grand Master to his fiancee. Remy wondered if the old jerk actually realised he understood every word. Or was he supposed to overhear that? Was that supposed to be for his benefit, to make him feel insignificant?
" Must you go? " asked Adele. Remy realised the reason she had said nothing to him at the gas station was because she was French. The most she had said was 'Muffin', her dog's name. Remy wondered if he would have guessed her nationality if he'd looked at her credit card, or through her wallet more closely and seen her name. Probably not. French names these days were popular, especially in the South.
" Afraid so, my love."
" But I've just arrived! " she complained unhappily, her puffy lips (clearly not her own) pulled into a pout.
" I have business I need to attend. Make yourself at home while I'm away...and Marius's housekeeper Adelaide will bow to your every whim. Anything you need, you ask her. "
Remy frowned, feeling slightly bothered by the fact that the Grand Master couldn't even remember the name of the housekeeper who had worked for the family for nigh on sixteen years. Remy was tempted to correct him, but thought the better of it. Part of being an Assassin was knowing when to hold his tongue and take orders.
Grabbing the suitcases, all ridiculously heavy and cumbersome, Remy dragged himself, grunting up the stairs, hearing the clicking of Adele's heels behind him. He noted she'd changed her clothes since they'd met at the gas station. She was wearing a white blouse now, floaty and light to beat the heat, but there was some kind of black underwear beneath it, he could see it through the thin fabric. Her cream coloured skirt was short, showing her long tan legs, and she was wearing pink stilettos now, which he felt looked ridiculous with the outfit. The dog was in her arms, growling as she neared him; he could tell it disliked him. That was fine, he'd flick another charged piece of card up at the little bastard if it tried to bite him, he decided.
He found the room, the door was already open; one of Adele's suitcases was already up there, lying open on the bed, a selection of her underwear on display across the silk damask bedding on the four-post bed. Remy spied the garment bag she'd clearly retrieved her blouse and skirt from – the jacket to match the outfit was hanging from the rail above the bed, almost disappearing into the folds of gold and white satin.
" Put them there, " said Adele in French, she spoke with a snappy and direct attitude out of the presence of the Grand Master, Remy could only roll his eyes out of sight as he put the cases where she instructed.
Remy didn't take too much care about dropping the suitcases, it wasn't through choice but rather his grip slipped and they all fell to the floor with a loud thud, a few falling flat on their sides.
" Careful! " she yelled at him furiously.
Somehow he couldn't help himself but roll his eyes at her directly this time, he hadn't intended to but it had just happened involuntarily, and he immediately cursed himself when he saw her expression change in absolute disgust.
" Don't you dare roll your eyes at me! You think I don't recognise you? You disgusting filthy- "
Remy interceded, "Sorry? Is that French? I really don't speak...or understand it," he lied, sniffing. Without waiting for any orders or any more criticism, he turned and left the room, closing the door on his way out. Once he'd gotten to the end of the hall, and way out of her earshot, he called her many things in impeccable French, and glad there was no one nearby to request the pardon of it.
He went downstairs, sighing unhappily to see Marius and the Grand Master downstairs in the foyer, their discussion was in hushed voices. Upon his footsteps, they immediately stopped and turned to watch him make it the rest of the way down.
Holding his cane, the Grand Master looked him up and down, Remy felt quite dissected and oddly violated.
"So..." said Remy, turning towards Marius, "what's training today? Melee? Marksmanship?" he asked. He hoped it was marksmanship; although he hated guns, he rather enjoyed the challenge of trying to fire at paper targets and ballistic dummies accurately (it was easy to shoot something that wobbled like a bowl of jello, it didn't feel any pain, it couldn't look at him with sad eyes demanding why?).
"You'll go with my father," Marius said, "you'll do as he says."
"But what-?" Remy tried to ask. No...not again. He didn't want to be out with this creep again. The guy made his skin crawl.
"Never mind what," the old man responded quickly, "do as you're told and stop askin' so many damn questions. He lifted his cane and gestured towards the front door, waiting for it to be opened for him.
Remy glanced towards his mentor, but he realised that Marius seemed to have little sway here. The old man had decided to take charge, and Remy supposed all he could do was obey. Refraining from yet another sigh, Remy opened the door, and let the Grand Master be the first to leave.
In the car, the Grand Master didn't utter a single word, no explanation, not even a casual how are you? No. The drive was utterly silent other than the engine and the sound of the wheels on the road. Remy lost track of the road signs, and it wasn't until he saw the sign for 'Red's Meat-Market and Slaughterhouse' as they turned down towards a small industrial property that he realised what was going to happen.
Immediately, Remy's stomach tightened, his neck began to hurt so bad with the tension that he had to slyly raise his hand up and lean his elbow against the door to rest his hand upon his neck and try to make it seem casual just to rub it and ease it a little.
"Conditionin'," said the old man, parking between an old Ford pickup and an Corvette. "You Thieves are all hot-blooded and chicken-hearted," he said, his accent thick, "we gotta desensitize you, turn that blood to ice, turn that heart to stone."
Remy wished he could turn his heart to stone. Right now though, his blood was already running so cold that he was sure shards of ice would be poking through his veins.
The old man led him to a large building; Remy heard the distinct mooing of numerous cows, the grunting of various pigs, the baaing of sheep. It was like an Old MacDonald song without the cheery music...and the ee—i-ee-i-oh. There were many workers, white coats and hairnets, woven hats and dark sombre expressions. Remy and the Grand Master were made to wear the same white coats and hats, made to wear plastic covers over their shoes. Remy hated to admit to himself how incredibly terrified and stupid he felt as he followed along behind a guide who gave a tour. The guide (a man in his sixties) seemed to know The Grand Master rather well, Remy realised he probably wasn't the first initiate to have been brought here for desensitization.
The smell of the place was foul, like old meat and blood. And there was a smell of fear too...urine and faeces. Remy understood it all too well. The noise of animals was deafening, the sound of hammering, of cleavers, of thumping and conveyor belts and engines.
Remy was made to watch first, watch as the animals were executed for their meats. No peaceful euthanasia for them, some were slaughtered, as far as Remy could see, without the benefit of anything to kill their pain or put them out of their suffering. Remy wasn't particularly sure any of it was legal.
He tried not to let it affect him, but he felt sick to the stomach as he watched a sheep go from a loud fat nervous animal to lamb for someone's dinner table. Then there was watching the pigs, they made the most noise, their squeals were shrill and almost heartbreaking as they tried to escape desperately from their attackers. The things were still alive when they were chained up to the ceiling, dangling and kicking, their high pitched squealing nearly splitting Remy's ears, it echoed off of the white tiled walls and cold stone floors. Remy tried to turn his head as the guy performing the slaughter took a large knife and stuck the pig in the throat, dragging it up crudely. The bile rose in his throat as The Grand Master grabbed his head in his gnarled but surprisingly strong hands and hissed "look!"
The blood didn't just spill or pour...it gushed, as if someone had emptied a paint bucket of thin watery red-brown paint into the square basin below. It made a terrific loud splashing, the pig kicking its last kick and before the conveyor swung it away and the next was hauled in, strung up and slaughtered.
Remy had to swallow the taste of bile back, he didn't dare throw up. Not in front of the Grand Master. He tried to still his nerves, tried to stop his heart from thudding and skipping dangerous beats, tried to prevent the anxiety from making him want to turn and run for his life.
"Here," said the worker, who must have been close to his age, Remy realised, as he handed him the large knife as the next pig came on it's way.
Remy couldn't help but shake his head in refusal. He was just here to observe, here to be desensitized, wasn't he? But as he turned and saw the displeased look in the Grand Master's face he realised that this was part of the plan. He wasn't here to just watch and get used to the sight and smell of blood and gore. He was here to facilitate the slaughter.
It seemed his hand was suddenly weakened as he reached for the knife, everything seemed to tingle, his fingers, his hand, his nose even tingled and itched ridiculously. He tried to think straight, but he was going numb, his mind growing foggy.
"Right here," gestured the worker to the squirming pig.
"Will it feel pain?" Remy asked weakly.
"Not for long," said the worker casually, seeming unaffected. Remy had the feeling this guy would make a much better assassin than he would.
"Ain't this supposed to be humane?" Remy asked, trying to sound general about it, all the while his nerves shooting with anxiety at the thought of causing pain to anything, even an animal.
"No one is asking for your fucking ethical opinions on the slaughter of a fucking pig," snapped the Grand Master, he slammed his cane hard against Remy's thigh, which hurt quite a bit and caused him to flinch, "now kill it."
Remy looked at the poor thing, it squirmed and shrieked, it swung and nearly hit him with it's front trotters, and he ducked back a little, the knife trembling in his right hand. It's it or me. It or me. Christ, I can't do this...what choice is there? It's it or me.
"Kill it!"
Jesus Christ, make sure you do it right, Remy told himself. Fast and quick so the poor thing don't suffer...
His mind seemed to switch off, just as it had when he'd been cutting up the elk he'd killed poorly during his first camping trip. He couldn't remember how it felt to push the knife into the wriggling animal. He didn't come to his senses until he realised he was standing holding a knife by his side and that he was soaked with blood; it had sprayed everywhere over him, his face, the white coat, he could taste it in his mouth.
"You fucking idiot," muttered the old man, he slammed him with his cane again in the leg, "You were supposed to push it away so it didn't splash on you! Pay attention!"
Remy trembled, he almost dropped the large blade but somehow caught himself from doing it.
"Now, again!" said The Grand Master as the next pig was brought in, Remy's last kill disappearing through strips of thick clear plastic on the conveyor. "You do it as many times as it takes to get it right!"
He wasn't sure how he found the strength to do as he was told. Fear was a mighty powerful thing; he did it again and again and again, trying to drown out the sounds of the squeals by screaming in his head, forcing the images out of his mind, trying to ignore the smell of blood on him, trying to avoid the smell of pig excrement that hung around and the taste of bile in his mouth.
There was no keeping track of how many he killed, they pushed in pig after pig after pig at him, giving him no time to recover or rest. Remy's arm ached at the physical strength it took to slaughter the animals, his throat burned with the threat of vomit and his mouth was bitter with the taste of blood. His eyes stung with the threat of tears that somehow he managed to hold back.
"That's enough," said The Grand Master, apparently satisfied finally, it had seemed like an hour might have passed...perhaps even more. "We're done here."
He said it so simply, as if they'd just walked into a store to observe and look at items...as if they might be walking away from somewhere normal, not an animal death factory.
They left after shedding their white coats. While the Grand Master had only a few small splatters of blood on him, Remy was soaked with it; it had taken a good amount of pigs before he'd learned how to properly turn them (with great difficulty as they were far heavier than he'd thought they would be) to make sure the blood spilled away from him.
The Grand Master went outside, complaining about needing a cigarette and left him to his own devices in a rather empty tiled room with nothing but a long stainless steel sink with six or seven faucets, and a couple of rolls of paper towel and a rather big garbage can. Remy silently hoped the old bastard would accidentally set himself on fire out there while he washed his face and hands at a sink. Remy fought to try and lather the blood out of his fingernails but it was impossible. Some things couldn't be washed away.
The strong alcoholic smell of the antiseptic soap was what finally made him vomit; it caught him in the back of the throat and he hastily leaned over and lost all control of it. He was glad he hadn't eaten before he left, it would have made this much worse. As it was, very little came up, but it left him shaking and ill all the same, just as it had the first time he'd killed the Elk and had to skin the damn thing. He sobbed into the sink, splashing all evidence of his tears away with the icy cold water from the faucet.
He took a few moments to pull himself together, he washed his hair (as it had gotten a little blood in it due to it soaking through the hat) at the sink, and dried himself off with paper towels. There was blood on his jeans, he'd have to throw them away he realised, there would never be any removing that.
Leaving through the back door that the Grand Master left through, Remy walked slowly to the car, feeling shaken, weak and cold inside.
The word murder kept playing itself inside his head.
Murder. You just murdered those innocent pigs...fuck...innocent animals, didn't do anythin' wrong, ate what they was given, bred when they was told...and to be treated like that...no fuckin' humane treatment? Just...slaughtered and sufferin'. This place is a fuckin' abomination...should be fuckin' shut down, he thought bitterly as he approached the car.
The Grand Master stood there leaning against the hood of his car, a cigarette between his thin gnarled fingers. He gave Remy a look up and down, "them's gonna have to go," he nodded towards the now blood-soaked jeans.
"Yes, Grand Master," Remy responded dully, he headed towards the car.
"Put down newspapers on the seat, you find them in the back," warned the old man, flicking his ash onto the parking lot.
As Remy was covering the seat with newspapers (to avoid the blood from going onto it), he saw the worker who had shown him how to slaughter the pigs approaching from the back door, a large package tied up with paper and string.
"Here you go, sir," said the worker brightly.
The Grand Master took a wallet from the pocket of his black satin coat and took several bills from it and passed it to the worker, he said nothing else and accepted the package. He moved to Remy and handed it to him, "here."
Remy felt the weight of it, heavy...and incredibly cold.
"What-?" Remy asked.
"Your spoils," said the old man, a smug look on his face.
Remy had to fight the urge to vomit again, and holding onto the meat, he climbed into the passengers seat, sighing inwardly and wishing he were dead. Then again, he realised if he couldn't keep himself together much longer, he probably would be.
End of Chapter Eighteen