Beyond Good & Evil by L.T. Vargus

Author:L.T. Vargus [Vargus, L.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FBI Thriller, Serial Killers, Police Procedural
Publisher: Smarmy Press
Published: 2018-09-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

The man in black waited outside the bar, tucked in the shadows like the predator he was, his back to the painted brick. Waiting. Hunting. His teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached. His breath hissed in and out, each exhale extra-long, almost a growl. Hatred and humiliation thudded inside his skull, bright red and pulsating in time with his thundering heart.

The asphalt was all wet out here in the parking lot, slick and black in a way that reminded him of playing in the rain when he was a kid, reminded him of gutters and sewers and potholes full of muddy water. But he smelled none of these things. Not rain or sewage or that dry-spit smell the air got when the mugginess hit its peak level of misery.

No. He smelled blood.

He always smelled blood when he was angry. A metallic stench, almost like rust, he thought, but not quite. Wetter than that. And bodily. The odor existed only in his head, of course. Not really there. Just another figment banging around up there in the ol’ brain pan with all the other fucked up movies of things he’d seen and done.

And he imagined that pro-wrestler-looking asshat coming outside, strutting toward the parking lot, his giant block-shaped head still full of what a big shit he was because he could shove people around.

And the man in black would slide up behind him, on Death’s silent feet, and shove his knife through the knot of muscle and tissue at the back of that ropy neck, into the spinal column, slitting straight up into the brainstem, or giving it a good fucking try, at least. And he’d watch the muscle-bound oaf drop to the ground, eyes going wide, face turning redder and redder as he realized his lungs didn’t work anymore. Face going purple. Then going gray. Little choked gasps pouring out of his lips.

But no, the fucker would just say it’d been a sneak attack, that his foe didn’t have the balls to take him on face-to-face.

No, what the man in black would do was go right up to him, give his shoulders a little feint to get the guy thinking he was going for a headshot, and then he’d jam his blade deep into the abdominal cavity — the wide open body shot that was typically there in a street fight when everyone was thinking about Hollywood haymakers. Giving the knife a good, hard rip to the side would spill all the gut works right out like wet noodles dumped into a colander. And while he was grabbing at his insides, trying to hold his life in with nothing but his fat sausage fingers, the man in black would stab him in the balls. Pop both of his grapes and pin his sack to his taint. Then who wouldn’t have the balls, huh?

He waited, hand on the knife in his pocket. The handle was warm to the touch. Ready to penetrate. Ready to carve. Ready to plant in

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