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Persecution with a side of Bordelaise


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Jay Lian

Blood drips from his scalp freely as Jay stares, awestruck, at the back profile of the man before him, the man who is even now thrashing about with a desperate, unconstrained rage. Well, unconstrained to the extent that he is physically constrained. Spiritually though, absolutely amazing. Jay is fascinated, absolutely fascinated by this man. Torn cloth and ropes lie strewn about the dimly lit room, the soft female anchor's voice on the TV mixing with the clinking of metal and muffled screams, curses and lord knows what else. Jay is not given to undue admiration, so this is a rarity indeed. He drops onto the stool by the kitchen island where two plates sit with two dinners on them, Bordelaise sauce congealing around half eaten steak. He reaches around these plates, to a line of smaller plates with an array of canapes on them and idly pops a stone cold sausage pastry into his mouth. The work thus far has made him quite hungry. Thirsty as well. Forgetful, he takes a sip from the glass of red wine accompanying the now congealed steak, and recoils from the acidic taste. Terrible. He really should throw those out while he remembers. Shrugging mentally, he returns to his staring at the thrashing back. Fascinating ...

After the incident with those of peculiarly bumpy heads, Jay had known precisely what to do first. The leggy blonde had, of course, been familiar. Jay remembers everything, and he remembered that he had seen her with the stumpy brunette a few minutes away from the New Orleans university campus. Given their seeming age, it was a fair deduction therefore that they were both students there. So he had staked the campus out. Jay is a dedicated man when he has a purpose, and priorities are of great importance to him as well. No dingy motels from thereon, he had remained staked outside the university campus for a couple days, living out of his car. Unmoving, he simply watched the campus entrance for hours on end. He spotted the stumpy brunette on the second day, alone this time. It had been good timing as well, as one of the security staff had been passing with increasing regularity, none too subtly eyeing his Hyundai. He'd made a mental note to ditch the car as soon as it was convenient to do so.

Before that however, he had tailed the brunette. It was harder and more complicated than it sounds, as if one spots a car driving along at walking pace, keeping alongside one's self, one would become rightly suspicious. It was with some manoeuvring therefore, circling around back roads and driving ahead of her, stopping, waiting, driving behind her and what have you, that he finally managed to pinpoint her house.

She recognised him, he could tell, when he knocked on her door. There had been that flicker of puzzled recognition, where one is trying to place a face, when she had politely enquired as to what she could do for him. He had appreciated these good manners, for he had waited until the following night before approaching, to make sure she lived alone. and was aware that it wasn't what those of proper upbringing considered sociable hours to come a-knocking. No doubt her rudeness from several days ago had been more of the leggy blonde's influence, and the stumpy brunette had simply been led astray.

The polite puzzlement did change to something more resembling alarm when he had requested entry, moreso still when he put his foot into the doorway upon her refusal. He regretted his own rudeness here, however again, priorities were priorities, and there was a greater breach in etiquette to address overall. She had called out, and it was then that he realised despite his staking out that she did not, in fact, live alone. A broad shouldered male had come stalking towards him, muscles bulging and rippling and every line on his face radiating impatience and scorn. Jay had, regrettably, had to address the issue rather forcibly. And while the girl had screamed on the sound of the soft squishing, the wrenching, and the splatter of warm blood upon her face, she had quietened almost instantly when Jay requested that she do so, meek as a mouse. Jay appreciated this courtesy as well.

He had questioned her then, on the leggy blonde, where she had gone that night, what had happened. While she did not respond quite immediately, Jay did allow some leeway for her shock. After a couple minutes however, he had begun to fray at the edges again. Thankfully, after a little persuasive prompting, she had been more than forthcoming with the information he wanted. Apparently, there was a bar the blonde frequented quite often. The brunette claimed she knew this as she had gone with her a few times. Very familiar sort of place, apparently. She had been there that night in question as well, and stated the blonde had shown certain interest in a male matching what Jay remembered of those at the petrol station, due to their unfamiliar faces in the otherwise said familiar kind of locale.

With this information in hand, Jay had gone to the bar in question. His new wardrobe consisted of a biker jacket which was once again rather too large for him, and his old jeans. The former boyfriend's waistline had simply proven too wide for any belt to convincingly conquer, and Jay had been forced to make do.

Though he was an unfamiliar face, Jay did not have any unwanted advances that night. Nor the following night, or the night after that. He also however did not see any sign of the trio in question.

The following night however, they did show. It hadn't taken long for Jay to spot them, for they were a rambunctious lot. The trouble had been catching one alone. Jay is a quick learner. He knew now that it was highly unlikely that he could take on all three at once, there was something quite unnatural about their strength. Jay does not consider himself a slouch in this department, which makes this all the more reason to be wary. Besides which, starting a brawl in the middle of a bar with half the block's locale sat within it would likely be inadvisable anyhow.

He hadn't needed to wait for very long, however. He'd watched as one of the trio cornered another rather leggy blonde (type, much?), and after a few minutes, with a laddish farewell to his mates, the two had strode off into the night. Jay had followed at a safe distance, through the myriad of alleys criss crossing through each other, always keeping a parallel alley between them so as to not stumble accidentally on them.

It was regrettable, for he knew from the experience at the petrol station what would likely happen to the blonde, but again, there were greater priorities to consider. He watched until he considered the two sufficiently immersed in themselves, before going back on himself, back through the criss-cross of alleys so he could approach them from behind. His hammer was firmly within his grip, no surprises this time. He'd swung hard, aiming low, cracking his victim's right knee cap with a sideways sweep, and, as he went down, an overhand swipe came crashing down on the left. The blonde had collapsed, which Jay had found odd. He'd been prepared to deal with her as well, in case she started making a fuss, but figured that perhaps she had simply fainted from the shock.

Jay had parked quite close to the bar, but was forced to use the blonde's scarf as a muzzle, for the man's cursing would have otherwise woken the entire neighbourhood. He was puzzled as to why the man hadn't lost consciousness from the pain, and the thrashing made it considerably more difficult to transport him back to the car, but Jay managed eventually. Jay is a dedicated sort, as previously mentioned.

So here Jay is now, staring in awe at the still thrashing figure before him. Shaking his head, he stands, traipsing over so he can face the man again, kicking stray sheets and frayed pieces of rope as he did. The man's thrashing had been as such that the bedsheets he'd initially prepared to restrain had torn straight through from hem to hem. The ropes had fared no better, and if Jay hadn't burst his kneecap from the get-go, his hostage may very well have escaped there and then, if not sooner. Eventually however, Jay had located several lengths of chain, which he had then secured to the aforementioned island and a couple of load bearing pillars in the house. Even now however, Jay could hear creaks in concordance with the thrashing, a more accurate measure than anything else of the man's strength.

Jay kneels down so he's face to face, mere inches apart, and reaches a hand out to pluck one of the many Ginsu knives buried in his hostage's torso. His captive bleeds freely from the open wound, yet shows no signs of relenting in his struggle. One of his hands, and the corresponding fingers, have literally been nailed to the floor, the thumb and forefinger have been reduced to nubs. Jay now starts on the middle finger, staring at the bumpy faced man intently with a half- ****ed citrine smile even as he slices an inch of flesh from it with a practised and fluid cut of the knife. The bumpy face stares back, and the only sound Jay receives in response is an animalistic growl.

Leaning back with a shake of his head, Jay throws the knife so it embeds itself in the exposed neck of his victim. It begins thrashing again in response, showing no signs of any less liveliness than when the night began. Jay is not easily impressed, he is not prone to such, but now he lets out an exhalation of sheer wonder.

''What are you?''
January 17, 2018 09:00 pm

Jay Lian

Jay is a fan of watches. He is not a fan of this modern day culture where people spend the majority of their time staring at one screen or the other, and finds it an utter waste of a wardrobe staple that people have adopted these screens for this purpose as well. A good watch makes the man, as they say, and the watch he has now is a fine one. A gold Seiko watch. Not so cheap that it dampers rather than accentuates a look, and not so expensive that it looks like one is trying too hard. The bumpy faced one had fine taste in watches, even if he did look as though he needed to invest more heavily in dental products and facial creams.

But appearances aren't why Jay has taken this watch. That would be crass. No, Jay has taken this watch because he is also a heavy believer in punctuality. Time management is a crucial thing, and schedules are very important. Lives can be made or undone by them. There was, in fact, one such life very much depending on his punctuality right this very moment. Such it is that he snaps out of his awed reverie, from staring at the still struggling creature in chains, to the watch adorning his wrist, which now marks two minutes to six in the morning. Time flies when one is having fun, as they say, but all good things must end, if only for a short while. Pushing himself up with a grunt, for he is feeling a bit stiff after this whole arduous affair, he traipses back over to the kitchen island, grabbing a plate and giving it a thorough wash in a sink otherwise filled with dirty plates. It would hardly do to feed someone off such a mouldy platter, after all. The stumpy brunette really did have a thing or two to learn about housekeeping.

Grabbing a few of the afore-mentioned sausage pastries, he places them on the now spotless plate. He would like to serve a more bountiful breakfast, but he has never really managed to get the hang of cooking. He cannot even see a microwave anywhere either, so there is no chance of heating these up in a timely manner. It shall have to do.

Whistling a tuneless tune, he retrieves a keychain from his jacket pocket. Hefting one of the keys on it, he inserts it into one of the doors in the house's rather lengthy hallway, turning back towards his captive and ****ing his little citrine half smile as he does.

''Don't go anywhere now.''

Chuckling at his own little joke, he turns the key, and descends down the stairs into darkness. The further down he gets, the more pronounced does the slight sniffling noises from within it become.


The stumpy brunette crouches by a radiator in her basement, profile turned towards him in such a way that the wrist which is handcuffed to it twists somewhat awkwardly. He places the plate beside her, but she simply stares up at him with a mixed sense of misery and pleading. She does not eat the food. She does not even look at it.

Now, Jay does not appreciate this. Admittedly, he has not gone to much effort to prepare the meal, but a meal it is, and one he is offering to her. While he is conscious of the fact that he is playing host to the actual host of the house, this does not make this any less rude. Meeting her gaze with his own, his own expression emotionless, he gestures to the plate.


There is a slight hesitation, but then she bows her head resignedly and pulls the plate towards her with her free hand, taking one of the stone cold pastries and taking a tiny bite. Jay watches her still. She looks up, chewing on the tiny morsel she has imbibed and, seeing him watching, gulps and takes a bigger bite. Nodding in satisfaction, Jay then turns to leave, when she speaks, her voice not an octave above a mouse whisper.

''Please ...''

He turns back, eyebrow arched questioningly.

She quickly glances down, not meeting his gaze this time, instead tilting her head toward the metal pan placed in the corner of the basement.

''I need to ...''

Jay follows her gaze, realisation dawning, and he nods. Retrieving the keychain again, he chooses another key, smaller this time, and he bends down, inserting the key into the latch in the handcuffs, his eyes not leaving hers for a second as he does. When she is freed, he waves a hand, ushering her to her business.


He turns away as she scrambles across to the pan, for it would be rude to look. He hears the sound of a steady stream of liquid, wrinkles his nose as the fresh ingredients reinforce the sudden onslaught of odour, past bodily functions which permeate the room. He hears, rather than sees her humiliation, the suppressed sobs as she is forced to sacrifice her dignity all over again. He holds for a good few seconds after the sound stops, to give her a chance to settle herself. It is only polite.

When he does turn, she stands only several paces behind him, the metal pan gripped tightly in both hands, a measure of defiance once again held in her eyes. The pan is half raised, she staring at him as he stares at her, a doe caught in the headlights, though certainly far less innocent.

''Put it down.''

For a second she seems to falter, the pan lowering a margin, but then her hands grip tighter on her newfound key to freedom. He sees her eyes flicker past him towards the door, only him in her way. In that second, during that one flicker however, his hand has flashed down to the belt of his jeans, and his grip is secure and ready around the handle of that hammer. The same one still imbued with the inner flesh of her former boyfriend's skull.

''Put. It. Down.''

Her resolve wavers completely, her gaze flickering again from door, to hammer, to pan, to door, and to him again. With another sob, she throws the pan down at his feet, a final act of dissent. Even as the contents spill upon his new brogues, he responds with a swift backhand to her cheek, and she crumples to the floor. One hand clutching her cheek, she whimpers, even as Jay grabs her other hand, attaching it once more to the radiator. Once again, she is a pitiable figure, slumped against the wall, hunched over and miserable. Jay turns to leave again, and she makes one final attempt.

''Please ... I won't tell anyone. Please ... let me go.''

Jay stops halfway up the stairs, a furrow in his brow.


There is hesitation again. She had not been expecting a response.

''Because ... because. I won't tell anyone. Just, please ..''

''No. Why won't you tell anyone?''

With longer sentences, his accent is all the more pronounced. Jay dislikes his accent, prefers to keep things short and sweet.

''Because ... I want to live .. please ..''

''You would let someone treat you like this? You would not say anything about it, so you can live? You would let them get away with this?''

She is silent. Jay climbs the rest of the way up the stairs, opens the door. The glare from the hallway light floods briefly into the basement, and the stumpy brunette turns her face away from it. As he turns to close it, he says one more thing. This is the most Jay has spoken to anyone in a long while.

''I have not killed you yet.''

Back upstairs in the kitchen/dining room, the artificial light from the TV is slowly giving way to the light from the rising sun outside. The clanking of the chains has grown louder, the thrashing more desperate, the growls louder and louder still. Jay approaches it again, steps around and peers down at it with the same fascination as before. His interest has not waned in the slightest.

Jay appreciates a good sunrise, it is a lovely sight to see and, after five years in prison, where he was not allowed outside until well after such an event, he has grown to appreciate it all the more. It is true what they say. It's the small things you miss the most. He appreciates it all the more because the kitchen/dining room light apparently does not work, and he has been wanting to get a closer look at this creature, study it in better light. Lighting up a Marlboro Menthol, he takes a deep, appreciative drag from it, before approaching the blinds. Behind him, he hears the bumpy faced creature's thrashing increase tenfold, his growls now taking on more of a shriek-like quality. Before he can process this however, he has already thrown the blinds open, and as he turns back to face the creature, he is amazed to see that it is slowly, but with ever increasing intensity and alacrity, going up in flames. Quite literally. A mere five seconds later, and the chains collapse to the floor, relieved suddenly of any and all of their burden. Before Jay remains only a pile of ash on an otherwise stunningly pink carpet, and an imprint of a hand upon it, thumb and forefinger oddly missing from it.

Jay is not surprised easily. He is not prone to this. But he can merely stare at this display. Finally, he blinks once. Blinks twice. Then he lets out a breathy laugh and shakes his head.


He glances down, the fresh light from the sun revealing that he has tread some rather unsightly brown stains upon the carpet as well. Grimacing, he looks down at the brogues covered in what should hardly be discussed in polite conversation. Gingerly, he steps out of them, leaving them there at the edge of the room as he steps carefully over the brown stains on the carpet and away. He's going to have to look for new shoes now, as well.
January 22, 2018 09:07 pm

Jay Lian

Call Jay one thing, call him meticulous. He is not prone to winging things, nor is he prone to laziness. Bathed in the sunlight of the new day, Jay sits upon the living room sofa in front of the TV, the soft drone of random programming humming on in the background as he opens up a laptop of a matching shade as the shockingly pink carpet he had retrieved from what he assumed was the stubby brunette's room. It is not password protected, a commentary of sorts to how secure she had no doubt considered her existence prior to this whole ordeal. Idly, he wonders if she would password protect after all of this was done. The thought is instantly banished from his mind. It isirrelevant.

Jay is not the sort given to inane fancies. In his previous life, he had never given any credence to myths and legends. He is a pragmatic man, an analytical and logical one. His profession had demanded it. But Jay is not so illogical that when he is quite literally smacked in the face by the potential existence of such legends, he does not acknowledge it. He has seen it with his own eyes, thus does logic demand that he be logical and logically accept their existence, no matter how illogical it might seem. To not do so would be illogical. Logic.

His research leads him to these creatures of legend spanning throughout the ages as far as man can remember, the creature known as the vampyre. All sorts of theories are bandied about where these creatures are concerned, too many to list. All kinds of ways to deter or vanquish them are also mentioned, though once again, there appears to be little cohesion. Jay decides the best thing he can do is work with what he has, and go from there. The best way to do this would be to take inventory of what he does, in fact, have.

Inconsiderately enough, he realises as he retrieves the toolbox from the car which he has still not disposed of, the man formerly known as Gus Moore had not filled his kit with wooden stakes, holy water, crosses or garlic necklaces, to name just a few things he had read off of the afore-mentioned lists. Instead, he had several different kinds of screwdrivers, a battery operated circular saw, several bags of assorted nails, neatly labelled by type, and a bit of measuring tape. A quick search of the house does not yield up any holy relics either. Clearly, this is not the way to go. Inconvenienced, Jay returns to the laptop for more research.

So busy is he with his musings, as engrossed as he is, time manages to escape his notice. When he next looks at his watch, it is nearly 3 in the afternoon. He has missed the stubby brunette's afternoon feeding. Now, Jay is an understanding sort, he really is, but he also despises hypocrites and, well, this is just plain rude of him. It is therefore that he administers several whacks to the side of his head with the butt of his hammer as punishment, before descending back down into the cellar for the routine feeding and relieving of bowels. He makes a mental note to delay dinner a bit as well. Need to space those meals out.

When Jay returns, he decides he's going to need to go shopping. Unfortunately, he doesn't know the area, and it's probably a little late for exploring. Thusly, he decides he'll get an early start tomorrow instead. The rest of the day is therefore spent on more research, though he finds little else of use, up until 10pm when he decides it's time for dinner. As he retrieves more of the stone cold pastries however, there is a knock on the door, which gives him pause. He is certainly not expecting anyone. Of course, this is not his house.

Eye to the peephole, he recognises the mohawk instantly. It's one of the leather clad lads. How he has tracked Jay down, Jay is not sure. On the other hand however, if he was being openly hostile, why bother knocking? Going off of previous experience, Jay doubts he is much of the polite sort like Jay is. It's all rather peculiar. Plastering on a wide citrine smile, Jay opens the door to greet him. He is curious.

''Hi. I'm looking for my friend. I ...'' The leather clad pauses briefly. '' ... followed him here. Tall, long hair. Jacket like mine. He indicates the leather jacket with a stereotypical skull on the back. ''Can I come in?''

Jay nods along to the man's explanation. Upon request of entry, he smiles widely again.

''May I.''

''Wha'?'' The leather clad frowns.

''May I. Not can I. Can you?''

''Wha'?'' The leather clad repeats. ''Look, can I come in or not?''

Jay passes a glance back into the living room. It's rather messy. Hardly an appropriate state to greet guests in. Raising a finger, a request for patience, he steps away from the doorway, grabbing a broom from the corner of the room. Using this, he approaches the shockingly pink carpet, where he promptly begins sweeping up the remnant ash from the night before. Upon doing this, he quite openly and quite visibly sweeps it past the open door where the leather clad is still stood, now looking somewhat irritated.

The sight of the ash changes the leather clad's temperament quite visibly. Jay sees the snarl, for he is quite openly staring at the man at his doorway even as he sweeps, still with that sickly citrine smile. Jay sees the transformation, and it is instantaneous. Bumpy face again. Fists pound upon an invisible barrier, again, and again, animalistic growls as the leather clad begins throwing himself at it.

Apparently the internet was telling the truth. These vampyres can't enter a home without express permission. Jay imagines that must be quite inconvenient. Does anyone even extend such formal invites anymore? He imagines a parade of homeless vampires in the street. It is amusing. It is also instantly banished for its irrelevance.

Very well. If one thing is true, perhaps more are. He watches the vampyre thrusting itself at the doorway, again, and again, with a blank stare. Mid-thrust, Jay then suddenly shrugs and says, ''Please. Come in.'' Simultaneous to this, he grips the hammer in his belt, sidestepping away from the door and swinging it downwards, even as the vampyre, propelled by its own thrust, overextends itself through the doorway and onto the floor.

At least, that had been the plan. Another shattered knee, another leisurely dismantling. But the vampyre is quick. Quicker than anticipated. It rights itself with the poise of a wildcat, correcting the course of its flight and landing gracefully on its feet. Jay's hammer buries itself in the wooden floor. Stuck.

Jay barely manages to look up in time to see the vampyre flying again, this time directly at him. He barely has enough time to grab a knife from the counter before it is upon him, bearing him down to the floor with its weight and propulsion. The knife is between them, and the vampyre's teeth are gnashing with a furious vengeance, eager to sink into supple flesh. There's really only one thing for it. As they gnash away, Jay pushes the blade into its maw as though a gag of sorts, the bite of the knife sinking into the corner of the vampyre's lips and carving a crooked crimson smile. Jay laughs at the sight. The vampyre smiles back, even as it shrieks and grates its fangs against the blade, pushing farther, pushing deeper. Jay laughs again, but he is conscious that the wider the smile carved, the closer the teeth. And they are getting very close indeed.

It is unthinkable, what Jay does next. Truly reprehensible, not sporting at all. But there is really nothing else for it at this stage. Jay knees the vampyre in the gonads.

He is not sure if it truly worked. He is not sure if the vampyre can actually feel pain. But whether it is from that hollow, anguishing ache in the pit of its bowels, or merely by reflex from a former life, the creature curls into a fetal position for a moment. The moment Jay needs to grab at the toolbox where the rest of his kit is stored. Grabbing at the first thing he feels, the weight of it indicates the battery operated circular saw. Jay smiles his citrine smile.

The vampyre is up again, lunges again, but Jay is more prepared this time. Even so, he feels the force of the leap as he ducks, rushing air as it passes over him by a mere hair's breadth, the tip of its boot catching him in the teeth and mixing citrine with crimson. But Jay evades nevertheless, and as it passes over him, the hum of the saw activates, biting through denim and deep into ankle flesh.

The creature lands with poise again ... or attempts to. Yet as it tries to bear its own weight, one leg gives way, and it stumbles. A monster is a lot less terrifying when it is clumsy, for clumsiness is a mortal trait. Gone is its innate grace as it crashes to the floor, unable to compensate for this loss of balance. Jay, on the other hand, is quick. He slices behind the other ankle as well.

From here, it is simpler. If a clumsy monster is less terrifying, a lame one is, well, lame indeed. It thrashes and it struggles, and it is certainly strong, but Jay simply keeps out of reach, working away with his saw upon flesh and bone. When a hand comes too near, wildly swinging, it meets the same fate. The process isn't quick, it isn't neat, but it is efficient, and Jay is not impatient. He is not prone to this.

Perhaps an hour or so later, the stubby brunette is awakened by the sound of a loud shape crashing down the cellar stairs. The shape is snarling, and as it settles at the foot of the stairs, the light from above illuminates it, revealing it as a limbless torso. Impossibly, the face is animated, horrifically so, drooling and snarling and gnashing its teeth. There is an unnatural contort in its face, between its brows. Bumpy. She screams.

The shape is followed downstairs by Jay himself. He uncuffs the stubby brunette from the radiator, the hand on the small of her back as he leads her upstairs wordlessly. She is meeker than ever, a look of terror etched upon her face, jaw slightly agape, the scream now silent. He leads her to what he had assumed was her room, is about to re-cuff her, when she finally speaks.

''What ... what was that?''

He shrugs. He says nothing. She is not satisfied.

''Who are you?''

The tone is slightly more demanding this time, meekness receding, if only slightly.

''Emerson. Waldo Emerson.'' He replies. It is probably not wise to give his real name, or even his assumed name. This is the first name that springs to mind, for some reason. Doubtless something he read.

She frowns, features screwed in some semblance of contemplation. ''Waldo ... like that picture book puzzle thing?''

Clearly, she is not a literary major. Or a philosophy major. Jay simply shrugs again. ''Sure.'' He makes to re-cuff her again. She speaks again, quieter.

''But ... what are you? What was that? What if there's more of them?''

Jay pauses again, looks at her. She is vulnerable to a tee, gown mucked and stained as she, by all appearances, seems to attempt to cling to the wall beside her. She cannot meet his gaze, seems incredibly interested in the floor instead.

He stands, does not answer. It is rude to lie, and he certainly cannot comfort her. He shrugs yet again, and exits the room. Neither of them mention the handcuffs.

She is still there the next morning, fetal upon her bed and clinging to her blankets, when breakfast time rolls around.
January 28, 2018 08:00 pm

Jay Lian

Jay is not given to vanity. He is not prone to such things. This can be attested by the fact that not once had he even so much as glanced into a mirror during his entire stay. It would hardly be polite to use someone else's toothbrush, and his scruff was growing over the unsightly scabs that marred his face from the previous visit. When the stumpy brunette, perhaps in an effort to alleviate the silence that reined the household now, had ever so timidly enquired as to his haircut therefore, he had not immediately recalled to what she was referring to. His haphazard haircut, already rather poorly shorn from his convenience store bathroom visit, had become even worse for wear over the past few days. So when he did finally gaze upon his own reflection, even he was mildly taken aback.

As it turns out, the stumpy brunette was a hairdresser in her spare time, needing a job to try and keep up with the tuition fees on top of the loan she had taken out for the university. This, amongst other inane things, Jay did learn about her as he sits now, white towel acting as a makeshift bib around his shoulders as she trims away, scissors snipping busily through his thatch. She had volunteered for this, again perhaps to cut through the tense air which permeated the house, and now any discomfort on her part appears to have vaporised upon rediscovery of familiar ground, if only temporarily.

Jay, on his part, is mildly uncomfortable with the whole situation. Not simply because the girl who he has, for all intents and purposes, been keeping captive in her own house is now wielding a suitably sharp object around his head, perilously close to a number of vital veins, but also because he has not really experienced any non-violent physical contact over the past five years, to which by comparison this whole proceeding is awkwardly intimate, no matter how run of the mill it might be to her. He swerves his head in his discomfort, looking this way and that, something to do, to which her response is always a reprimanding and forcibly firm tilt of his head back to front and centre.

Jay is uncomfortable.

The girl, on the other hand is not. She has changed as well, he sees, making the most of her newfound freedom. Her seeming preference for long sleeves, an odd outfit choice in the seasonal warmth, is now gone, arms dangling freely from a sleeveless shirt, recent but now fading bruisings are notable around pale wrists.

Fidgeting again, Jay checks his watch for the time, with no real intent as such, simply for something to do. Perhaps he can become mesmerised in the seemingly simplistic mechanisms of the watch hands, ticking each second by, each second closer to the end of this whole ordeal .. no. No, boring as all hell. He blinks then however, the time displayed registering. It is two minutes to six, and he has an appointment to keep.

Brusquely, his hand sweeps up to remove the makeshift bib. His attempt is met my a stinging slap upon his knuckles, immediately followed by a muted gasp from the perpetrator. She flushes as Jay turns, his features inscrutable. She has, perhaps, forgotten in her fervour who this man is. He does nothing however, simply removing his hand from the towel and facing forward again.

Perhaps she can sense his antsiness, however. Her pace speeds up, eager for the final touches now. When she places the scissors down, Jay needs no second invitation, simultaneously standing and sweeping the bib off of him as he exits the room quite abruptly. He is not trying to be rude, of course, for anyone who knows even a little of Jay knows he is not prone to such. He is a polite man at his core, however the discomfort of the situation magnified by his own tardiness of a self-set appointment has rendered him forgetful. He will pay for this breach of etiquette when he recalls the situation later on, with a resultant and firmly deserved rap or three on his newly trimmed scalp with the butt of a hammer.

Now, however, his attention is elsewhere. Within the confines of the cellar, to be precise, where a sawed up and limbless torso still lingers, snapping and growling relentlessly, yet to no avail. There has been a new cosmetic alteration to his appearance. Jay is no surgeon, however he had accurately determined that if physical trauma and blood loss were of no consequence to the monster in his basement, then other such infringements upon its person may also be met with equal indifference. He is not entirely sure as to why he did it, other than perhaps out of sheer curiosity, however the torso now also lacks a scalp, a pulsing brain greeting the world before it with impunity. As stated, Jay is no surgeon, and the cuts are messy, lacking in symmetry and jagged as a serrated knife's edge. Which, coincidentally, is precisely what he used for the job.

It gives him an idea.

Retrieving the knife in question from a desk surface, he fingers it idly as he paces around the torso, inches away but inches enough from the snapping maw of the rooted beast.

''Ever hear of a game called Operation?''

Jay shakes his head, not awaiting nor expecting a response.

''Some things must be kept solemn. It is a noble profession, surgery. Not one to make light of. Yet nothing is solemn these days, everything a party trick. Etiquette, too, is forgotten.''

He bends, that he is closer. He has leaned the torso against the wall, that he not need press his face to the dust to meet the beast eye to eye. The serrated knife traces a line across the beast's exposed abdomen.

''You were very rude to me the other night. Two times now, actually. You will make amends. One of your friends already has. But before you do, you will tell me where your other friend, from that night at the petrol station, is. Where do you hide in the light?''

Jay is not a verbose man. He is not prone to this. On the contrary, he is very soft spoken. He has little need for the emphatic. His victim's screams often do the work for him. He traces another line upon the beast, groin to jugular. Jay is no surgeon, and the vampyre's threshold for pain proves challenging. Tonight, however, it will scream. The screams will cause a poor captive brunette to nearly concuss herself in the shower, cause her to hastily wrap a bathrobe around her pale body, the mist upon the mirror not quite concealing the puckered red spots which adorn her back in the multitude as she does, and curl up with a pillow wrapped tightly around her ears, fetal within the covers of her security. Tonight, it will shriek, and beg for the daylight to claim it before the night is through.

Jay promises this. And to break a promise is the highest etiquette breach of all.
February 03, 2018 09:03 pm
Actives (10) Fresh Blood (3) View All The Fallen (2) Graveyard
mist, Jensen Beck, Andrei Codin, Cristina Scabbia, Mallory Quarters, February, Cameal Ham, Fall, L A Doneoven, Orangesrlife  Gabrielle Ricci
Louis Middleton 
Elliot Weiss
There is still time 
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