narrative!
Who: Rose Bloom (UNGRATEFUL DWARF).
What: Entertainment at Harrison Tweed's expense, of the gruesome sort.
When: Late Monday night, early Tuesday morning.
Where: Outside Rose's apartment, then later outside Harrison and Gabe's home.
Rating: R. So very, very R. For language, death, and disturbing imagery.
It had been keeping her up. Yowling. Screeching. Wailing. Its dismal cries echoing through the poorly constructed walls that made up her excuse of a flat. She'd tried ear plugs, turning up the television, playing heavy metal, anything to get THAT FUCKING NOISE to SHUT THE FUCK UP. Nothing worked. Two nights spent tossing and turning, stuffing her head underneath the pillows, considering crashing on anyone's flat who'd take her (and really, who fucking WOULDN'T?) but on the third night, she'd taken action. Window slammed open, screaming profanities at the animal, beer bottles had been thrown at it, apple cores had been thrown at it, even a molding can of spaghetti had hit the ground with a clatter as she attempted to put THAT FUCKING CAT out of its misery in order to get at least a bloody HOUR of undisturbed sleep.
Sadly, with only a left arm at her disposal, her aim had fell short of accurate. As a wandering prostitute soon discovered as she (he? Who fucking knew anymore with those fucking types) found themselves rained down upon with eight-week-old pasta. Collateral damage, some would say; a fucking A+ accidental source of entertainment, Rose would say.
The night previous, however, in lieu of failed marksmanship, she'd taken a different approach. A bowl of cat food in one hand (laced with a vigorous helping of rat poison), and empty tequila bottle in the other, the dish was set out in the alleyway as she lay quietly in wait in the shadows. If the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammad, well, she was going fucking beat the fucking shit out of the fucking prophet. An hour, maybe two passed without sign of the wretched creature -- and she'd idled away the minutes flipping between her compendium and drafting an essay regarding business ethics in the new millennium. Like she fucking cared. Like ANYONE fucking cared. You didn't get fucking rich with fucking ethics, and anyone who thought so was either Mother fucking Theresa, or one of those simpering skirts that wailed about women's rights. Fucking IDIOTS. YOU DIDN'T GET RESPECT IN THE WORKPLACE BLATHERING ON ABOUT HOW PAY SHOULD BE EQUAL, YOU GOT FUCKING RESPECT IN THE WORKPLACE BY working harder THAN ANYTHING WITH A PENIS; why this simple logic appeared to escape everyone but her being yet another prime example of how everyone else BUT her needed to go have their liver pulled out through an orifice with a hot poker.
Thoughts on bra-burning bitches were interrupted, however, when the quiet clicking of claws on the pavement alerted her to the presence of that darn cat, and the scraping of metal against cement to the presence of taken bait. Slipping out from the shadows, scanning the vicinity for any potential witnesses, the cat didn't have a chance as it was pounced upon. There was no bag covering it, nor was it given mercy with a quiet, poisoned death; no, the brunette wanted, needed to watch the animal as it was beaten to death. A crack to its back, a smashing of the bottle to its face, it was on the floor screaming as she repeatedly punctured its flesh with her heel, all the while grinning as she watched it writhe in agony. Blood spraying, covering her foot, creeping down the darkened street, this was better than sex. This was therapy, this was revenge, this was orgasmic, and she was almost sorry when it stopped quivering. She could have kept going, would have to, if a delivery didn't have to be made.
Two hours later and a car had parked outside the house. She'd borrowed it from a client, just for the night, promising him handcuffs and leather the following week in exchange for the lend. The address had been in the compendium, the fucking idiot had scrawled it down for all to see, and now Rose was using it for how it fucking SHOULD have been used a long time ago. He hadn't pissed her off. He hadn't annoyed her. He'd merely presumed things he shouldn't have; that she was unintelligent, that he had the upper hand, and that he could POSSIBLY ever get the fuck away with calling her “Ripper-bait”. No, this was deserved justice. The corpse had been severed, hacked with a blunt knife in the kitchen sink, and now, residing in a plastic bag, covered by the prettiest of pink tissue paper and rainbow ribbon, lay the head of a cat. A kitty. With a painted lipstick Cheshire grin on its face. God, she fucking hoped he'd get the little message as she lay it on their doorstep.
She'd sleep well tonight.
What: Entertainment at Harrison Tweed's expense, of the gruesome sort.
When: Late Monday night, early Tuesday morning.
Where: Outside Rose's apartment, then later outside Harrison and Gabe's home.
Rating: R. So very, very R. For language, death, and disturbing imagery.
It had been keeping her up. Yowling. Screeching. Wailing. Its dismal cries echoing through the poorly constructed walls that made up her excuse of a flat. She'd tried ear plugs, turning up the television, playing heavy metal, anything to get THAT FUCKING NOISE to SHUT THE FUCK UP. Nothing worked. Two nights spent tossing and turning, stuffing her head underneath the pillows, considering crashing on anyone's flat who'd take her (and really, who fucking WOULDN'T?) but on the third night, she'd taken action. Window slammed open, screaming profanities at the animal, beer bottles had been thrown at it, apple cores had been thrown at it, even a molding can of spaghetti had hit the ground with a clatter as she attempted to put THAT FUCKING CAT out of its misery in order to get at least a bloody HOUR of undisturbed sleep.
Sadly, with only a left arm at her disposal, her aim had fell short of accurate. As a wandering prostitute soon discovered as she (he? Who fucking knew anymore with those fucking types) found themselves rained down upon with eight-week-old pasta. Collateral damage, some would say; a fucking A+ accidental source of entertainment, Rose would say.
The night previous, however, in lieu of failed marksmanship, she'd taken a different approach. A bowl of cat food in one hand (laced with a vigorous helping of rat poison), and empty tequila bottle in the other, the dish was set out in the alleyway as she lay quietly in wait in the shadows. If the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammad, well, she was going fucking beat the fucking shit out of the fucking prophet. An hour, maybe two passed without sign of the wretched creature -- and she'd idled away the minutes flipping between her compendium and drafting an essay regarding business ethics in the new millennium. Like she fucking cared. Like ANYONE fucking cared. You didn't get fucking rich with fucking ethics, and anyone who thought so was either Mother fucking Theresa, or one of those simpering skirts that wailed about women's rights. Fucking IDIOTS. YOU DIDN'T GET RESPECT IN THE WORKPLACE BLATHERING ON ABOUT HOW PAY SHOULD BE EQUAL, YOU GOT FUCKING RESPECT IN THE WORKPLACE BY working harder THAN ANYTHING WITH A PENIS; why this simple logic appeared to escape everyone but her being yet another prime example of how everyone else BUT her needed to go have their liver pulled out through an orifice with a hot poker.
Thoughts on bra-burning bitches were interrupted, however, when the quiet clicking of claws on the pavement alerted her to the presence of that darn cat, and the scraping of metal against cement to the presence of taken bait. Slipping out from the shadows, scanning the vicinity for any potential witnesses, the cat didn't have a chance as it was pounced upon. There was no bag covering it, nor was it given mercy with a quiet, poisoned death; no, the brunette wanted, needed to watch the animal as it was beaten to death. A crack to its back, a smashing of the bottle to its face, it was on the floor screaming as she repeatedly punctured its flesh with her heel, all the while grinning as she watched it writhe in agony. Blood spraying, covering her foot, creeping down the darkened street, this was better than sex. This was therapy, this was revenge, this was orgasmic, and she was almost sorry when it stopped quivering. She could have kept going, would have to, if a delivery didn't have to be made.
Two hours later and a car had parked outside the house. She'd borrowed it from a client, just for the night, promising him handcuffs and leather the following week in exchange for the lend. The address had been in the compendium, the fucking idiot had scrawled it down for all to see, and now Rose was using it for how it fucking SHOULD have been used a long time ago. He hadn't pissed her off. He hadn't annoyed her. He'd merely presumed things he shouldn't have; that she was unintelligent, that he had the upper hand, and that he could POSSIBLY ever get the fuck away with calling her “Ripper-bait”. No, this was deserved justice. The corpse had been severed, hacked with a blunt knife in the kitchen sink, and now, residing in a plastic bag, covered by the prettiest of pink tissue paper and rainbow ribbon, lay the head of a cat. A kitty. With a painted lipstick Cheshire grin on its face. God, she fucking hoped he'd get the little message as she lay it on their doorstep.
She'd sleep well tonight.