Page 6

Jason

7:50pm

My tires squeal as I peel into the parking lot of Clover, the VIP sign near my parking space drawing me to it like a moth to flame. Pulling up to the side of the building, I nearly miss the black coupe parked in the spot next to mine. I swear, Maya’s car is darker than anything that mankind could create, yet every time I come to Clover I fail to notice it. I chuckle slightly as I step out, the crimson paint of my hardtop 1970 Chevy SS sitting in stark contrast to the black death machine that Maya drives.

That woman belongs on a racetrack, I swear to God.

The sound of my boots is absorbed by the asphalt, my movement silent as death as I approach the passenger side of my car. Sliding my fingers into the smooth, chrome handle, I gently coax the door open.

“Alright you, let’s do this.”

Reaching into the passenger seat, my fingers curl almost sensually around the handle of my briefcase. Despite the chill in the night air, the briefcase warms my hand as if it’s a living thing, its heartbeat and breath always in sync with my own. It’s a part of me as much as I am a part of it: we are each other’s weapon, exacting our own form of justice as we carry each other’s secrets.

I don’t have to show any ID as soon as I enter the club. The young bouncer at the front barely makes eye contact before stepping aside to let me pass. He’s only been here a couple weeks but he knows who I am, and he knows better than to talk to me on nights when I come to the club, briefcase in hand.

On nights like this, I’m a different kind of animal.

The sea of bodies around me slowly parts as I walk towards the VIP doors. All these people around me are like children: short, immature, not a care in the world for anyone but themselves. If only they knew that a monster was in their midst, that just a couple stories below their feet were horrors that they’ve only seen on TV.

Glancing over at the bar, I see Ace whipping up drinks for a few patrons nearby. Always one to dress in his best, it’s hard to miss the bright cream color of his suit and the glint of his rings. Stopping in his tracks, he pulls a phone out of his pocket, glances at it, and surveys the club briefly before settling his gaze on me.

“This man and his facial recognition cameras, I swear,” I mutter as I weave through the crowd.

A cursory nod of acknowledgement is all I get before he continues his work, always enjoying the hands-on aspect of running the club: I would too, if I had spent the last 15 years sitting at a desk.

The bouncer in front of the VIP doors is built like a tree, the tattoos covering both arms looking as if they’re going to split every time his muscles flex. His sandy blonde hair is buzzed into a military-style cut, the short beard only adding to the rugged, animalistic aura that he’s emitting. The matching black shirt and pants are set off by a gleaming silver billy-club that is hanging from his belt, a warning to those who would dare overstep.

“Hey Jack,” I say as I approach him, watching his arms uncross and a slight smile wash over his face. He reaches out to shake my hand, genuinely excited to see me.

“Hey Junior, what’s good? Ready for a long night?”

The nickname he had chosen for me is fitting, seeing as I first met Jack when I was an apprentice, and Jack had known my mentor for years before I was introduced to the club. They were both ex-military, both prone to unnecessary violence: Jack was Spec-Ops before being dishonorably discharged for inhumane conduct whilst overseas, as he was prone to excessive violence towards enemy combatants. Sometimes with a hammer, sometimes a crowbar, and sometimes his own hands: it’s what earned him his nickname, ‘Jack of Clubs.’

Even after returning stateside post-discharge, he would still take out his aggression on anybody he deemed worthy of his vigilante justice; mostly gang bangers, pimps, traffickers and rapists. He became so notorious that his actions landed him on a government watch list, one the government would monitor with careful diligence.

One that put him directly in the sights of none other than our leader, Ace.

Ace had seen Jack’s talents for finding people, his affinity for violence, and knew he could use that. So he used his cybersecurity training and connections to erase every last piece of evidence of Jack’s existence. Then he recruited Jack, put him in his employ as a bouncer for Clover and trusted him with all of his security measures for the company. At least, that’s most of what he did, when he wasn’t working directly with clients like the rest of us.

The calluses on Jacks’ palms brush against me as he shakes my hand with such strength I swear my shoulder is going to pop from its socket. I return the smile and shake, genuinely pleased to see him. Jack is like an older brother to me…a brother that taught me how to stifle screams, what parts of the human body were most sensitive, how to inflict the most pain with minimal effort.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I say as I straighten my jacket and adjust my tie. We all have our own image to maintain, and while Jack might be the brute of the group, I prefer to maintain a more polished appearance: one befitting my title as ‘King of Hearts.’

Jack pulls a small, jet-black card out of his pocket, and as he swipes it on the keypad behind him, I can see the gold etched “plum blossom” symbol shimmer on the front. My hand instinctively drifts to pat my pocket, where my own card lies still. Black as sin, just like Jack’s, except for the “” symbol on the front.

I mean, we aren’t called “The Suits” for no reason.

The sound of the heavy doors unlocking sends chills down my spine in anticipation for what is to come. Jack pushes the door open for me and I nod at him as I step through, looking down at a small hallway with three rooms on either side. The VIP lounge isn’t exactly open to the public, but we don’t tell the guests that. Rather, we explain that the rooms are all full to capacity, and despite using that excuse every night, nobody has thought to question it.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly as my sights fix upon the last door on the left. The keypad next to it is the same as the one outside of the VIP lounge: redundant, considering folks can’t even get into the lounge itself without our cards, but Ace was always doubly careful.

Reaching into my pocket, I feel the cool, smooth card brush against my fingers as I pull it from the depths of fabric and quickly swipe it across the reader. With a brief beep and a flash of green, the door slides open, revealing a small elevator: the heels of my shoe squeak slightly as I step in and turn around, facing the door as it slides to a close. Stark, empty, save for the only two buttons on the elevator: UP and DOWN. Pressing the DOWN button, I immediately feel the elevator jolt awake and begin its brief descent.

Sweat begins to bead on my temple as I curl my fingers tighter around the briefcase handle. A shaky breath escapes my lips as I straighten up my stance and close my eyes, allowing myself to slip into a mind-space that very few in this world can manage. One where there is no morality, no fear, no weakness. My chest swells with the repetition of slow, steady breaths, and by the time the elevator reaches its destination, I am transformed.

Jason is no longer here.

This is the King’s domain.

The whirring sound of the elevator door opening is quickly replaced by the sound of faint screaming echoing from the distance. I can’t help the evil, twisted grin that spreads across my face as the screaming slows to a stop. It sounds like Maya is finishing up with her client. She’s always been one to prolong her meetings, and out of all of us, I think she takes the most pleasure in her work.

Opening my eyes slowly, I step out of the elevator, the bright, sterile steel interior yielding to a large room with paint so dark it rivals that of Maya’s car. A squeaking sound catches my attention as I jerk my head in its direction, noticing one of our maintenance workers step out of the door to my left, the word “JOKER” crudely engraved on its textured metal surface. He walks right by me, not stopping at all while he acknowledges my presence.

“Hey King, we’ve got your room ready,” he says, his voice hard and husky as he nods in my direction and proceeds to walk over to Ace’s office.

I shake my head. When Ace was still employed by the government, there were a few of his coworkers who agreed with his lack of confidence in our justice system, and who were left just as morally twisted as he was. Most of them had no families or friends left–as their experiences at the CIA left them socially inept–so when Ace left, he had offered them a spot with us as our maintenance crew: they would prep our rooms for client meetings, handle sanitation and disposal of…well, anything that was left.

My eyes are drawn to the large hallway across from me, its depths seducing me, beckoning me towards it with fingers of shadow and mystery. As I make my way towards the darkness for what must be the hundredth time, I feel as though I’m walking through my own front door as I’m hit with a familiar sense of home, welcoming me back from a day of pretending and masking, of being something that I’m not.

Being a normal human being.

The hallway has four doors, two on each side. Four doors, one for each member, and on the front of each door are our respective symbols, etched in gold similar to the access cards we each carry.

Diamond. Ace’s office.

Spade. Maya’s chambers.

Club. Jack’s room.

And a Heart. Mine.

The Diamond and Spade rooms are on the left, a testament to the relationship the two of them have. After all, Ace was the one who tracked down the traffickers who were holding her hostage all those years ago, and since then Maya has felt duty-bound to Ace. A life debt of sorts, helping him unquestioningly in anything he needed regarding his desire to take his vigilante justice to a much darker, morally void place. In return, Ace provided Maya with the means to take revenge on all those who would prey on women: her own position in his newly formed group, as the Queen of Spades.

Ace’s room generally went unused, as he wasn’t always the violent type. He preferred his administrative office out front, to be around his computers and gadgets. Still, with a select few individuals, he would take matters into his own hands, and whenever we saw him entering his room, we almost felt pity for the soul bound to his table.

My focus, however, isn’t on Ace right now. Right now, my focus is on the right side of the hallway, right past the large Club symbol: on the large gold heart etched into the door that leads to my office.

With a deep breath, I press onto the door and swing it open. Bright lights and deep, rich gold walls flood my vision as I squint, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The silhouette of a computer monitor acts as a beacon for my eyes as my surroundings come into focus: to the left, a desk adorned with a large computer, stacks of towels and water bottles, and a little ways away-wired into the computer-is a camera on a tripod.

To the right, a tall metal display rack, decorated with a variety of tools and hanging instruments, to be used in the most creative of ways. And the piece-de-resistance: a stainless-steel operating table with a black sheet draped across it, masking from view the large mass that is resting beneath. A camera hangs suspended from the ceiling above, pointing directly downwards at the table.

Closing the distance between myself and the desk, I set my briefcase down and open the desk drawer, removing an intricate leather mask. Composed of a lace-like kaleidoscope of abstract heart-shaped cut outs and filigree, its delicate patterns and wide eye holes provide the perfect marriage between visibility and anonymity. I slip it on, the wet-formed leather molding perfectly to my face: as I press it against my temples, I feel it come to rest against my nose, leaving the bottom half of my face bare.

For a second I hear a slight shuffling from the table behind me: I chuckle, grasping the computer mouse and navigating the tabs on the monitor before me. Within seconds I see a live-stream window pop up on the screen: my office is in plain view--the both the mounted camera and ceiling-suspended one offering a split-screen view-and a small chat box rests on the right side.

There is only one thing left to do.

Leaning to the right, I reach over to press the red POWER button on the cam, and I hear the tell-tale chime sing from the computer.

I am live. Streaming to the dark web.

The live feed is encrypted to the letter, courtesy of Ace, and is viewable to anyone who is willing to pay: anyone with enough knowledge to be able to find our little corner of the internet.

Grasping my case, I walk over to the middle of the room: my footsteps are slow, deliberate, the sound of my boots echoing as I approach the table in a few short strides. A large TV monitor mounted on the wall next to me is synced to the computer, mirroring the content on the computer nearby: this way I can clearly see the people typing in chat, and as the seconds tick by, the chat log is filling fast with people.

A cough comes from under the black sheet behind me, but I ignore it and focus on the messages on the monitor. These viewers pay an obscene amount of money to have access to what we do: some for their own sick pleasure, and some because they, too, want to see justice done to those who would otherwise roam their streets unencumbered.

WELCOME BACK, KING

WE LOVE YOU, MAN

WHO’S YOUR CLIENT TODAY

KING I WANT TO MARRY YOU

I BET THIS ONE HAS NO HEART

HELL YEAH, LET’S GO

LOVE THE SUIT THIS TIME

FUCK THESE PIECES OF SHIT, DO YOUR THING

WHERE’S YOUR brIEFCASE

“I bet you all are wondering who my client is today,” I say in a low growl as I look into the camera closely, the computer’s built-in voice changing software altering my voice just enough to render it unrecognizable. The scent of sweat and adrenaline floods my nostrils and I breathe deep, endorphins flooding my body with excitement and anticipation.

“This is my new John Doe…This one stood trial for the kidnapping and murder of three children in Texas and got off on a technicality. UNluckily for him, we had his home, phone and computer bugged, and he was later caught confessing his crimes. Can we let that stand?”

FUCK NO

KIDS, ARE YOU SERIOUS

OF COURSE IT WAS A TECHNICALITY

JESUS CHRIST

THE SYSTEM FAILED THOSE FAMILIES

JUSTICE FOR THOSE KIDS

HE WON’T GET WHAT HE DESERVES IN PRISON, HE BELONGS HERE

I BET HE’D JUST WALK FREE AGAIN

PEOPLE LIKE THAT HAVE NO HEART

“Now now,” I purr maliciously into the camera. “He may have a heart after all: that’s what we’re here to find out.”

My boot squeaks as I pivot on my heel, placing my case on the small table nearby and standing at the edge of the black sheet, which has now begun to writhe uncontrollably.

“We’re here to see if we can extract an ounce of remorse from this disgusting piece of shit…and I’m betting I have my work cut out for me.”

Grasping the rough corner of the sheet, I rip it off to reveal a very large, very scared man strapped to the table. Shirtless, lightly gagged, and filled with absolute terror: I can almost hear his heart beating so loudly it’s a wonder his ribcage hasn’t snapped. Reaching down to push a button at the bed’s side, the top half of the table begins to elevate, propping the man up to provide the viewers with a better look.

“Hello, John Doe,” I say slowly, my voice low and controlled. “You’re my 8 o’clock.”

HE’S BACK

JOHN DOE DOESN’T STAND A CHANCE

I BET HIS HEART IS BLACK AS HELL

LOOK AT THE FEAR IN HIS EYES

THANK GOD THERE ARE PEOPLE LIKE YOU, KING

PEOPLE LIKE THIS SHOULDN’T WALK FREE, THEY NEED TO BE PUT DOWN

Pointing to the chat log, I grab the back of John’s head and crane his neck up so he can read, his vertebrae cracking rewardingly under the strain.

“Do you see those messages, John? These people here know what I do: that you’re guilty. That given the opportunity, you’d do it all again. Do you know what MY job is, John?”

John’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he shakes his head so fast I worry he might snap his neck before we get started. His pleading and begging falls flat against his gag, and I ignore his mewling as I look him straight in his eyes.

“Well, John. My job is to see if you can feel remorse. To make sure you can never hurt another child again. How do you think I’m going to do that, John?”

My boots echo through the room as I walk over to the tool rack and grab a pair of metal pliers from the shelf. Opening and closing them a few times, I turn and look at the camera, walking slowly, deliberately, holding the pliers in front of me.

“Many people assume that breaking bones is the most effective means of coaxing the truth from people. However I’ve found that the pain inflicted from the smallest of actions can have the largest impacts.”

Reaching the side of the table, I grasp John’s hand, his arm trying to fight against the restraints as his eyes open so wide it’s almost comical.

He knows what’s coming.

“The nerve endings below the fingernail are never exposed to outer stimuli, and therefore can be considered the most sensitive part of the human body.”

The pliers bite down on the tip of John’s pinky nail, and I look down at John as he tosses his head, trying to plead and beg for me to stop.

“Oh, John,” I say, twisting the pliers ever so slightly. John yelps, his hand shaking and his eyes beginning to well with tears. “I know, I know. It will hurt. But I’m sure that’s what you said to your victims, right? And did you give them a chance to beg for mercy? Did you release them if they shed enough tears?”

The sound of his fingernail separating from his skin is strangely similar to when you rip off a band aid, or when you separate velcro. Fast, such a fast movement for me, and it takes John all but a few seconds before the pain hits and he screams against his gag, tears streaming down his face.

I set the pliers next to him, his nail still in between the teeth, and I wipe the tears from his cheek.

“Now now, be a big boy, John. We still have a few more nails to go.”

I couldn’t be more condescending if I tried…and honestly, I don’t feel bad about it at all. I keep imagining the poor kids who fell victim to this man, how much they must’ve cried, begged for their parents. This man on the table in front of me is a monster, and it’s my responsibility to dole out the justice that escaped him, that the parents of those children wanted and never received.

I make quick work out of all the nails on his hand, and I rip the gag out of his mouth so that the viewers can hear him.

“I…stop, please God stop….I’m begging you…”

His voice is raspy, the silent screaming tearing at his voice, and as I move to put the pliers back, I look longingly at the crowbar hanging on the rack nearby . Reaching out, my fingers gingerly touch the cool metal, stroking it and feeling its pulse under my skin. I barely feel my hand curl around the bar when I hear those sweet words coming from behind me.

“Ok I DID IT?! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR? I did it and I’m so sorry!”

I smile, the crowbar still in my hand as I turn around and saunter over to John.

“Well shit, NOW we’re making progress, John! But what is it that you did? Come on now, be specific!”

I walk around him so that I’m standing behind his head, pointing at the camera and looking down at him.

“Your fans want to know, John: what are you trying to apologize for right now?” I ask as I move down towards his feet, my eyes wandering from his hands at his sides to his hips, and down to his legs. Lifting the crowbar, I drop it gently onto his shin, the feeling making him jump as he speaks faster in a panic.

“I killed those kids, I raped them, I hid their bodies, now PLEEEEAASE let me go!”

I stop dead in my tracks.

I KNOW I didn’t hear what I just heard.

I knew he had killed those kids. I know he had buried their bodies and by the time they were discovered, they were so decomposed that there was no way of telling what kind of injuries they had sustained. But RAPE. Oh no. Oh no no no.

My vision goes red, I look over at John as my jaw goes slack. The chat boards are exploding with rage, their messages mirroring my thoughts exactly.

WAIT HE WHAT

THERE’S NO WAY THE COPS DIDN’T KNOW

HE IS A FUCKING MONSTER

THOSE POOR CHILDREN

END THIS ALREADY, HE DOESN'T DESERVE TO LIVE

I don’t give John a chance to say another word before I bring the crowbar up over my head and crash it down onto his shin. The sound of bone shattering is like a gunshot, causing John to jerk up against his restraints and let out a scream that I’m sure the patrons of the club upstairs could hear.

Dropping the crowbar to the ground, I rush over to his head, shoving the gag in his gaping mouth and keeping his head lifted towards the camera.

“I usually like to take my time with my clients, but I can’t hold back in this moment. Every second this piece of shit is breathing is a second that those poor kids aren’t, and I think it’s about time we fix that problem.”

I drop his head and walk slowly over to the briefcase, clicking it open and smiling as the overhead fluorescents catch the light of the contents inside.

A few pairs of latex gloves, a couple syringes of anesthetics and adrenaline, and knives. So. Many. Knives. From scalpel to serrated, from butter knife to butcher knife, and everything in between. My fingers trace over each blade as they would a lover: caressing each curve, each one holding its own personality, its own memories.

Heirlooms. Tools. Lovers.

I pick up the paring knife, a smaller, sharper blade used for breaking skin, and walk over to John, holding the knife up so that it’s visible to the audience.

“That’s right, John,” I muse, almost playfully. I can taste his fear on my tongue, my skin getting hot with anticipation. “Together we’re going to cut away that nasty exterior and see whether your heart is three sizes too small.”

The tip of the blade touches his skin, right under his collarbone, and instantly I see a few drops of blood rise up to greet my knife. John whimpers and writhes against his restraints, a movement that only encourages the edge to sink a little deeper into his skin.

“Now now, John, at this point you’re doing my work for me! Why would you go and do that?” Tossing a smile to the camera, I slowly drag my arm across his chest, feeling the blade find home against his clavicle. John’s muffled scream is music to my ears as I cherish the bite of the blade against bone: gingerly gliding along the length to his shoulder. The smell of copper begins to waft delicately throughout the air as trails of red begin to paint John’s chest. Every client I have is a different canvas, their bodies the medium used to create the most breathtaking works of art.

The blade is nestled in his shoulder now, every twitch he makes causing it to knock against the bone and eliciting another cry of agony.

Sweet music.

Glancing at the monitor, I see the chat scrolling so fast I can hardly keep up. That’s the one thing with this job that I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not the killing I had to get used to, but rather being watched by people who actually ENJOYED this.

“Ok,” I say to the viewers as I move to my briefcase, my back to the camera. “I’m going to have you pick a hand, and the winning hand will be decided by popular vote.”

I palm the two tools I pulled from the bag, and as I turn back to face the camera, I can hear John’s grunting and moaning become frantic. By facing the camera, I have my back to him, meaning he can clearly see what to look forward to, regardless of the choice. While other members of the Suits preferred to make quick work of their clients, I reveled in the slow, mental torture that came with the job. These monsters didn’t make death fast for their victims, so why should I offer them the same mercy? No, they belong to me now. My property, my playthings…and all of my playthings are made to suffer.

THE KING IS ENJOYING THIS, LOOK AT THAT SMILE

LEFT!

LEFT!

RIGHT, WE DID LEFT LAST TIME!

DID HE REALLY JUST LEAVE THAT KNIFE IN HIS SHOULDER?

RIGHT!

RIGHT, PLEASE!

BOTH!

OH MY GOD, DO BOTH

YES, KING, CAN YOU DO BOTH

KING YOU’RE SO FUCKING SEXY OMG

YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO DO BOTH

A laugh bursts forth from my throat, loud and genuine as I read the chat and shake my head in disbelief.

“Some of you are NAUGHTY, aren’t you? You want both that badly? Nah, you don’t get it that easily. You want both, you have to beg for it.”

Without breaking eye contact, I take a few steps towards the camera, licking my lips and narrowing my eyes dangerously.

“Go ahead…beg.”

The chat explodes with excitement, and within seconds I have hundreds of viewers begging me to please them, to grant their wish, to give them what they want. And I am more than happy to oblige.

“Alright, alriiiiight, I’m convinced. Both it is!”

Bringing my hands in front of me, I reveal the hidden tools: a syringe of anesthetic, and a rather large filet knife.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you, lovelies?” I croon at the camera as I slowly rotate to face John.

“John, luckily for you, this process may go a little more painlessly than we’d planned! You see this syringe? This is a very strong anesthetic, used to numb the nerves and block the pain receptors to the brain for a short time. However, I’ve never used it alongside this beauty.”

I hold up the knife, its blade catching the light of the fluorescents with a gleam that could rival the sun.

“I keep this knife so sharp it could cut air,” I exclaim with pride as I twist my wrist, watching the light dance off of its surface. “This is called a filet knife. Do you know what filet knives are used for, John?”

John wriggles on the table as I approach him, standing over his body and slowly pulling the small blade out of his shoulder: I set the knife on the table next to him, prepping the plunger on the syringe and making sure he is watching every step. His screams are becoming muted, tired, as if he’s already resigned to his fate.

The sound of my hand slapping his face is satisfying, and his eyes widen at me for a second before becoming drowned in fury and rage. Cute, that he thinks he’s in a position to intimidate me, yet his insolence cannot be tolerated.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, JOHN, AND YOU WILL ANSWER ME!”

No sooner do I rip the gag from his mouth than I reach in and grab his tongue, my fist so far in his mouth that I can hear his jaw pop under the strain. He tries to bite me, a futile effort considering my knuckles are already pressed against his teeth.

“John, I will cut your tongue from your mouth without batting a single fucking eye, if you don’t answer me right the fuck now. You may not be able to speak but you CAN nod. So tell me…do you know what a filet knife is used for?”

He shakes his head slowly, my grip like a bear trap around his tongue.

“Ok, wonderful. I love teaching an old criminal new tricks.”

I wrench my fist out of his mouth and replace the gag before walking over to the desk and grabbing a towel. Wiping the blood off his chest, I position the syringe against his pectoral, just a few centimeters away from his sternum, and inject the contents.

Letting out a low grunt, I rub my fist over the injection site and slap his chest. “A filet knife, John, is generally used for precision cuts and slicing meats very thinly. But THIS knife? Do you see how much bigger this knife is? How long the blade is?”

I allow the knife to come to rest along his sternum in the middle of his chest, and then rotate it at an angle so it’s almost parallel with his body.

“This knife in particular, John, is used for skinning. Believe it or not, our viewers gave you a small mercy by voting for both hands. Usually my clients have to experience this knife with no painkillers, and to be honest with you, not many of them make it through without passing out after the first few moments.”

My hand becomes heavy with anticipation, showing John firsthand how right I was about its sharpness: it sinks into his skin with the utmost ease, and he lets out a groan of discomfort. No screams…not yet.

Perfect. I want this to last.

“Ok John, are you ready? I suggest biting down hard on that gag of yours and remember the most important thing. To breathe.”

The sound of the knife gliding through the surface of his skin reminds me of scissors on paper, and as I work my arm from his sternum to shoulder, I slowly peel the detached skin back to reveal the fibrous muscle underneath.

Screams begin to build in John’s throat when he looks down at my handiwork, blood vessels beginning to trace themselves along the whites of his eyes as he starts to hyperventilate. Unfortunately for him, the rise and fall of his chest causes the blade to dip deep and nick the muscle below, the blood flowing from the wound now beginning to drip off of the table onto the floor below.

“It’s ok John, we’re all done with that section,” I muse as I turn to the camera, holding up the foot-long strip of skin and tissue for all to see.

“One down. I think maybe one more pass should be enough for us to have a good space to work with.”

John’s wailing behind me nearly drowns out my own voice, but I’m not bothered. We’re nearing the end of our little meeting anyway.

“Alright John, are you ready for round two? I promise, this second pass will go a lot faster,” I don’t give him a chance to reply before I deftly repeat the process, skinning the entire left side of his chest and marveling at how the exposed sinews of his muscles constrict with every breath, every cry, every sob of desperation.

“It’s really beautiful, John. I wish you could see what I see.”

Glanding up at John’s face, I see he is still conscious: the anesthetic has done its job of dulling some of the pain, but I know for a fact he is still suffering. Poor mister murderer: he doesn’t know pain. Not yet.

A sigh escapes my lips as I place the knife back on the table next to him, and walk over to my briefcase, grasping a syringe of adrenaline and a giant carving knife, and moving back to his side.

I don’t even bother to look at the camera anymore. I’m possessed, immersed in my work: nothing exists in this room right now except for me, and the killer on the table in front of me. Extending my arm, I point the blade of the knife towards the camera and address the viewers.

“Those of you watching, you know what’s next, don’t you?”

Keeping my eyes on John, I lean in closely until my face is next to his. The heat radiating from his face is scalding, the salt from his sweat and tears is palatable as I lick my lips and put my mouth near his ear.

“We’re going to take a look at that heart of yours, John. Together.”

He doesn’t even notice the syringe of adrenaline piercing his neck, but I don’t give him the whole dose. No point in him having a heart attack before I can finish my work. Besides, he’s not allowed to die until I give him permission. Instead I give him just enough to wake him up.

I want him to be very, VERY aware of what’s about to happen to him.

I lean up so quickly I feel my vision blur for a moment, but luckily I have more than enough experience with the human body to know exactly where to cut. I could do this blindfolded.

Hmm, maybe I should try that next time.

The carving knife makes contact with his muscles: it takes a few sawing motions to cut through the tough layers, the blade finally grinding against the bone of his ribs as I glance up to make sure he’s still awake.

Locked in a silent scream, John’s entire body begins convulsing, the strained sounds coming from his voice are ones I haven’t heard before…but hey, there’s a first time for everything.

“Usually I like to ceremoniously break a few ribs first, give me easier access…but I’ve had a long day, John, and let’s be honest: it doesn’t look like you’re going to last much longer. So if you don’t mind…”

The squelching sound of my fist entering his chest cavity is the final straw for John: his eyes roll back and his shaking comes to a stop. But he’s not dead, not yet. It’s fascinating what the human body can tolerate, the measures it takes to protect itself from pain and keep itself alive.

Grasping at one of the ribs, I quickly yank it towards me, hearing it snap like a twig: John’s head sways from side to side as I hear gurgling coming from his mouth. Reaching up with my free hand, I yank the gag from his mouth and throw it to the ground.

“Stay with me John! And if you have to puke, turn your head so you don’t drown in it!”

No sooner do the words leave my mouth than his vomit leaves his, but we’re in the endgame now, and there’s no stopping what’s about to come next.

With the rib out of the way, I use my one hand to hold back the tissue and muscle, and the other to quickly slice through the major arteries and separate the heart from the body.

“Gotcha!” I exclaim as I pull my arm out and toss the knife aside, reaching back in and sliding my fingers into the crevices of the heart itself. At this point there’s so much blood that my latex-covered hands won’t get a solid grip: with a frustrated grunt I pull my hand out, rip off the glove and thrust my bare fist back in.

No grace, no patience, no careful navigation: I’m seeing red, both literally and metaphorically.

“Ok, John, time for the big reveal,” I grit through my teeth as I pull the wet organ from his chest and hold it up in front of him.

He is barely conscious, his eyes half closed, and as he looks up at me I can see his body still and his soul begin to leave his body.

“Did you know your body can survive anywhere from three to six minutes without your heart? Shall we see how long you can last?”

People always seem to want to know if a heart still beats outside of your chest. The way it’s portrayed in the movies and tv shows always has folks questioning whether or not it’s just for cinematic effect, or if it’s a medical truth..

The answer?

It does.

John doesn't even make it a minute before I see the rise and fall of his chest come to a stop, and a sudden silence fills the room. All you can hear is my breathing, synced to the steady ‘drip-drip-drip’ of the blood falling from the table to the floor below.

Turning to the camera, I hold the heart up for everyone to see: feeling its pumping begin to slow–with blood all over my clothes, sweat on my brow and adrenaline in my veins–I’ve never felt more alive.

A dangerous, manic smile pulls across my face: the same smile that I remember my mentor giving me all those years ago. I step through the puddle of blood on the floor as I walk towards the desk, my fist tightening its grip on John’s heart. Leaning in close, my eyes narrow as I look through my mask right into the center of the camera.

“Long live the King.”