name a more iconic trio....i’ll wait.

` ⟡╰ ﹠ (      WORICK.       )

nicolas grunts indignantly, kicking the dead body to obscure it beneath the others. nicolas had split the mans head in half, starting from the skull     &&.    ending to the jaw. the work was nasty enough, so for an even nastier joke, it wasn’t appreciated.

‘      are there anymore     ?,       ‘      he signs.

` ⟡╰ —— ﹠     there     is      something     intimate     in     murder.      in its skin, in the hollows of its bones, inhaled through the lungs &&.  stopped at the tongue.  there’s something morbidly alluring about it, like a woman’s face after a good cry. murder stunned in its silk silences, murder raging in its rancorous riots, it appears in a landscape     ——    a setting: the dingy, cramped city of ergastulum. between the sparkling murano   &&.    medieval cathedrals,  obscured by the italian architecture that festoons the main square of the cittadina, alleyways littered with hookers   &&.   horrors are habitual homes to handymen.  

the task is as effortless as swathed silk: clean up one of italy’s most violent gangs; mala de brenta, local, found in northern italy within one of the central alleyways linked to the slum. nicolas is more than eager, running through the pathway wielding a katana in one large hand, his partner gasping to keep up. upon arrival,   you could find him, armed   &&.    alone,  a wide grin etching its way into the corners of his chapped mouth.  there’s a sadistic look in his twilight  eyes,                  twinkling,                    glimmering.       it’s   as   if     he’s   trying   to   say  something   akin   to;

when he kills,   he  does it     remorselessly.   there isn’t but the slightest of a grimace,  not even a  glint of  GUILT.   his sword glides through flesh like french tulle, blood pours like a bottle of perrier,   &&.   a spindly bundle of intestines wreathe his victims like a carmine boutonniere. the group of bodies drop instantly to floor, lifelessly, limply, languidly. there is intimacy in murder. in its skin, in the hollows of its bones. it’s sickeningly sweet, like a honeycomb, but with the click of your tongue it can burst into wine. murder was my infatuation, nothing thrilled me more romantically, so lovingly, then blood. you could see it in his eyes.

perhaps that’s what the uninvited guest behind him saw too.

` ⟡╰   vantasel. ╰ ⟡ `

 ❝    MY CURRENT JOB HAS BEEN GOOD TO ME,   ❞        

❝ I ENJOY THE COMFORT IT AFFORDS.   ❞

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