"Fuck you, too, bitch!" is what a distressed middle-aged man yells out to his wife just before slamming his bedroom door. He grabs a drink from his top dresser then throws off his clip-on tie. Which each sip of his drink, he kept thinking about happier times with his wife back when they first married. Nothing had ever been the same since he got that anchorman job at the station just over a year ago. He could still hear his wife downstairs cursing his name. Sounds of pots aggressively being tossed around, only becoming louder with each moment.
“I hate what she’s become,” he said as he sat on his bed.
“Then maybe you need to teach her who the man is,” an unknown voice whispered.
The man froze. He knew he heard the voice but didn’t know how. After a moment of silence, the man told himself that maybe his drink was to blame. Though deep down, he knew it wasn’t right.
“She doesn’t respect you. She hates you, jealous even,” the figure said.
The man now knew he wasn’t imagining. Before the man had time to build up any courage to speak, a figure appeared in front of him. Much how smoke floats out from a burning building. The figure was as pale as death, even with its torture-like leather attire, the mixture of his red and yellow eyes surrounded by black stood out. The man wanted to jump out of bed and make a run for it, but the body wouldn’t allow him.
“Mr. Stanley Anderson, the well-known anchorman from Channel eight express. Tall, dark, and handsome. With a hint of madness. Well, because of your wife,” the figure said in a sinister yet calm tone. While remaining seated, Stanley finally builds up the courage to speak.
“W-who are you? What are you? Just go away, p-please.”
The figure gave a grin while keeping its gaze at Stanley. The lamp’s light flickers as he lent out his hand. The leather glove did not seem to bounce off the reflection of light, same for his attire.
“I am every sick thought that pop’s inside you when your boss fucks you around. I am every desire that creeps in your soul when a new young sexy intern says hello. I am the corrupted emotion you have about your wife. I am Hazard, and now.”
A nine-inch blade appears in the hand that Hazard held out to Stanley.
“You’re a hazard to,” Hazard said.
The man stares at the blade while fighting back the urge to take it. Sweat started to run down the man’s head. It was as if he lost control of his movements. None of this was rational, but none of it mattered once he submitted. Once Stanley had the blade in his hand, his eyes changed into the same color as this unknown figure. The man tightens his grip on the blade. A smirk now across his face. Hazard mimicked his smirk before taking a couple of steps back. The interaction between them gets interrupted when the bedroom door gets kicked open. Stanly’s wife now in view. Her eyes now the same color as Hazard’s, which meant he got to her first. She held the same nine-inch blade. The couple now stared each other down, not even acknowledging Hazard’s presence.
“I’m tired of working my ass off in this house while you fuck those whores at your job!” his wife shouted.
“Maybe if you were as tight as you are uptight about everything, I wouldn’t fuck them!” he shouted back.
“Well, guess I better leave you two to it,” Hazard said before leaning against the dresser. The married couple wastes no more time and attacks each other with the blades. Sounds of flesh and screaming now taken over the room. After five minutes of nonstop brutality, the couple lay dead on the floor. Blood completely staining the carpet beneath. Hazard stands over the deceased couple and lifts his hand. A few seconds after, the couple’s souls float out their bodies and hover over the palm of his hand. He looks at the souls like a child would with a new toy.
“Corrupted souls are always the sweetest.”
After the souls fly into his chest, Hazard closes his eyes like someone would when enjoying the first bite of a banana split. The blades in both their hands vanish. Hazard takes one last look at the couple with no remorse before disappearing the same way he came, without a trace.