Twelve Ways Till Sunday
“What’s the matter? Stupid apes, that’s what you are! You can’t even take care of a fourteen year old girl! She’s important to my preparations, therefore I need to speak with her properly. Do you understand me?”
Like the rustle of leaves before a murder, a low, soft grunt in triplicate chorus was the only reply. Guess he truly would have to do all the talking. Fine with him. He had the gob, as it were.
“Well, I didn’t expect much anyway. Good to see you lot are catching on! Well, then... ”
Long hands rubbed together, and as the Questioner sighed for the hundredth time, a glint of light came to his colossal brain, and he absorbed it, drinking in the rosy, innocent blush, the crimson fullness, the salt sweet finish of his newest bloody notion with a fervor befitting a killer of worlds. Oh, he had so much grand work to do, so much terror to accomplish. So many deaths to plan. It was rather like a series of orchestral movements, his schedule of late. His thought was death, and it was beautiful. Death was all he had left.
He looked to the three limp forms of the off-worlders he’d hired grudgingly as extra hands, who hung like drying meat from hooks stuck high in the ceiling... for his own amusement, of course. He’d never used to like this sort of thing, but then again, he was not the man he used to be.
And now, there were children to think of.