Ever since she’d captured him, Morgan had been paying Airk daily visits in the dungeon to have “a bit of fun,” as she called it. Today it was knives.
She sliced into Airk’s flesh, smiling as his blood flowed out sluggishly. Morgan bent and licked his blood away, trailing her tongue over his arm, lapping up the chill sweat that coated him. Airk shuddered and shook, past endurance, past thought, past hope. He felt like an empty husk: hollow, echoing and utterly alone.
She stared up at him, fluttering her lashes. “My poor pet, I’ve been unkind to you.” Morgan cut him, making a neat row of red stripes. She gave Airk a flirtatious smile, mocking him, goading him as if he could still be bothered to care. Morgan leaned towards him, smelling of blood and dead meat, her stench mingling in a grotesque bouquet with her cloying perfume.
Airk recoiled as the foul odor scraped at his nostrils. "Whoa," he said, still defiant despite the wounds, "you ever thought about Listerine?"
"Dammit, Foster!" Ingle threw his hands up in despair. "When you said you'd got a famous director for our new ad campaign, you could have told us it was Wes Craven."
Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: ril