1

 

 

Jasper

 

 

I have one rule: no rules.

Rules are for losers who think the world needs order, then hire men like me to disrupt that order.

The hypocrisy of mankind is both interesting and repulsive.

“Last chance, Serrano.” I stand over the heap of flesh and bones. The blood runs in rivulets across the asphalt, leaving a deep trail in its wake.

Metal smell soaks the air and I would usually let it fill my lungs. People are addicted to inhaling drugs, I’m more engrossed in the smell of life leaving someone’s body and the blood abandoning their veins.

Twirling the knife in my hand, I gulp in air, filling my lungs with...piss.

The motherfucker pissed himself, ruining my bloodfest ceremony. He just had to be a fun-ruiner until the very end.

Time to wrap this clusterfuck up.

Lowering myself to my haunches, I point the tip of my bloodied knife at his half-carved cheek. There’s something about ruining people’s faces, disfiguring them, making them as imperfect as their sombre little souls.

Like Serrano here. He acts like a good little accountant but is in fact the greatest scum of them all.

He tried to fight, I give him that, but it’s futile, isn’t it?

Judging by his two broken legs and the blood dripping from his arms, chest, and face, he didn’t have a chance. I would’ve told him that, but I might have wanted the fight.

“Ser,” I tsk, drawing my knife down his cheek. “Didn’t they teach you in Harvard that a dog can’t steal from his master?”

“P-please, Jasper…” he gurgles. Chocking on one’s own fluid is a curious sound, almost as satisfying as the screams. Almost.

“They should’ve also taught you not to beg your grim reaper.” I cock my head down. “Spoiler alert, it never works.”

“L-let me talk to Costa, I-I—”

“Ser, Ser, you’re kind of an idiot, aren’t you? Not only do you steal from Costa, but you also think he has the time to talk to a thief?”

The pleading, pathetic look leaves his middle-aged face and deep darkness shines beneath.

The moment they realize they’re done for and should show their true colors is one of my favorite moments. It’s when they’re at their truest form. The decimation of the human mind, screwing it up, fucking it over, is what I live for.

From his position on the ground, on his stomach, both his hands bound behind his back, Serrano lifts his bloodied face to snarl at me. “Is that why he sent his animal?”

I grin, the first actual emotion I showed him since we started our torture fest. Serrano thinks it’s an insult, but Serrano has always been a fucking idiot, good with numbers, useless with people.

“Exactly.” I lift the knife, letting the blood droplets fall on his non-swollen eye. “An animal is only worth an animal, don’t you think?”

He blinks against the drip but doesn’t change his stance. “A-always the dog, never the master, Jasper.”

“Riddle me this, Ser, isn’t the dog the one who gets the most fun from the hunt?”

“That’s w-what all dogs think.”

This is getting boring, with the smell of piss, it’s becoming irritating, too. I stab my knife into his shoulder, and Serrano wails like a schoolgirl. “This is your last chance to tell me where the money is before I pay a visit to your wife and daughter. I’m curious to see how long I have to carve them up, dog style.”

The bravery from earlier disappears, leaving a complete trembling mess behind, blood dripping, eyes swollen, legs broken.

A useless dog.

I knew threatening his family would get me the response I needed, and that’s why I kept it for last. It’s the fun-ruiner, the fight-breaker.

Humans with weaknesses are the easiest to smash. They’re ruthless animals on the field, but they leave liabilities behind for people like me to feast on.

Serrano tells me everything I need through clenched, crimson-painted teeth. The location of the money, the people who helped him. Everything.

He doesn’t even beg anymore. We’ve been acquaintances for more than ten years. He should know begging never works with me, not when my knife is out, ready to carve up some faces.

After he’s done, I straighten up and snatch back my blade, causing a burst of blood to rip from his shoulder. He still has blood to spare. Interesting.

“A-Are you going to hurt them?” He stares up at me.

That weakness again. He’s forgotten all about himself and is begging for mercy for his little cubs.

“Depends on how much of that money they spent.” I tilt my head to the side. “But you won’t be here to find out.”

“They didn’t, they…” he trails off, having noticed how my expression has turned to utter boredom. “If you spare them, I’ll tell you something no one told you before.”

I lean over to him, pretending to have an interest in what he has to say.

His eyes light up, ears heating with the force of his excitement. There’s an interesting power in hope, it makes people forget their screwed-up situations and bathe in that moment of thrill. Maybe that’s why most of them are useless.

Playable. Disposable. Fucking morons.

“You were never a dog, Jasper. Costa has always —”

I jam my knife in his jugular, cutting him off mid-sentence, then twist it until the sound of tendons being cut fills the air, which still smells of his piss, might I add.

His eyes roll back until the whites are the only things visible. Then, my favorite part happens. They turn vacant.

There. Much better. Silent. Calm.

That’s the problem with Serrano. He talks too much, even when he’s dying. Besides, I never said I was interested in whatever propaganda he was about to spout.

I twist my neck to the side as I stand up. A cut throbs in my side —the only injury Serrano had been able to deliver.

Another cut to add to my little jar of a thousand of them.

I retrieve my phone and dial the only contact on my phone.

“Lucio Costa.”

It’s curious why he would say that, knowing it’s me. But Lucio is the type who likes throwing his name around every chance he gets, so there’s that.

“Nathan Serrano is done.” I stare down at his corpse and then at the knife dripping blood on my Italian shoes.

Shame. I actually liked these shoes.

Maybe I got carried away. Traitors get that response from me.

The storage room’s door barges open, letting the outside world’s air trample over my masterpiece of the night. It chases away the smell of piss though, so there’s that.

I don’t reach for my gun or move from my place near Serrano’s corpse. Only a few people know about this location and they’re all Costas. No one dares to barge into the wealthiest, most notorious crime family in the city. Even the police are our allies. If they saw me, they’d turn the other way, or better yet, they’d clean the storage for me.

A man in his early fifties strolls inside with a phone to his ear and a smug grin plastered on his face. He’s wearing a dark brown Italian-cut suit and Prada shoes he takes so much pride in.

His taste hasn’t changed for the past twenty-one years I’ve known him. Except for the white hairs that appear on his nape which he usually has his coiffeur dye them back to brown.