His name was Cortez. Cortez the Killer. That’s what he called himself right before he dropped his head down onto his dirty, feather pillow. Cortez the Killer. He liked the sound of it.
It clicked off his tongue and gave his surname some rhyme and reason.
He’d say it over and over as he gripped a small, black barber comb and slicked his greasy pomp into a perfect Billy.
He’d say, Cortez, Cortez the Killer and he’d cock his head and grin bright white chicklets.
He liked razors against throats. It was silver quick and the blood seemed slow. It was more brutal. Clean and almighty.
All his shows revealed it to be true. It looked just perfect. The woman would slump into his arms and finally be silent and soft. She’d say nothing as he undraped her. She’d never protest his fondle, she’d never scream. She’d never flick his hand away, either. She couldn’t.
The first one was a blunder, a thunderous mess. A mistake. She was bought and paid for and she was more nothing than anyone he’d ever met. Perfect for practice. Be proud, the first of a famous killer. For I am Cortez. Cortez the Killer.
She wasn’t beautiful and that’s why it didn’t work. And the blade, well maybe it wasn’t new enough. It dragged across her neck. It didn’t slide and slip away. It sputtered and made ugly triangle digs. He just left her laying in her own rent-a-bed and he spat on her, too. She ruined everything. Can’t expect a man to get hard for that, can you?
The second one was met with a sharper blade and a higher bill was paid for her so she was okay. Not ideal, not pin up perfect. The blade was new. It slid right across, from ear to ear but he didn’t go deep enough and she began the death shake right in his arms. How dare she. It frightened him, he didn’t know the mechanics of these bodies. He finished himself off in her though. He was getting better. He felt pride in the improvement of his skill in such a short time.
Now for Nola.
She was a Pin Up like all of his fathers old magazines. She was beautiful and quite willing to go with such an obvious danger man. That threw him a bit but she looked so perfect with her fullest of fullness, curves with huge ins and even bigger outs, he could overlook her suicide tilt and wilt.
He had the speech all ready, he had the talk. He had the clothes and the smell.
He had found The Lost Chambers by eavesdropping on two men talking outside the casino where he worked. At first he didn’t believe such a place existed.
The fabled road the blowhards filled their brag bag with took him right there. It was almost too easy. It was meant to be, he just knew it.
They were all lined up and all of them one hundred percent as they should be. Like a garden seeded with all of his favorite blooms in all of his very favorite colors. Flowering pure sin and sorrow all over the place.
Let me introduce myself, Nola. I’m Cortez. Cortez the Killer...
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