Cleaver #2

Cohen stumbled through the darkness, chest heaving, breath sharp and quick in the thick air. His shaking hands fumbled across a prop table near the stage wings until his fingers brushed cold metal. A small flashlight used during the shows. He snatched it and clicked it on.

A thin cone of light cut through the pitch black.

That was when Cohen saw him.

A giant of a man stood in the center of the ruined room. The beam of light only reached his chest, yet his shadow stretched across half the wall, swollen and monstrous. He wore a mask of black steel that covered his entire face, smooth and featureless except for two narrow eye slits that glowed faintly from within. His armor was heavy and scarred, a fusion of tactical plates and butcher shop leather, thick straps crossing his torso. Hooks and knives hung from loops on his belt, each one stained. His boots were reinforced with metal plates, each step promising ****. He looked like a nightmare stitched together from a slaughterhouse and a riot squad.

He held a butcher's cleaver in his right hand.

That cleaver was buried in Judge Schwartz's skull.

The judge's body sat slumped in a chair, head tilted awkwardly, mouth frozen in a silent scream. Blood ran down his neck and pooled on the velvet carpet.

Cohen let out a thin, high shriek that sounded like it belonged to someone else. His voice cracked as he screamed, "Do you know what you have done? He is a judge. This place is under the protection of the Marconi family."

The masked giant did not respond. He simply yanked the cleaver free with a wet sound. Then he swung again. The blade crashed into the shoulder of a cowering businessman, splitting him open with casual ease. The man dropped like a broken puppet.

Behind Cohen, generators began to rumble. The backup lights flickered, then flared to life.

Cohen wished they had not.

Velvet Vice had become a slaughterhouse.

He had seen depravity. He had filmed horrors that no one talked about in daylight. But nothing prepared him for this. Bodies lay everywhere. The guards were carved apart, limbs scattered across the floor like discarded props. The richest men in Blackbridge were cut open, their insides spilling onto the stage where girls usually danced naked. Intestines glistened in the strobe lights. Blood soaked the carpet so deeply it swished under Cohen's shoes.

The whores were pressed against the walls, trembling and curled into themselves. They were covered in blood and gore, but untouched. The man with the cleaver had ignored them completely. His focus stayed fixed on the few remaining guests who still breathed.

"Please, I have kids." Councilman Feldman was sobbing on the floor. His right hand was gone, a stump leaking blood. He crawled away from the looming figure, leaving a red smear behind him.

The cleaver swept down.

His head rolled across the floor and stopped at Cohen's feet.

"Have mercy, I am a man of god!" Reverend Davis knelt with hands pressed together. Tears ran down his cheeks. His prayers turned into gargled screams as the cleaver tore into him again and again. When the giant was done, the reverend was a pile of hacked flesh.

Only Cohen remained.

He fell backward, scrambling, his flashlight flickering across the room. He lifted both hands in surrender, though one trembled so violently it barely stayed up. His voice broke again, pathetic and thin.

"You are a superhero, aren't you? I know the rules. Superheroes do not kill. It is your number one rule. I am surrendering. I am unarmed. Killing me is unnecessary."

The masked man tilted his head slightly, amused. He swung the cleaver in lazy circles as he walked toward Cohen.

He laughed, low and cruel.

"You are right," he said. His voice was rough, like broken glass. "Superheroes do not kill. That is their golden rule."

He leaned in, lowering his voice.

"Thing is, between you and me, I am not a superhero. I am what they call a vigilante. And I do not give a fuck about the no killing rule."

The cleaver flashed.

A white hot explosion of pain tore through Cohen. He screamed as he stared at the stump where his hand had been. Blood sprayed across his chest. He clutched at the air, **** on his own sobs, trying to form words, any words, anything at all that might save him.

But nothing came.

Cohen had always thought of himself as an artist. A creator of filth. A man who shaped flesh into grotesque performances for paying monsters.

Now he was just meat.

The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was the cleaver coming down.