Cleaver #1

Cohen liked to think of himself as an artist. Not the kind with paint under his nails or a tortured soul. His art was flesh. His canvas was the human body. His audience was a gallery of rich freaks who paid enough money to make morality bend like wet paper.

He worked as a pimp and a pornographer for the Marconi Mafia Family, the oldest and most ruthless crime syndicate in Blackbridge. They owned the nightclub and brothel Velvet Vice, a neon-soaked labyrinth that reeked of perfume, sweat, liquor, and something far more rotten. Cohen ran the place for them, and he did it with pride. Velvet Vice had the highest earnings of any property under Boss Silvio Marconi, and Cohen never missed an opportunity to remind people of that fact.

When he wasn’t managing the brothel or counting pockets full of cash, he directed porn for the family. Not the softcore crap that lonely college boys jerk off to. Cohen specialized in the sick stuff. Scat, **** bdsm, hurtcore, piss, animals. Stuff that would make any normal person flinch or gag. Half of it was borderline illegal, and sometimes he skipped the border entirely.

None of that mattered. In Blackbridge, money always talked louder than morality.

Cohen produced those films with a dedication that made Silvio smile. The family made a fortune, and Cohen took a generous cut. As long as the cops received their regular bribes, they stayed quiet. Blackbridge law enforcement was bought and leashed by the Marconi family. Politicians were even easier to handle. A quick threat or a bribe, a night at Velvet Vice, a girl who would do anything, no matter how depraved, and suddenly the city council approved whatever zoning permit the family needed.

Cohen made sure the right girls were sent to the right officials: judges, police chiefs, congressmen. Every one of them pretended to despise filth in public. In private, they loved getting their dicks sucked and their assholes rimmed by working girls. Cohen never judged them. He enjoyed the same filth they did, maybe even more. The humiliation, the degradation, the breaking of someone young enough or **** enough to do anything for a handful of dollars or ****, Cohen savored it all. If a working girl broke from the ****, he simply found another. The supply was never short.

Velvet Vice was his kingdom. Cohen curated the nightly shows with the same effort a chef put into a signature dish. The wealthy clientele didn’t come for simple pleasures. Normal sex bored them. They wanted obscenity. They wanted extremes. They wanted to see someone lose their dignity in the most creative fashion Cohen could imagine.

He never disappointed.

Tonight was special. A private event for the richest and most powerful men in Blackbridge. Cohen surveyed the room, his gaze landing on Judge Schwartz, who was sprawled naked in his seat. The man’s grotesquely obese belly and cruel, arrogant smirk were unmistakable, even behind the masquerade mask. Judge Schwartz had a reputation as the toughest judge in Blackbridge, the man who sentenced Black kids to life for petty crimes, a service for which he received generous bribes from for-profit prisons. He also loved handing out **** sentences, especially when he knew the defendant was innocent. The Marconi Mafia Family often framed civilians for their crimes, and they had an arrangement with Judge Schwartz to hang the fall guys for the murders the mafia committed. In exchange, the judge received regular bribes, visits from girls at Velvet Vice, and invitations to private sex shows like this one.

At the moment, Ellie and Holly, two teenage prostitutes, were on their knees, sucking the judge’s grotesque, smelly toes. Schwartz was nearly twice their combined age, and his feet were among the most repulsive Cohen had ever seen. But Ellie and Holly were troopers, used to having gross, disgusting things in their mouths, so they managed to suck his toes without gagging. Later, the judge would fuck them both, and Cohen allowed himself a dark chuckle at the thought: the old, bloated bastard ramming his ugly cock into their tight young cunts, forcing them to suck him off and rim his ass. There were few things funnier to Cohen than the sexual humiliation and degradation of working girls who had **** but to endure it.

Judge Schwartz wasn’t the only member of Blackbridge’s elite in the audience tonight. Cohen also noticed Reverend Davis, a pastor, televangelist, and megachurch owner. He could often be seen raging against sin on television, condemning gays, lesbians, transsexuals, and drag queens, preaching fire and brimstone. Now, he sat naked, wearing only a domino mask, laughing as Becky sat naked on his lap, his hand creeping between her thighs. The reverend had been asking Cohen for younger and younger girls with every visit to Velvet Vice. Becky, just a few days over eighteen, was young and petite, with the rare ability to feign naivety and innocence, and the reverend was clearly enjoying having her sit naked on his lap. But Cohen knew the reverend preferred even younger girls. He decided he would provide, after taking a generous finder’s fee, of course. Hell, he could probably source girls in single-digit ages from their junkie moms. Blackbridge was that kind of city.

Cohen also noticed Councilman Feldman, a rising political star. The mafia sponsored his campaign, and in exchange, he ensured the Marconi Mafia Family got all the zoning permits they needed. The councilman had a wife and two kids and pretended to be the good American family man in public, standing for traditional family values with not-so-subtle racial undertones. Now, he was naked, wearing only a masquerade mask, giggling with Rhonda, a Black working girl with ebony skin who specialized in femdom and pegging. Cohen smiled, imagining what the voters would think if they saw the councilman naked, his dick and balls in the hands of, or getting pegged by, a Black prostitute.

The room was full of men like them, all rich and powerful. Businessmen, philanthropists. All of them wore the same hungry, glassy-eyed stare.

Cohen had doubled security. No one got in unless their name was on the list. No phones. No cameras. Only ****, ****, and sweaty naked bodies on display.

By midnight, the room had turned into a storm of noise and pleasure. The air was thick with smoke and the sweet chemical stink of designer ****. Girls performed acts that would land most people in prison for life. It began with Tammy and Daisy, twin sisters, writhing on stage in a performance of incestuous lesbian sex. Tongues tangled, fingers probed, mouths buried between each other’s thighs, their bodies locked in ass-to-ass dildo play as the audience of old men roared and clapped, their laughter thick with perverse lust. Then came Miho, a petite Asian girl, her small frame swallowing lubed dildos of escalating sizes. The final one was so obscenely large it seemed impossible, yet she took it all, her cunt stretching to accommodate the monstrous thing, her performance drawing ravenous cheers from the sick fucks in audience. After her, Sally and Maria took the stage. Sally, the blonde, and Maria, the brunette, both Blackbridge natives who had long since learned what survival demanded. They performed without hesitation, no matter how degrading the act. Finally, Anastasia and Olga, trafficked from Eastern Europe, stepped forward. Anastasia, with her almost angelic blonde hair, played the submissive role, while Olga, sharp-eyed with her black bob, choker, and fishnets, threw herself into every depravity with enthusiasm. They were prepared for anything, no matter how vile, bodily fluids, animals, dogs, whatever sick fantasy the audience craved, whether on camera or live on stage. The more depraved the acts became, the more the audience of sick freaks who controlled Blackbridge enjoyed it.

Cohen watched from the side, proud and buzzing with cocaine.

This was perfection. This was power.

He was a king. A king of filth. But still, a king.

He did not notice the shift in the atmosphere. Not at first. He did not see the shadows change shape near the back of the room. He did not hear the faint crunch of security guards falling one by one. The music and the moans drowned everything, all eyes locked on the depraved show taking place on stage.

The first sign of trouble came when the lights flickered. Just once. A tiny glitch. Cohen cursed and tapped the side of the stage controls. Velvet Vice had an expensive electrical system. It had no reason to falter.

Then the lights died completely.

The room went silent. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else called for the backup generator.

It did not turn on.

In the thick darkness, a single scream cut through the haze. Sharp. Sudden. Wet.

The panic started to grow.

Cohen stepped forward, his heart pounding now. He shouted for his men. No one answered. He tried to reach for his phone, only to realize he had left it before the show. His own rule: no phones, no cameras.

Another scream shattered the silence. Then another. The crowd of naked men surged toward the exits, clawing at the walls. Someone begged for mercy. Someone else prayed.

Cohen felt something cold slither through his gut.

Justice had finally come for him.

And it had chosen tonight.