18.
Lucia arranged the man just so. Made
sure the lighting was perfect. His hair casually tousled in an I-just-woke-up-this-way
look. She’d plucked his eyebrows already. Lips together and just a touch of
rouge to give him a little life. Popped the collar of his shirt just so. Opened
a few buttons and let his chest hair out to play. Devil may care kind of fellow.
Dashing off to the next meeting, but okay with being a little late about it. Makes
a few off-colour jokes he winks about, and everyone knows he’s not serious. Few
laughs. Calls the ladies, ‘luv,’ and the fellas, ‘tiger,’ and, sure, it’s
annoying, but also ironic and delivered perfectly each time so everyone is
aware of the irony.
They
were in his apartment in Brighton. Lucia could hear the waves from the beach
coming in through his open window. Smell the oil-soaked salt water of Port Phillip
Bay. A little rancid, but always familiar when the winds blew the right way.
She had
opened the window to distil the smell of the man’s shit. He had soundly crapped
himself when she had let herself into the apartment quite unexpectedly. This wasn’t
an unusual occurrence for her. Still, the speed of his panicking bowels and
their lightning quick evacuation caught her a little by surprise. She was flattered
when she thought about it.
Cool night
air, polluted ocean, and faeces all combined in an aroma she found strangely beguiling.
But you can’t take photos of the olfactory senses. No hashtag to go with that. Maybe
a landscape shot of the ocean for her Story? Little inspirational quote: Dear
ocean, thank you for making us feel tiny, humble, inspired, and salty … all at once.
Yeah, that might do. Maybe a picture of his soiled pants when she was done: Smelled
… like victory.
‘Very
handsome,’ she said and adjusted the lighting to make sure the perfectly
centred bullet hole in his forehead was clearly visible. Scratched a little at
the artful stream of blood flowing down his roman nose so that the line was almost
perfectly straight. She draped one of his arms across his lap and made sure his
slumping posture was sufficiently supported so that he wouldn’t immediately
topple to the floor without her support. Placed the other over the back of the
chair, effectively puffing out his chest and lolling his head back into the
headrest behind him. Tilting his chin.
Yeah, so? He
was saying.
Love the
attitude.
Her
phone was sitting on a chair across from them both. Lucia stepped away from the
man carefully. Watched as his weight slightly shifted and was caught in an ideal
repose. She picked up her phone. Switched it to its camera function. Crouched
low to angle the lens upward at the man in the chair and snapped of a series of
photos, adjusting her position slightly each time. Changed angle and a few more
pictures. Moved his head a little and a touch more rouge. Tidied up the blood. The
phone clicked and snapped.
When
she felt she had taken enough photos – hopefully caught the essential essence
she was cultivating – Lucia fell back into the other chair. Adjusted her Smith
& Wessen M&P22 pistol so it didn’t stick into her side so much. Started
looking through all the photos. Deleting and adjusting as she went. She was
looking for a man-about-town, easy sociability, little-deity-on-the-town, just-how-he-is
shot.
There
was a noise in the corridor outside. Some light footsteps and rustling bags.
Lucia tensed. Fingers went to her gun. Her other hand ready to stash her phone
in her jacket pocket next to her silencer. She waited until it fell quiet. The
man across from her shifted slightly into an even more casual lean. Legs
splayed out in an act of dominance. This was his space. You were just a
visitor. Lucia appreciated the attitude.
She
found the perfect photo.
Looking up at
him, like he expected people to, but only because he was a top bloke otherwise.
A man of the boys – and gals, if you know what I mean. Round of beers. Knows how
to listen and lead. Courteous with the help. Knows his etiquette. A perfect
gentleman, but not incapable of a little rough stuff. Nothing wrong with a bit
of smacking. A little choking. Chicks like it when you tell them like it is.
Grab them by the back of the head. Throw them around.
He was lounging
with his dick basically hanging out. His hand resting in his crotch as though he
was a moment away from flopping it out. Head lolled back, ready for another
cheeky gobby. The hole in his forehead lit like it was about to reveal the
innermost secrets of his brain. All his jizz and attitude leaking out, leaving
a blank, hollow cavern. The hole could have been a bindi – there he goes again
with the ironic cultural appropriation. He was a model of chill. Unfussed about
what might happen. Sexy because of it. Ready to spring into action. Ready to
blow his load.
Lucia loved
it.
She logged
into her account on KillingTime, @LuciasLuvs. Admired the array of
heart-eyed emojis, cute dancing teddy bears, and rifles bearing enormous smiles
amidst a series of samurai swords. Her bio read:
Just a
cute girl out in the world who luvs taking pics. Who’s gonna be my next model? Inquiries?
Slip into my DM for deets.
The pictures
underneath were her models all arranged in various poses of nonchalance and
disinterest. Of power and prestige. Of casual holidays and friendly drinks.
They were bullet riddled, sliced apart, hammer smashed, blood stained, held in rictus
with rouge smeared lips. Beautiful, all up. Their likes were in the thousands.
One, of a name Melbourne model – purse lipped, hands around a champagne flute,
throat slit, wearing a luxury designer dress, breasts popping up, covered in
satin and blood, with the caption: Contract dispute … What’re going to do
about it? – had over a one hundred thousand online ticks of approval.
Lucia
uploaded her latest with the caption, Doing Thursday right.
She started adding
hashtags.
#picoftheday
#fashion #beautiful #winter #beach #luxury #style #daboyz #boyswillbeboys #smile
#brighton #brightonliving #shatmyself #followme #thursday #readyforadrink
#readyforalady #comeover #handsome
Then finished
and released the photo onto KillingTime.
While Lucia
waited for the likes to start coming in – three in the first ten seconds – she fingered
through the main stream. Generously handing out her own likes to the handiwork
of others around Melbourne. Images of theft. Gangland slayings out in the
Wastes. A man posing with a couple of neutered wind jackals he’d caught up
north. A headless yeti at the Wasatch. Heaps of selfies. One more day
till the weekend. She looked for another contract.
Her phone
vibrated and buzzed as people liked and commented on her picture.
the legend
lives on
hotstuffffff 🔥🔥🔥🔥
@69erkingofjerusalem
chek out this chic. she’s madddd
Tell me
how you do it?
i’d bang
him. U? @silkybitch999
bang! 🔫 right in the cerebral cortex
Lucia stopped
sliding. She looked at a picture of a small, brown haired woman, creeping
around what looked like a sewer grate. A vague tugging of recognition, but not
certain, played at Lucia’s memory. She swiped the picture across and saw a van.
It’s numberplates clear. The caption read: Wanted. Have stolen item. Negotiable
reward on completion. Dead or Alive. It has been posted by @churchviolentiam,
whose profile was mostly images of black and silver robed people in prayer. No
hashtags. No captions. Kind of arty, but not consciously. The pictures were all
clumsy.
Usually,
Lucia didn’t respond to ads without a set reward. An ironclad contract. ‘Negotiable’
usually meant tight and/or will kill you on completion. The poster, in this
case, though, seemed distinguishably bourgeois. Classless. So, skint with their
cash.
Yet, there
was something about the face of the woman. Something she knew would tug at her
if she tried to ignore it. Plus, it was such a pretty little face. Perfect for
her collection. Maybe she’d have her reading a book. Doing something studious. Hitting
the books. Gotta be smart. Bent over a journal.
She DM-ed @churchviolentiam:
whose van? what’d they steal?
Lucia sat and
waited for a response. Likes and comments flying in.
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