Shkillet is what I call skinny-fat. His body is gaunt with his ribcage sticking out, but at the same time, his stomach is flabby. I don’t care about his looks, though. All that matters is that he has no tattoos. He does have a large birthmark, however, that reminds me of a Rorschach inkblot test. A counselor showed it to me during the one and only time I tried therapy. Most of her inkblots reminded me of people’s brains blowing up—understandable, given the reason I went to see her in the first place—but this guy’s birthmark looks like an exploding heart.
Okay, so Shkillet either hadn’t been to prison back home or nobody bothered to put any ink on him while he was there. Either way, he’s not likely to be a high-status criminal and thus probably isn’t the person I’m looking for. Therefore, he’s good for a measly five-second jump into his head.
I put my hand on his neck as though trying to measure his pulse. Where I touch people in the Mind Dimension never seems to matter, so I go for the least disgusting place. I clear my mind for Reading. The faster this part is, the more Depth I save. Eugene had figured out some techno-widgety new practice for me to improve how quickly I can do this, and I’m grateful for it with situations like this.
The feeling I get just before I’m about to Read someone comes over me, and I make sure I’m sent only a few moments back into his memories.
*
“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl says.
The sex bomb is talking about a real bomb, we think of replying, but decide against it. Not until we see how Victor responds. The guy’s insane, and displeasing him is as easy as it is deadly.
This is why we realize that if we go through with our plan for the girl, we’ll have to cut her throat afterwards. Had we just wanted to fuck her, then we could probably get away with leaving her alive afterwards—there are no rules against rape in this place. But we want her money, too, and that’s why she’ll have to die. Victor’s underground casinos have only this one rule: retaliations due to game losses are forbidden. We shudder when we remember what had been done to the last guy who tried to pull some shit on a poker game winner. We’ll have to ensure we’re not caught.
We think about all the things we want to do to her before we kill her off, and get a painful hard-on. We imagine how we’d fill up that oh-so-fuckable pouty mouth of hers. We visualize grabbing those perfect titties, leaving marks, prying open those long legs . . . Our balls tighten in anticipation.
This is going to be even better than the last time. That whore from two days ago can’t even begin to compare to this girl. Looks aside, that bitch hadn’t even fought us, just meekly took it. The fight has become half the fun for us over the years. When they fight, and we finally bend them to our will, we feel the rush of power that’s almost as fun as the sex itself. With this girl, it’ll be even better because she’s rumored to be feisty. The sarcastic remarks she’s made throughout the game confirm it. So she’ll likely fight, and fight well. We fantasize about her scratching our back with her perfectly manicured fingernails before we lock her wrists in a tight grip . . .
I, Mira, separate my own thinking from Shkillet’s in horrified disgust. I need a shower. I need a dozen showers. I’m still in his head, but I can reflect on what I just learned without fully getting out. Separating my thinking this way allows me to spare my brain from getting more of the vile details of what he plans to do to me. Witnessing the memories of what he did to the poor girl he raped two days ago was terrible enough. And while I’m not clear if he killed her afterwards, I’m positive he’s planning to kill me.
Given the circumstances, I dive a little deeper into his memories. I need to learn if he’s armed and if there’s anything else I need to know about.
We look at our cards. One fucking pair. Two more rounds like this, and we’ll be completely broke. But not for long, we remind ourselves, feeling the weight of the ceramic knife in the holster in our boot.
It’ll be best to do the deed swiftly. It has to happen here on the club premises before the bitch leaves and has the chance to get into her car.
Victor will be furious when they find the body. But he’d never suspect Shkillet. Getting no respect has some advantages—people underestimate us, and therefore, we can get away with anything.
I, Mira, separate again and think quickly. He managed to sneak a ceramic knife into this place. I guess the material didn’t trigger the metal detector wands the bouncers pass over everyone’s body upon entrance.
Damn it. This changes my strategy completely. I need to make sure to leave plenty of Depth to deal with this development. If one of these other men is the one I came here to find, it’s his lucky day, because I’m skipping their vile heads.
Except Victor’s. I’ve been waiting to meet him face-to-face for months because he’s always seemed the most likely candidate, given what I’ve heard about him. There’s no way I’m missing that chance now.
As I form a plan, I exit Shkillet’s mind.
*
Still in the Mind Dimension, I approach Victor and unceremoniously rip the shirt from his body. As I do so, I note the pair of aces in front of him on the table.
And his tattoos.
Yeah, Victor’s been in the Russian jail system—he’s a zek, as these people call it. Russian tattoos fascinate me. Probably because Dad had one. He served time with a bunch of scientists for objecting to the nuclear arms race during the Cold War. His Reading skills saved his life, enabling him to get out of the prison camp after only a couple of months, but the hellish experience made him desperate to leave the Soviet Union. He waited years until he could, and by then, Soviet Union was simply Russia. Still, as Dad liked to say about the new regime, “Nothing’s changed—KGB still rules.”
So now I try to memorize Victor’s tattoos. I only recognize the meaning of the stars on his shoulders. Vor v zakone. Translated literally, it means ‘a thief in law,’ but the vernacular is a criminal authority of high caliber.
I examine him more. I’ve never seen this double-headed eagle tattoo before, though I think this is what the government symbol looked like back in the Czarist Russia. The Statue of Liberty super-imposed on the eagle also doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps Victor hates the Soviet Union and is reliving the pre-revolution glory days with this ink? Coupled with a symbol of America, maybe he’s not so fond of communism, too? It’s a theory that gains more credence when I realize that a lot of his prison images are anti-authority.
I also notice that Victor is ripped. How can I not? I am, after all, human. He’s built like a swimmer, and his abs form a perfect six-pack.
Stop being a danger slut, Mira, I chide myself. How can you even think about what he looks like after what was in Shkillet’s head?
Or, more importantly, given what I’ve heard about Victor. This tendency to drool over monsters is something I truly despise about myself.
So, to that end, I decide enough’s enough. I need to give Victor a Reading and get the hell out. I’ll be only half-empty of Depth, and that will have to be enough.
I put my arm on his chiseled chest, right on the serene face of Lady Liberty. Physical contact made, I concentrate.
I’m going back far enough to see what he did before he came into this room. With any luck, he might’ve been thinking of blowing up someone’s car. If so, Shkillet won’t be the only person I’ll need to deal with . . .
*
We’re inside Vera. She moans softly. With her bent over just the way we like, we have a nice view of her naked back. It’s sinewy with muscle. In a perfect world, we like our woman to be a bit curvier, but there’s something about her that we find attractive enough to overlook that fact. Our previous squeeze had nice love handles, but she, unfortunately, didn’t appreciate our interest, instead opting to overdose while we were taking care of business. Women.