Taste of Disgrace
A Spoonful of Sin
The girl sat in a gilded chair, a vision of lace and ribbons in her tea party dress, gently stroking the large Capuchin in her lap. Six mobsters sat frozen around the mahogany table, the steam from her Earl Grey the only thing moving. Without breaking eye contact with the lead boss, she grabbed the Capuchin’s hind legs and swung with a heavy, forceful arc. A sickening, wet ‘thud-crack’ echoed as its skull met the table’s edge; the top of the head split wide, splattering a significant burst of grey matter across the man’s expensive silk tie.
“He bit me this morning,” she whispered, petting the heavy, twitching corpse. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
She offered a silver spoon heaped with the warm brain to the first man. He recoiled. “Choice is a luxury,” she sighed, pulling a revolver and painting the wall with his brains. Guards emerged, shadows with iron sights. The next man gagged and spat out his massive portion. Blam. “The portions are getting bigger,” she noted as the territories of the dead men shifted to the survivors.
The third man frantically scooped the grey slush from the previous man’s vomit, swallowing it like a starving animal, his pants darkening with urine as he lived. Finally, only one large, clouded eyeball remained for the most powerful man in the room. He hesitated, his pride warring with his pulse.
“Look, it’s easy,” she chirped. She leaned down, sucked the last eyeball straight from the socket, and chewed the rubbery lens. Dark ichor leaked from her lips, staining her white lace collar. “So, what’ll it be, big man? Do we have a deal, or are you gonna puss out?”
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