It is always strange and always intoxicating to take over so completely – to wrench the controls away from the other guy and leave him like a puppet, violated, limp to your will and your whims and your dangerous proclivities. This time it is even better because you have chosen one of his friends to torture and it is all deliciously sweet and new when you are twisting the blade with someone else’s hand and eyeing the pulse of arteries under his skin with someone else’s gaze, and it is all so fresh that you feel almost drunk. His hands fit you differently and it is annoying to feel the dull ache from deep within his leg, but you would not give this up. It took only a second to strong-arm your way into his fingers and arms and slip a tasteless powder into his friend’s drink while they are out celebrating some pathetic, inconsequential con. It is sad, really. They are so caught up in trivial things like money and confidence schemes that they have completely abandoned their potential for committing real, visceral chaos and corruption. It makes you sick.
Speaking of which, you are pleasantly surprised by how quickly the drug takes effect. The friend is slumped in the other guy’s arms within minutes and in the flash of surprise that fills his head with sharp light is the perfect opportunity for you to slip your arms around his brain, twisting and writhing until each tendril of your consciousness has enveloped and consumed him and he is nothing but a sack of meat at your disposal. You make him carry his friend out into a back alley, laughing it off along the way as if the friend has simply overdone it a bit on the fruity cocktails, and then it is your time to shine and you have him pinning the friend on the ground next to a dumpster and the other guy’s butterfly knife is toying with his ears and his nose and his throat. You are not seeking answers, but still it is fun to play with him for a bit before you drive the knife into his neck up to the hilt, watching the comical way that the handle bounces with the force of your punches to his head and face. It is over far too soon for your tastes, and with your guidance the other guy makes quick work of stripping the body and dumping it in the bin.
You take the other guy home, but you don’t release him. Not yet. Not when you’re just starting to stretch your legs. You busy yourself with changing into clean clothes and scrubbing the worst of the gore from his body, but then you start to get bored. You decide that it will be fun to leave him as an empty shell for a while, just a withered old husk in his awful little apartment, where he will snap back to reality sometime within the next couple of days with the mother of all hangovers, wondering what he’s done.
A laugh froths up out of the other guy’s chest and you can taste the horrible sour bile that comes with it, and you are endlessly pleased.