Crimson blood dripped from the tip of the dagger. A small smile drifted across tanned face. Pink eyes glowed with a mirthless joy. The cold, steel blade sunk into the quivering mass of flesh and blood once again. A cold and rapid exhalation of air that might have been a laugh, and then another.

The quivering mass of flesh stopped moving. Thin lips shifted into a pout. Leather boot gently kicked at the empty shell. Nothing. Another kick. Still nothing. A small sigh and the man turned on his heels. In an almost disgustingly cheerful and nonchalant matter, he walked out of the alleyway, leaving the corrupted shell behind him.

The grip on the dagger tightened as he brought it up to his face. A large smile spread across the face, cheeks filled with a hectic blush. The tongue extended from between his thin lips. Slightly sharp end touched against the warm blood that stained the cold steel. Tongue pulled back into the confines of his jaw, and the smile upon his face widened.

Chocolate eyelashes blinked over the luminous pink eyes. Long arms stretched outwards. Tall frame gently curved as arms reached upwards and grasped at the air. Lethargy gripped his muscles, and eyelids fluttered.

“I’m tired.” His voice was slightly deep and somewhat scratchy, but there was a lilting quality about it, something giggly and musical. Hand fell down to his sides. One leather boot slid in front of the other.

Thin-fingered hands ran through messy black strands of hair. An errant strand still fell in front of the strange-colored irises. The smile turned into one of detached amusement as he walked down the city street. Litter blew across the sidewalks.

A homeless man looked up at him with the dead eyes of a drug addict and held out a chinked mug. The male smiled and gently took the man’s wrist in his hand, getting down on his haunches to look him in the eyes.

The dagger slashed out, and there was a quick jet of blood. The hand, now cleanly removed from the wrist, still clutched the chinked mug. The male’s head tilted.

“Get a job.”

The homeless man gasped. There was another quick movement. The dagger then seemed to be growing out of his head, like a horribly malignant tumor. With surgical grace, the man pulled the dagger from the homeless person, ignoring the beautiful jet of crimson that painted the ground. A small grin, and the dagger slashed again.

“You’re just a waste, aren’t you? I don’t pretend to go around benefiting society, but I can do them this one favor.”

After a few moments, the homeless man’s head rolled from his shoulders.

The male smiled and stood up. As he walked he sang, “Where’s yo’ head at?” Uproarious laughter strangled itself from his throat. His laughter had a way of sounding dead. “Don’t let the walls caves in on you. We can’t live on, live on without you.”

----

“I want my mommy!” the young boy cried out at the man. Beautiful, crystalline tears fell from his eyes. It was a pitiful sight, but the man seemed to think it was quite funny.

“Your mommy is dead, man.”

His cries were louder, interspersed with inarticulate no’s.

“Wanna know what I did to her?” He sounded abhorrently cheerful. Long legs were crossed underneath him, and he sat on a large leather armchair. The room was clean and white. Cruel-looking metal instruments hung from the walls. Random torture devices lay on the ground. There were a few moaning people in cages near the ceiling.

They had this little shackle around their necks, so that they had to remain standing, for fear of dying by asphyxiation. Like most things, the man found that very funny.

“You ever read about the Inquisition?”

The boy answered with cries.

“Well, I used something called The Pear a little bit. Basically, I stuck it up her… well, her birth canal and sorta twisted this little knob thing on the end. This little sorta spherical object opens up, and then there’s all these spikes on it.” A giggle, and he shook his head. “But then, I lowered her onto a Judas Chair. It was great. Her bowels sorta just burst asunder, you know? It was awesome.”

The male tilted his head.

The boy continued his pleadings and cryings, all inarticulate. He was strapped to a table, facing the ceiling. There was something that looked like a spit over his stomach. On the spit was something that looked like a spike.

“You know, I don’t think you enjoy this as much as I do.” Eyes lit up with that inhuman light. “And stop crying. Quit being a bitch. I could’ve done worse to you. If you were a little bit older and/or a girl, I would’ve had fun with you.” A pause. “Like I did with your mom.”

This, too, seemed utterly hilarious. The boy did not find the humor in it.

Legs shot out from underneath him and hit the ground, propelling him into a standing position. Right hand moved a few strands of hair from his eyes. With long, almost regal strides, he made his way to the crying, pleading boy. The man’s face moved close to the boy’s. Their lips were almost touching.

The fright seemed to excite him.

“Well, since we’re going to know each other in a very intimate way, you should probably know my name.” A grin, and he smoothed the boy’s blonde hair. “My name is Cyrus. You can call me Cy, if you want.”

The boy tried to bite his captor’s nose. Cyrus only laughed. Without looking, thin fingers wrapped around a hand-scythe onto the wall. The cold, silver blade drew down the boy’s shirt.

Cyrus parted the shirt from the boy’s chest. The scythe made a neat slit on the boy’s gut. Blood welled up from the cut. The boy cried out.

Cyrus giggled.

Right hand moved to the wall, placing the scythe back in its place among the clean instruments of torture. He stood up and stretched, walking to a corner of the room. Index finger ran along an expensive-looking stereo. Speakers were up on the walls in every corner of the room, some right next to the cages.

An odd song with an odder beat filtered from the speakers.

Before he stepped back to the boy, he grabbed a razor blade from a box right next to an expensive looking vase filled with flowers. The thin-fingered hand slipped into the incision, armed with the razor blade. The pink eyes gleamed.

Cyrus made a small cut and grabbed onto the end of the intestines. Right hand slipped out with a bit of the ropey, purple organ between his thumb and forefinger. He punctured the end through the spike on the spit.

A spin, and he was at the handle of the spit.

The boy cried out in pain. His begging and pleading became louder. He begged the captor with all of his body and soul. Glorious blue eyes distorted by tears, he began to pray.

Cyrus laughed and began to turn the crank. More of the organ slid from the slit on the boy’s stomach.

“Now today is tomorrow, and tomorrow today, and yesterday is weaving in and out.” His singing voice was odd. It sounded too cheerful.

Hands clenched, and the boy closed his eyes. He began to pray to the God of Jesus and the Apostles. He was in true pain.

“Now do you believe in the one big sign, the doublewide shine on the boot heels of your prime.” Gleeful giggles interrupted his singing for a moment. “You can dress up like a sultan in your onion head hat.”

The entire boy’s body tensed, as he felt his intestines being removed from his body. Tears almost choked him.

“Some people drink Pepsi; some people drink Coke. The wacky morning dj says democracy’s a joke.” He paused for a moment, regarding the boy with an expression that could only be an intermingling of pure love and sheer hatred.

Cyrus began to rock back and forth as pulled the crank. He admired the way that the slick tendrils appeared out of the slit and wrapped around the metal spit. It looked like a good deal of it was out of his body.

The boy cried out. It hurt so badly. It felt like everything was being taken from his body. It hurt for him to cry, to make any noise, but he still did.

“He says, ‘Now do you believe in the one big song?’ He’s now accepting callers who would like to sing along.”

The captor stopped and giggled. One hand gently moved to the wall. He chose an extremely sharp but thin blade. With utmost grace, he flicked it along the boy’s neck. And then, poked it into the boy’s eyes and gently scooped them out. It made a glorious squelching noise. There was a lot of blood.

The boy’s crying would have reached, but he had a large cut in his throat and such. Cyrus smiled as his heart slowly pumped the blood out of his body.

“We are now accepting callers for these beautiful pendant keychains,” he sang in the same repellent voice.

The boy died.

Cyrus hung up the blade and grinned. Body lowered, and he gently kissed the lips of the dead boy. Turning swiftly on his heels, he surveyed the cages. Hands clapped together. That usual grin and, “So, who wants to go next?”