agentorange: (Default)
[personal profile] agentorange
Title: Changing of the Guard
Rating: R
Words: 1661
Note: I'm pretty sure this is considered necrophilia. Prompted by [ profile] per_tinacious.

Number 11's first duty as personal assistant to Black Mask was torture chamber detail.

"Think of it as a rite of passage," Mask was saying to him as he unlocked the heavy door.

It wasn't though. Roman didn't make every assistant scrub the room down; that job was usually given to lesser employees, but with the string of personal assistant irritations, he felt like being an asshole.

The stench hit 11's nostrils and he gagged. Roman snorted, giving him a shove toward the stairs. 11 held his sleeve over his nose as they descended, unable to comprehend how his employer could stand it.

"Maybe next time you won't forget the Vaporub," Roman rebuked. Goddamn personal assistants get dumber every day. "Number 11, meet your predecessor, Number 10."

Number 10 was still strapped to the dentist chair, her blonde hair sticking out like straw from her ashen face. Her mouth, dark with dried blood, hung open in a silent scream. Number 11 realized she had no tongue. He quickly looked away to her mutilated fingers. The tips were black where blood had pooled under the skin. 11 gulped nervously and spun around.

"I signed on to be your personal assistant, not your housekeeper. I'll clean your office, but not...this," he gestured disgustedly to the corpse.

Roman sighed and backhanded the man across the face.

"You want to know what happened to the last personal assistant who disagreed with me?"

Number 11 held his cheek and shook his head, aghast. Roman tutted and moved to the Iron Maiden, yanking the door open. The hinges squealed.

"Number 11, meet Number 9. Lots of happy introductions for you today," Roman chuckled as the drained body of Number 9 sagged out of the Maiden.

Number 11 blanched. Roman stuffed the corpse back into the Maiden and closed the door. He smiled sheepishly.

"Ok, so, Number 9 didn't disagree with me, I was just excited to have Circe back in my possession. Circe is the Maiden, by the way."

He patted the iron door affectionately.

"My ever faithful girl, Circe. Anyway, before you get out the pressure hose, you gotta drag that dead weight to the service elevator over yonder. The boys upstairs will take care of her from there."

Number 11 looked like he wanted to vomit. Roman leaned against the Maiden, crossing his arms.

"What's the wait, Once? Unstrap the bitch, chuck her in the elevator, rinse the shit out of the chair, easy peasy. Don't tell me you're flaking out on me; your credentials are so promising."

11 shook his head.

"I can't do this..."

Roman rolled his eyes. Under his left arm, his right hand touched the handle of the gun in the shoulder holster he wore.

"I'm not askin' ya to let me watch you mung her, you brain donor, I'm askin' ya to personally assist me in straightening up my office, as it were, and you should know that I'm getting a little annoyed with you right now," he said conversationally. "Actually, that's an idea. What say we give you an incentive. I'll let you give Number 10 a respectful send off before you tidy up."

Number 11 looked from the body to his employer uncertainly.


Roman's hand left the gun as he unfolded his arms, moving across the chamber to the stairwell.

"Oh, boys!" he called in a singsong way.

Two burly bodyguard types immediately appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah boss?"

Roman jerked his head in 11's direction. "New assistant wants to honor the memory of his predecessor. Let's show some respect and give him a proper audience."

The two men clomped down the stairs. Number 11's eyebrows knitted with worry.

"Look, I don't know what you think my training is, but I think you got the wrong guy."

He started to move toward the staircase.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Sionis," he mumbled, sticking out his hand to shake.

Roman looked at the trembling hand and guffawed, clapping the assistant on the shoulder.

"Where ya going, kid? We barely know each other!" He spun the man around, pushing him back toward the dentist chair. "I haven't even shown you my antiques collection! You can't leave yet."

The man twisted from Roman's grip, spinning to face him angrily.

"Get your hands off me. You can't just- hey!"

The two henchmen had grabbed each of his arms, pulling him from his employer. Roman shook his head, jabbing a finger in the man's face.

"God, you're rude. How many employers would give you the warm welcome I did? How many people get to meet the deadbeats they've taken over for? And what would sweet, darling, deceased Number 10 say about your manners? She'd be appalled and horrified by your refusal to look at her."

While he spoke, he had unstrapped the corpse and dragged it halfway down the chair so that the legs dangled off the end. There were dark marks on her bare legs where the straps below her skirt had pressed against the skin. Roman motioned for the henches to bring Number 11 closer to the corpse.

"Look at her, 11. Look how beautiful she is. Even as a stiff, she's gorgeous, ain't she?"

11 shook his head, his eyes wide.

"You're fucked up."

Roman smiled, absently stroking the dead girl's naked thigh.

"Thanks for noticing."

His hand disappeared beneath the skirt and Number 11 dry heaved. Roman frowned.

"You're insulting Number 10, son. That's no way to act in the presence of a lady."

There was the sound of fabric ripping and Roman's hand reappeared, a clump of lace fisted in it. Number 11's stomach flip-flopped.

"Or are you sick with desire? That's it, you sly dog! The fake tits get you going, right? Bitch looked damned fine in a bikini, I don't mind telling you. Never got to fuck her," he said wistfully.

He tossed the panties aside and laid a hand on a bloody breast, leering at Number 11.

"You could, though."

Number 11 blinked, not believing his ears.

"Excuse me? Did you just suggest I desecrate that poor woman's remains?"

Roman laughed.

"I'm not suggesting it, 11, I'm ordering it. 10 deserves an apology and you're gonna give it to her."

Roman flipped the skirt over Number 10's hips, baring her shaved vulva. Number 11 struggled against the henchmen.

"No, this is sick. You're sick, man! You can't make me do this!"

Roman tapped his fingers impatiently on Number 10's mons.

"I can make you do anything I want. And right now, I want you to kiss and make up with Number 10."

The henchmen forced the assistant to his knees, shoving him between the corpse's legs. The man gagged again, trying to turn away. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm not doing this," he panted, bile rising in his throat. Then he felt cold metal touch the center of his forehead. He raised his eyes: Roman's gun was to his head.

"Yes, you are."

The assistant shuddered and, taking a deep breath, stuck out his tongue. It hovered millimeters from Number 10. He retched for real. Roman brought the butt of the gun down on Number 11's nose, resulting in a crack and a shriek of pain.

"Stop being a tease and show her a good time, jackass. The longer you beat around her bush, the more she rots."

Number 11 choked on a silent sob and stuck his tongue out again. He immediately jerked away upon touching her cold lips.

"I can't! I can't do this!" his voice rose hysterically.

Roman waved the gun at the henches. They yanked the assistant's arms behind his back, dislocating both of his shoulders. Number 11 howled.

"Don't leave her hanging, lover boy. Chicks hate it when you fire them up and then pass out before you get them off."

This time Number 11 succeeded.

"The ladies must love you, kid. Looks like you shoulda been a professional pussy eater and not a personal assistant."

Number 11 had receded into his mind and he did not hear Roman. Nor did he see Roman leaning over the corpse's hips.

"Ever have a girl squirt in your face with no warning, Number 11? It's a magical, unforgettable thing."

He suddenly pressed down on the corpse's abdomen with all his weight, forcing her innards downward. Number 11 staggered back against the henchmen, his mouth full and dripping. He saw what was seeping from Number 10's vagina and he began to scream, trying to empty his mouth. Roman cackled.

"Drop him, boys."

Number 11 crumbled to the floor, his arms limp and unable to scrape his mouth clean. He writhed on the stone floor, howling impotently.

"Go get the next one, will ya?" Roman commanded.

One of the henches headed upstairs. The other one stood back when Roman raised his gun, twirling it while he spoke.

"You were kind of a huge disappointment, Number 11, I'm sorry to say. Almost more than loose guts over there. Lately it seems like you guys only exist to drive me up the fucking wall, and the only use I get out of you worthless pricks is trying out new torture techniques."

Roman thoughtfully scratched his cheek with the barrel of the gun and continued.

"Not that I don't appreciate your aid in expanding my creative horizons, but for once, I'd like a personal assistant who can get things done. Unfortunately for you, Number 11, you don't fit the job description. Fortunately for me, your successor is already here."

Roman turned, hearing footsteps on the stairs.

"Number 12, you're just in time. Say goodbye to Number 11."

The gunshot resounded in the stone chamber, abruptly ending the man's howls. Roman stepped over the body and headed for the stairs, passing Number 12 without a glance. Halfway up the stairs, he called down.

"Clean up the bodies and meet me in my office. We have some things to discuss regarding your tenure."
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agentorange: (Default)

May 2010


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