Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone)

in it. And it shouldn't fucking matter. Wasn’t like Charlie was squirting his danglers in her dithers anyway. Chucky Cheese Dick had his feelings, sure, but that wasn’t what kept Boricio’s buttons in a row. This was about keeping, and maintaining, control of his team.
    It was a dog-eat-dog world, and there ain’t nothing a dog likes better than a heaping helping of pussy, whiskers or no. But pussy was hard to come by at the end of the world. And Boricio was a big dog; he’d bite the face off any other dog to keep his pussy in a high pile. But that was the same sorta shit that Bobby Big Boy had done to Charlie, and Boricio didn’t want to schedule a rerun of that particular show. Boricio was smart enough to be the big dog who kept his puppies on patrol. Sometimes that meant letting the dogs feel like they had some power, and leaving things be.
    Despite his occasional temper tantrums, Charlie had proven himself capable of playing for Team Boricio when he took care of that shit-pile stepfather of his. The kid was grinning like a drunk Mexican when he called Boricio in to see his handiwork. A thing of beauty what he’d done to Bob. Boricio hadn't done anything even approaching Charlie’s level of artistry until his 21st kill.
    It was a bitch restaurant reviewer who pissed him off. Took one bite of his best dish and declared it DOA without even swallowing. It was the last review she ever wrote. Boricio wouldn’t have cared about the review itself. Fuck her. His shit was creme’ de la fuck-yeah and he knew it. But she up and decided it wasn’t worth her muffin before the spoon hit the fat of her mouth. Boricio found the first part of the review funny, laughing out loud at her dumb fuckery, but then he hit the last line: “The owners of L'aigle Noir must pay handsomely for the lines that circle the block. And at $20 a plate, they can afford it.”
    Fuck. Her.
    Boricio waited six weeks. When he finally caught her, he made sure she swallowed. Four times in two hours. The bonus three were interest for her not taking a legitimate bite of his Chiliquelles de la Noche. It had been a long night with Miss Bitch Reviewer, but sweet enough to make the sudden move two states over worth it. It was the first time Boricio had ever gotten creative with his kills. And dammit, what was an artist such as himself without creativity?
    Charlie, however, was like some kinda idiot savant when it came to creative killing, though. His first work was a goddamned masterpiece!  
    Boricio didn’t know everything that had gone down in the room. And Charlie had refused to answer any questions, simply letting the work speak for itself. Boricio had no idea why Dumbfuck Charlie wouldn’t want to talk about it; the fuck he knew whether the rookie was ashamed or perhaps frightened by what he’d done. If Boricio had demonstrated half the artistry the kid had on his first kill, he would’ve had the shit printed on a tee-shirt and wore the fucker threadbare. Boy had a gift. Made Boricio proud, a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt for another before.  
    Charlie had called Boricio into the room and shut the door so only Boricio would see what he’d done. He led him to the bed where Bob’s hands and feet were tied to the black wrought iron bed posts. The man’s arms and legs had been splayed apart as far as possible so he formed a giant X. The lower half of his nude body was covered beneath a blood-soaked down comforter.
    Boricio walked around the bed, not touching a thing, admiring the boy’s handiwork like an artist surveying the work of his protege. Charlie watched the entire time, eyes on Boricio, as if waiting for a critique.
    Bob’s eyes were wide open in a permanent shocked expression, which made Boricio smile. Didn’t see this coming, did ya, Bob? Bob’s cheeks had been sliced open and hung like bloody fatty flaps over the sides of his face. On the right cheek, Charlie had used a nail-gun he’d found in the room to shoot a nail into the man’s face. Since there was only one nail, Boricio figured the boy was simply experimenting and hadn’t liked the result. The man’s mouth was dark purple, puffy, and bloody, like ole’ Charlie had spent a fat hour hitting or cutting him in the same goddamn spot. He looked like a losing boxer at the end of the fight with a mouth full of gauze to soak up the blood.
    Across Bobby’s chest were more wounds with flesh peeled back, most probably given to Bob while he was still begging.