Chapter 63
Phoenix
Ifeel bad leaving the house. It’s early.
Well before the sun is coming up. I never made it to bed last night.
No doubt Roni will notice. But by the time I was ready to sleep, it was the wee hours, and it wouldn’t have been fair to her to come in and risk ruining her rest. Besides, I was fuming with homicidal rage.
Still am. I just need to keep my shit together a bit longer.
I have errands to run, a shopping list of various items I need to collect before I report to the Abbey today.
First, I stop at the little coffee shop where Roni used to work.
Not much has changed other than the staff.
A couple of young girls slinging cups of joe, trying to keep lines of thirsty men moving.
The coffee actually is good. I wouldn’t have much reason to come here otherwise, though there’s a hint of nostalgia.
Next up is the sporting‐goods store. I need to get a new duffel bag and some fresh athletic wear. Then I swing by the hardware store to pick up my own set of toys, tools I’ll need.
Later, I roll through the Abbey's wrought-iron gates just before nine o'clock. I park my glossy black SUV as I always do, only today I circle to the back, pop the tailgate with, and fish out the canvas bag filled with my taser, zip-ties, duct tape, and anything else I may need.
I walk a fast line between the rows of freshly bleached stalls, sweat already beading at my temples despite the morning chill.
The hockey mask digs into my cheekbones with each step, the elastic band pulling at my hair.
I shouldn't have to wear this goddamn thing after today.
There's nothing wrong with it. Some basic plastic which has served its purpose for year.
But this place, with its sweat and blood stained beams will never be the same once I'm done.
I don't bother glancing at the crop-wielding instructor demonstrating proper etiquette or the gleaming display of stainless steel implements.
Not today. That's not why I'm here. I move quickly but discreetly, shoulders hunched, heading straight for Simon's steel-doored office at the top of the stairs.
I tap my knuckles against the cold, hard metal, feeling the vibration travel up my arm as the electronic lock buzzes open.
The hinges creak slightly as I push through.
Simon sits behind his mahogany desk, his white porcelain mask pulled taut over his face, not a single wrinkle visible in the material.
The silver zipper disappears beneath the crisp collar of his pressed black dress shirt.
His suit jacket hangs perfectly from his broad shoulders, matching his silk tie.
The man in black, with a face white as a ghost. The constant I knew I could rely upon. Clark. The untouchable boss.
I knock on the doorframe again, and he tilts his head at a precise angle, the eyeholes of his mask revealing nothing but shadow.
“Hey, Clark,” I say, my shoes clicking rapidly across the hardwood as I approach.
“What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” The question hangs in the air between us, exactly what I'd be asking if our positions were reversed. I'm never here this early. Not unless he’s ordered me to be. The explanation I rehearsed all night slides from my tongue with practiced ease.
“I wanted to get here as soon as I could. There's a small, but critical, issue I need to fix. The patch I installed last time I was here. It has a flaw. One that could compromise your privacy. I know that's not something you'd be okay with, so I came right away.”
“I see. You didn't think to call? Shoot me a text?”
“Honestly, I'm operating on very little sleep and have been focused on reviewing client by client to see where I need to be to get this done. You're the furthest drive away, so I came here first.”
“Okay, okay.” He mockingly waves me off, as he generally does.
The reflection in the window shows his fingers dancing across the keyboard, closing screens.
I slide around the desk's edge, my hand already wrapped around the cold plastic in my pocket.
His chair squeaks as he pushes back. I'm already moving.
The taser makes a sharp crack against his silk shirt.
His body goes rigid under my grip as I count. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
I wonder if the expensive fabric is insulating him?
His hand shoots out, fingers taloned. Bare skin.
I jam the electrodes against his palm and press the trigger again.
The smell hits me first. Sweet sulfur. His body convulses.
His eyes roll back, mouth working silently behind the mask.
Then he's on the floor, limbs twisted at odd angles, chest heaving irregularly.
My own lungs burn. Sweat trickles down my spine.
The most powerful man I know lies crumpled at my feet like discarded laundry.
There's no going back now.
My body shakes slightly as I undo his belt, the metal buckle clinking against itself.
I tug down the zipper of his tailored slacks, the teeth separating with what sounds like a howl in the quiet.
Each button on his shirt slips free under my touch, revealing a pale chest dotted with dark hair.
The silk tie slides like water through my grip.
When I finally peel away his mask, the leather makes a sucking sound against his sweaty skin.
His face is flushed, vulnerable. I shed my own clothes, and meticulously dress myself in his.
The suit jacket settles heavy on my shoulders, still warm from his body.
The mask smells of expensive cologne layered over stale breath and sweat.
I’d be shocked if he wears these for more than a couple uses.
Standing before the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The transformation is complete. His perfect posture, his air of untouchable authority, are now mine.
I've become the monster I once served. I flex my fingers, feeling the power humming through them, though I haven't planned beyond this moment of metamorphosis.
Simon's unconscious body is heavier than it looks.
I drag him across the polished floor, his head lolling, leaving a thin trail of drool.
The closet door opens to reveal a forest of identical black suits, each hanging with military precision on wooden hangers.
I stuff him between two of them, his body crumpling like discarded gift wrap.
At least I won't need to shop for replacements.
Now, what the fuck was he doing, I wonder?
Working my magic, I bring up the browsers he previously had open.
And of course, this motherfucker was online with my wife.
She’s up early, getting right to work. I look closely to assess what he has her doing.
I know that face. The expression of yearning.
Of burning desire. I see the glint of a jewel tucked between her perfect ass cheeks.
She’s got a fucking butt plug in. This woman kills me.
And he’s got her using the fucking saw. It looks like she’s got the dildo attached to the end, and she’s using the trigger… to fuck herself.
I can’t see anything else from here. Not the other chat window. Not others who may be watching.
“Are you still there, Simon?” she asks, pulling the slippery dick from her cunt.
Fuck. I don’t want to join with video without making sure I have his settings correct. He always has something blocking his face. Shadows mostly.
I shoot her a quick message and attach a thousand dollars.
@SIMPleSimon: Yeah, sorry. Random visitor wasn’t expected, especially this early. But I’m back now.
Imagine me, the fucking tech guru, needing to figure out how to work a basic camera and then, ha, there it is.
The button to resume broadcasting. I click it and suddenly I see Simon, well, me dressed as Simon.
I don’t know exactly what filtration he’s using.
There’s a shadow cast over me, but the daylight’s coming in just fine in this room as I sit here.
I don’t know where he got this software. I certainly didn’t install it. I look over at the closet and wonder if this piece of shit’s been letting another techie fuck around on his system.
“Where were we,” I ask her, and the voice that echoes in the speakers sounds nothing like the man I know as Clark. This shitbag must be modulating his voice, too.
My anger’s weakened when Roni moans, slowly sliding the dick-covered-saw into her magnificent pussy.
“What do you want me to do?” she asks.
“Simon says fuck that cunt, and don’t stop until you’re a puddle on the floor.”