I sit here in my sprawling villa on the outskirts of North Gatter Lake City, the kind of place that screams money and power, the sort of fortress where no fucking idiot could ever touch me. The underground lab's just a staircase away, humming with the ghosts of all those worthless sacks of meat I've carved up over the years. But tonight, fuck the experiments. I'm drowning in whiskey, chain-smoking these cheap-ass cigars that burn my throat just right, and the memories are flooding back like a goddamn tidal wave. My husband—oh, that twisted bastard Marcus—he's been gone for years now, jumped into that filthy lake to escape the heat from his drug deals. But shit, I miss him. Miss the way we tore each other apart, body and soul. The world thinks he's dead as a doornail, some drowned fool in drag because yeah, that sick fuck loved dressing up as a woman when he offed himself. They found the body in a skirt and heels, thought it was some pathetic tranny suicide. Ha! If only they knew the real story. Marcus, you clever son of a bitch, you pulled that off perfectly.
It hits me hard sometimes, like right now, with the bottle half-empty and the ashtray overflowing. I remember the nights we'd fuck like animals, raw and vicious, no holds barred. God, it makes me wet just thinking about it. There was this one time—shit, it must've been right after we knocked off that sniveling prick who owed us money for the coke we slung. We were high on adrenaline, blood still on our hands from slicing him open and harvesting his kidneys for the black market. Marcus and I dragged our asses back to that shitty apartment we had back then, before the villas and the fortunes. The place reeked of stale smoke and spilled booze, but who gives a fuck? We were kings and queens of our own twisted empire.
I slammed the door shut, my heart pounding like a war drum. Marcus was already stripping, that lean, scarred body of his glistening with sweat. "You filthy whore," he growled at me, grabbing my throat just hard enough to make my pulse race. I laughed, shoving him back against the wall. "Says the pussy who cries when I peg you," I shot back, my nails digging into his chest. We were both addicts—to the kill, to the cash, to each other. That night, I pulled out the camera, this old camcorder we'd stolen from some rich asshole's house during a break-in. "Let's make a movie, you disgusting pervert," I whispered, setting it up on the tripod. Marcus's eyes lit up like Christmas lights in hell. He loved that shit—being watched, even if it was just us later, jerking off to our own depravity.
He started with the clothes. Oh, fuck, Marcus had this fetish for cross-dressing that drove me insane—in the best way. He'd slip into my lingerie, that black lace bra stretching over his flat chest, panties hugging his cock like a second skin. "Look at me, Hailey," he'd say, voice dropping low and mocking. "I'm your little slut now." I'd call him every name in the book: "You pathetic faggot, prancing around like a cheap hooker." But it turned us both on. That night, he went all out—stockings, garters, a wig we'd nicked from a drag queen we mugged. He looked ridiculous and hot as fuck, makeup smeared like a clown whore. I pushed him onto the bed, the camera rolling, capturing every goddamn second.
I straddled him, grinding down hard. "Beg for it, you worthless piece of shit," I demanded, slapping his face. He moaned, arching up. "Please, Hailey, fuck me like the bitch I am." We were both laughing, maniacal and drunk on power. I ripped off those panties, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing. I took him in my mouth first, sucking like a vacuum, biting just enough to make him yelp. "You taste like failure," I muttered around him, but he loved it. Then I flipped him over, grabbed the strap-on from the drawer—our favorite toy, slick with lube. "Spread 'em, cunt," I ordered, and he did, ass up like an offering. I thrust in deep, no mercy, pounding him while he screamed obscenities back at me. "Harder, you sadistic bitch! Make me bleed!" The camera caught it all—the sweat, the grunts, the way his body shook. We switched halfway; he pinned me down, entering me rough, calling me a "greedy whore" who deserved to be used. We came together, a mess of fluids and curses, collapsing in a heap.
Afterward, we watched the tape, smoking joints laced with whatever shit we had on hand. "Look at you, Marcus, you look like a tranny reject," I'd tease, and he'd flip me off, pulling me in for another round. That video? We kept it hidden, our little secret porn stash. Fuck, I still have it somewhere in the safe, buried under stacks of cash from organ sales. Thinking about it now, I feel that familiar ache between my legs. Marcus, you twisted fuck, why'd you have to go and die on me?
But it wasn't just the sex. We were soulmates in sin, partners in every goddamn crime. Remember how we'd chain-smoke those packs of cigs, one after another, until the room was a haze? We'd down bottles of vodka like water, getting shitfaced and plotting our next score. "Those idiots in the city don't know what's coming," Marcus would slur, exhaling smoke in my face. I'd blow it back, calling him a "drunken loser who couldn't rob a candy store without tripping." But we were unstoppable. One night, after a particularly brutal heist—robbing some fat cat's mansion in the Sea River North District—we came home loaded with jewels and cash. I decided to play dress-up, slipping into that outfit from my first love, back when I was a naive little bitch in college.
It was this elegant dress, all sleek and black, hugging my curves like a lover's grip. Underneath, I wore those pristine white socks, so fucking white they glowed, paired with expensive sneakers that cost more than most people's rent. Marcus eyed me up, wolfish grin on his face. "You look like a virgin whore," he said, pulling me close. We fucked again, right there on the floor, him yanking up the dress, me scratching his back bloody. "Take it, you pathetic excuse for a man," I'd hiss, and he'd thrust harder, both of us reeking of smoke and booze. God, I miss that— the burn in my lungs from the cigs, the spin from the alcohol, the way we'd laugh about the corpses we'd left behind.
And the killings? Fuck, those were our bonding moments. We started small—mugging street scum, but it escalated quick. One time, we lured this homeless bastard into an alley, promising him a fix. Marcus bashed his head in with a brick, calling him a "useless drain on society." I finished him off with a knife to the throat, blood spraying like a fountain. But we didn't stop there. We dragged the body back to our hideout, and that's when the real fun began. "Let's eat the fucker," I suggested, half-joking at first. Marcus's eyes widened, then he grinned. "You crazy bitch, I love it." But I knew the risks—prions, those nasty little proteins that turn your brain to mush from mad cow shit. I'd studied medicine on the side, alongside my psych crap, so I taught him how to handle it right.
"Listen up, you ignorant prick," I said, gloves on as we carved up the corpse. "You gotta avoid the brain, spinal cord, all that neural tissue. Stick to the muscles, the organs we don't sell. Cook it hot, over 100 degrees Celsius, to denature those prions." He watched, fascinated, as I demonstrated—slicing off chunks of thigh meat, searing it on a hot plate we had. "Don't be a dumbass and eat it raw, or you'll end up drooling like a vegetable." We feasted that night, the meat tough and gamey, but washed down with wine, it was divine. "Tastes like victory," Marcus said, chewing. I'd mock him: "You eat like a starving dog, you filthy animal." But we did it again and again, disposing of the evidence in our bellies or the black market. No traces, no regrets. Those were the days—blood on our hands, smoke in our lungs, each other in our beds.
Now? I'm alone in this goddamn palace, tears streaming down my face like a weak little girl. Fuck you, Marcus, for leaving me. You jumped into that lake, dressed as a woman to throw them off—skirt, wig, the works. They fished out what they thought was some suicidal dyke, never connected it to the drug lord evading capture. Clever, you bastard, but you left me here, rotting in luxury. I pour another glass, chug it down, the burn matching the one in my chest. More whiskey, more cigars—fuck the health warnings, I need the numbness. I light up another, inhaling deep, coughing like a hag. "Come back, you dead prick," I mutter to the empty room. But you're gone, and all I have are these memories, these twisted joys that no one else could understand.
The villa's silent except for the hum of the security systems—cameras everywhere, bulletproof glass, walls that could take a bomb. It's my fortress, but it feels like a cage without you. I stumble to the bedroom, strip down to nothing, and play that old video on the hidden screen. There we are, fucking like demons, insults flying. "You whore," "You fag," "Harder, you piece of shit." It gets me off, hand between my legs, but it's not the same. Tears mix with sweat as I come, alone and furious.
Why'd you have to die, Marcus? We had it all— the kills, the cash, the carnage. Remember that time we torched a rival's warehouse, watching it burn while we screwed in the shadows? "Burn, you motherfuckers," we'd chant, laughing. Or when we kidnapped that snitch, tortured him for days in the basement—waterboarding, nails pulled, all while smoking blunts. "Scream louder, you spineless worm," I'd say, and you'd join in, branding him with cigs. We were gods, untouchable.
But now, I'm the queen of this shithole city, running the gang from afar, bribing mayors and cops like the corrupt pigs they are. They take my money, look the other way while I ship containers of dope across the lake. "Useful idiots," I call them behind their backs. Yet without you, it's empty. I grab the bottle again, chugging until my vision blurs. Tears pour out—fuck, I'm sobbing like a baby. "Marcus, you asshole, come back!" I scream at the walls.
The night drags on. I chain-smoke until my fingers yellow, drink until the room spins. Memories flash: our wedding, a sham ceremony in some back-alley chapel, both of us high as kites. "I do, you crazy bitch," you said. "Till death do us part, you psychotic fuck," I replied. We honeymooned by robbing banks, living large. Then the kid came—our daughter, that innocent little thing living abroad with grandma, thinking I'm some businesswoman saint. If she knew... ha, she'd puke.
More booze. I puke in the sink, then rinse and keep going. The pain's good; it reminds me I'm alive. You taught me that, Marcus—pain equals pleasure. Like when we'd cut each other during sex, shallow slices that scarred beautifully. "Mark me, you savage," you'd beg. I'd oblige, licking the blood.
Dawn creeps in through the fortified windows. I'm wrecked, but the memories linger. We were perfect monsters together. Now? Just me, ruling this half-heaven, half-hell city. Fuck you for dying. Fuck me for missing you. I pass out, bottle in hand, dreaming of our bloody bliss.
Waking up hours later, head pounding like a hammer. Shit, another day. But the memories fuel me. I'll keep going, for us. More kills, more cash, more depravity. Marcus, you'd be proud, you dead bastard.
I wander to the lab, staring at the tools—scalpels, saws, the fridge full of parts. Remember teaching you dissection? "Cut here, you clumsy fuck," I'd say, guiding your hand on a fresh corpse. We sold the organs, ate the scraps. No prions, thanks to me. "Smart bitch," you'd call me.
Tears again. I light a joint, inhale the weed's sweet burn. Need more—always more. The gang's thriving under my thumb; those disloyal pricks who tried assassinating me? I made them suffer. Flayed one alive, fed another's balls to dogs. "Traitors get what they deserve," I whispered as they begged.
But without you, it's hollow. We met in college, both psych majors with dark secrets. You confessed your kills first; I topped it with mine. "Match made in hell," we joked. Married a year later, built our empire on bones.
The sex tape plays in my mind. You in drag, me dominating. "Suck it, tranny slut," I'd command. You'd obey, eyes wild. We came hard, every time.
Phoning the second-in-command: "Any issues, you incompetent fuck?" No? Good. Back to brooding.
Pouring another drink. To you, Marcus. May your watery grave be as twisted as our love. I chug, cry, repeat.
Hours blur. Smoke, drink, reminisce. That dress from my first love—I wore it once more after you died, masturbating in it, sobbing. "Miss you, asshole."
Our cannibal feasts: "Tenderize it, idiot," I'd instruct. You'd grill, we'd devour. No diseases, my knowledge saved us.
Fuck, the pain. More whiskey. Blackout incoming.
Waking again, villa echoing empty. Daughter calls—sweet voice. "Mommy's fine, sweetie." Lie. Hang up, cry.
Marcus, you prick, why? Jumped in drag—genius disguise. Cops baffled.
I laugh through tears. We'd mock victims: "Die slow, maggot."
Our legacy lives. I'll expand the empire—for you.
Bottle empty. Light another cigar. Inhale deep. Exhale memories.
Tears flow. Crazy drinking ensues. Miss you forever, bastard.