Oh, fuck me sideways, what a goddamn pain in the ass this is turning out to be. It's supposed to be a "good day," right? Bullshit. My phone buzzes two days ago with that message from my bitch of a mother—yeah, the old hag who's technically my kid's grandma—and it's all sunshine and rainbows about how she, my sweet little daughter Emily, and my favorite niece Sophie are coming to crash at my place. They want me to "get ready," like I'm some fucking housewife baking cookies. Anticipate their arrival in two days, they say. Well, screw that noise. I've got a villa full of secrets that could make a serial killer blush, and now I have to play pretend like the perfect family bitch.
First things first, I need to hide all the shit that screams "psycho whore" from every corner of this goddamn mansion. My villa in the suburbs of North Gat Lake City—yeah, that sprawling hellhole of a paradise on the edge of Sea River North District—is a fortress, but it's also my personal playground for all the twisted crap I love. The underground lab? That's where the real fun happens, you know? But with these nosy cunts showing up, I can't have any traces of my hobbies lying around. No bloodstained tools, no half-dissected corpses rotting in the corners, and definitely none of those goddamn organs I harvest for the black market. Fuck, I've got a fridge down there packed with kidneys and livers that could fetch me a fortune from those sleazy organ traffickers in the docks. But no, I have to shove it all away like some paranoid junkie hiding her stash.
I storm down to the basement, my heart pounding with that mix of rage and excitement. The lab is my sanctuary, all stainless steel tables, surgical lights buzzing like angry hornets, and shelves lined with jars of formaldehyde preserving my little "souvenirs." Right now, there are three pathetic fucks chained up in the holding cells—two lowlife smugglers I snatched from the lake's smuggling routes last week, and one sniveling bitch who thought she could rat out my operations to the cops. Ha! As if those corrupt pigs in North Gat Lake City give a shit. I paid off half the department with blowjobs and bribes years ago.
The first one, this greasy-haired asshole named Viktor—some immigrant scum who crossed the lake thinking he could muscle in on my turf. He's half-dead already, whimpering like a little pussy as I unlock his cell. "Please, you crazy bitch," he begs, his eyes wide with terror. Oh, that just pisses me off more. I grab my favorite scalpel, the one with the engraved handle that says "Sweet Dreams," and I slam it into his thigh just to shut him up. Blood sprays everywhere, warm and sticky, and I laugh—fuck, it feels good. "Shut your fucking mouth, you worthless piece of shit," I hiss, twisting the blade. He's screaming now, but the soundproofing down here is top-notch; no one upstairs will hear a thing.
I drag him to the dissection table, chaining his limbs down tight. Time to make this quick but satisfying—I've got family coming, after all. I inject him with a cocktail of my special brew: a mix of paralytics and pain amplifiers I cooked up from black market chems. His body goes rigid, but his eyes? They're alive with agony, begging for mercy. "You think you're suffering now, you filthy cockroach?" I sneer, slicing open his abdomen with precision. Guts spill out like wet noodles, steaming in the cool air. I rip out his liver first—prime condition, this one—and bag it for later sale. Then the kidneys, one by one, my gloved hands slick with his blood. He's gurgling, choking on his own screams, and I lean in close, whispering, "Die slow, you pathetic fuck. This is what happens when you cross a real queen like me."
By the time I'm done, he's a hollowed-out shell, organs packed away in the freezer for shipment. I hose down the mess, the drain swallowing the blood like a thirsty whore. Next up is the woman, this treacherous slut named Lena. She's tougher, fighting back as I haul her ass out. "You fucking monster!" she spits, clawing at my face. I backhand her hard, feeling her nose crunch under my fist. "Monster? Bitch, I'm your worst nightmare," I growl, pinning her down. I take my time with her—starting with the fingers, snipping them off one by one with bolt cutters. She howls like a banshee, cursing me in some foreign tongue, but I just laugh. "Scream all you want, you dumb cunt. No one's coming for you."
I vivisect her alive, peeling back layers of skin to expose the muscles beneath. It's art, really—my twisted masterpiece. I record it all on my hidden camera, zooming in on her face as the life drains out. "This'll make great blackmail material for those pervy buyers," I mutter, harvesting her heart last. It's still beating faintly when I yank it free. Fuck, that rush—better than any orgasm. The last guy, some nameless junkie I picked up for practice, goes even quicker. I gas him with cyanide from my stash, watching him convulse and foam at the mouth. "Die, you useless sack of shit," I taunt, kicking his corpse for good measure.
With the lab cleared out—bodies chopped and bagged for disposal in the wilderness later—I seal it up tight. The entrance is hidden behind a fake wall in the wine cellar; even if those family pricks snoop, they'll find nothing but dusty bottles. I call up my second-in-command, that loyal bastard Rocco, and bark orders over the encrypted line. "Listen up, you incompetent fuck. The gang's going dark for a bit. No hits, no deals, no nothing that could draw heat. Tell those shithead members to hole up in the secret bases around Sea River North District. If I catch any of you assholes stepping out of line, I'll personally gut you like a fish and feed your balls to the lake monsters. Got it? And don't ask why—it's family shit, and if you hurt a hair on their heads, I'll make you wish you were never born."
He grunts agreement, knowing better than to question me. My black gang—thousands of ruthless pricks under my thumb—has been my cash cow since I offed the old boss and took over. But right now, they're a liability. Those rival gangs in the district, the ones still pissed about my rise, might sniff weakness and try something. Fuck them; I'll crush their skulls later.
Now, for me. I reek of smoke and booze—my daily vices that keep the demons at bay. I've chainsmoked a pack already today, the nicotine buzzing in my veins like electricity. And the whiskey? Poured straight from the bottle, burning down my throat. But family can't see that side of me. I scrub my teeth raw with toothpaste, gargling mouthwash until my mouth burns. Chew gum, spray perfume—anything to mask the stench. My tattoos? Covered with long sleeves and makeup. The makeup itself? Toned down—no black lipstick or heavy eyeliner that makes me look like a gothic whore.
Clothes are next. I strip out of my usual getup—that black JK uniform with thick black pantyhose and those lace-up high-heel boots that hug my legs like a lover. Fuck, I love how they feel, the way the latex gloves slide over my hands. But no, today it's "elegant" bullshit: a flowy skirt that screams suburban mom, paired with a blouse and—god help me—white socks. White fucking socks. They're soft, innocent, but they make me want to puke. At least they're socks; I can pretend they're part of my fetish if I squint. I look in the mirror and force a smile. "You look like a goddamn saint, Hailey," I tell myself. Inside, I'm seething: "Fuck this charade, you hypocritical bitch."
They arrive right on time, pulling up in a cab from the airport. Emily, my five-year-old angel—blonde curls and big eyes that see me as some fairy-tale mom—runs into my arms first. "Mommy!" she squeals, hugging me tight. I scoop her up, planting kisses on her cheek, all gentle and loving. "Oh, my sweet girl, I've missed you so much," I coo, my voice dripping with fake honey. But in my head? "Don't fuck this up, you little brat. One wrong move and I'll... no, stop it, Hailey. She's yours."
Then comes Mom—Margaret, the wrinkled old cow who's always preaching about "family values." She's got that judgmental stare, like she knows something's off but can't pin it. "Hailey, dear, you look wonderful," she says, embracing me. I hug back, smiling. "Thanks, Mom. It's so good to have you here." Internally: "You nosy old hag, if you only knew how many times I've fantasized about slitting your throat just to shut you up."
And Sophie, my niece—seventeen, all teenage attitude and curiosity. She's my brother's kid, but he's long gone, another casualty of this shitty life. "Aunt Hailey!" she grins, tossing her bag down. I pull her in for a hug. "Hey, kiddo. Ready for some fun?" Yeah, fun. As if.
I show them around the villa—the safe parts, anyway. The living room with its plush couches, the kitchen stocked with gourmet crap I never eat, the guest rooms upstairs. "Make yourselves at home," I say, all smiles. We chat over tea—boring shit about their trip, Emily's school, Sophie's boy troubles. I nod and laugh at the right moments, playing the doting daughter, mom, and aunt. "You're such a kind soul, Hailey," Mom says at one point. I beam. "Aw, thanks." Inside: "Kind? Bitch, I've got more blood on my hands than a slaughterhouse."
But the cravings hit hard. It's been hours since my last smoke, and my fingers itch for a cigarette. The wine calls to me, but I can't. Not in front of them. I excuse myself to my bedroom, locking the door tight. "Just need a quick rest," I lie. Inside, I light up a smoke, inhaling deep, the smoke filling my lungs like a lover's embrace. "Fuck yes," I whisper, blowing it out the window. Then a shot of whiskey from my hidden flask—burns so good. My fetishes? I slip on a pair of black satin gloves under my sleeves, rubbing them against my skin. It's not enough, but it'll do. No full outfits, no boots, no makeup—just this secret tease.
Dinner is a nightmare of normalcy. I cook—well, order in fancy shit and pretend I made it. Pasta, salads, desserts. Emily chatters about cartoons, Sophie scrolls her phone, Mom asks about my "business overseas." I spin lies: "Oh, it's thriving. Consulting gigs pay well." They buy it, the gullible fucks.
Night falls, and that's when the real hell begins. They've been here a day, and already I'm crawling out of my skin. No abuse, no kills—it's been too long. I wait until they're asleep, then sneak out. The villa's security is ironclad—cameras everywhere, bulletproof glass, the works—but I know the blind spots. I dress in my robbery gear: white JK uniform, white pantyhose that gleam like fresh snow, black high-heels clicking softly, and medical latex gloves snapping on. In my bag: cyanide vials and my smuggled pistol, a sleek little number that never misses.
I drive to the outskirts, where the lake meets the wilderness—desolate spots teeming with transients and smugglers. Tonight's target: some lone hitchhiker, a scruffy bastard thumbing for a ride. I pull over, smiling sweetly through the window. "Need a lift, handsome?" He climbs in, reeking of desperation. "Thanks, lady." We chat bullshit until I veer off the road into the woods.
That's when I strike. I jam the gun into his ribs. "Get out, you stupid fuck." He's confused, then terrified as I force him to his knees. "What the hell, you crazy bitch?" he yells. I laugh, cold and cruel. "Crazy? Oh, honey, you have no idea." I inject him with a paralytic—enough to immobilize but not kill. Then the fun starts. I strip him down, my gloved hands exploring his body like a canvas. "Look at you, you pathetic worm. All trembling and shit." I slice shallow cuts first, watching blood bead up. He whimpers, eyes pleading. "Please... don't..."
"Fuck your please," I snarl, deepening the cuts. I vivisect him slowly, peeling flesh, exposing organs while he watches in horror. "Scream for me, you worthless shitstain. Let it out." His cries echo in the night, but no one's around. I harvest what I can—eyes for the fetish market, maybe a tongue for fun—then finish him with a bullet to the head. Bang. Silence. I drag the body deeper into the brush, covering it with leaves. Back home by dawn, showering off the blood, slipping into bed like nothing happened.
This becomes my routine for the next two weeks. Days: perfect family bitch. Playing board games with Emily, baking cookies with Sophie (gag me), listening to Mom's endless stories. "You're so gentle, Hailey," they say. I smile. Nights: sneaking out to quench the thirst. One night, it's a hooker from the docks—some cheap slut thinking she can encroach on my territory. I lure her to a motel, tie her down, and go to town. "You dirty whore, thinking you're worth something?" I taunt, carving patterns into her skin. She begs, sobs, but I just laugh. "Cry harder, bitch. It turns me on." Organs out, body dumped in the lake—food for the fish.
Another time, a rival gang scout sniffing around my villa's perimeter. I spot him on the cameras, that sneaky fuck. I slip out, ambush him in the shadows. "You dumbass prick, coming here?" I whisper, choking him with my gloved hands. He fights, but I'm stronger—years of this life have made me a machine. I drag him to the woods, dissect him alive. "Feel that, you motherfucker? That's your intestines spilling out." His screams fuel me, the blood warm on my skin. Dumped and done.
I keep them safe, though. No outings without me watching like a hawk. "Let's go to the lake park," Sophie suggests one day. I agree, but I'm armed under my skirt, eyes scanning for threats. Those rival black forces? They know better than to touch my family. I'd rip their dicks off and shove them down their throats if they tried.
Half a month drags on like eternity. Finally, they pack up. Hugs, tears, promises to visit soon. "We had such a wonderful time," Mom says. Emily clings: "I love you, Mommy." Sophie winks: "You're the best aunt ever." I wave them off at the airport, smiling until the cab vanishes.
Then, freedom. I call Rocco the second I'm home. "Alright, you lazy fucks. Back to business. Ramp up the deals, the hits—make me money, or I'll castrate every last one of you." I strip down, don my black JK uniform, black pantyhose, over-the-knee boots, and latex gloves. Light a smoke, pour a drink, chew betel nut for that extra kick. Maybe snort some weed later.
The lab? Restocked by morning with fresh "subjects" from the streets. Life's back to normal—my normal. Fuck family visits; next time, I'll fake a business trip. But for now, I'm the queen of this shithole city, and no one's taking that away.