I sit here in my goddamn fortress of a villa, staring out at the murky waters of North Gatter Lake through the bulletproof glass, and I can't help but laugh my ass off at how fucked up this all is. Yeah, that's right, you pathetic pieces of shit out there in North Gatter Lake City – I'm still breathing, still ruling this shithole from the shadows, and not a single one of you assholes has managed to put a bullet in my skull yet. The cops? Those worthless pigs couldn't find their own dicks if they were taped to their foreheads. I've danced around the law like it's some drunk bitch at a strip club, slipping through every crack, every loophole, because I'm smarter than all of you combined. But hey, let's be real – it's only a matter of time before some lucky fucker gets a shot off and blows my brains out, or maybe they'll drag me to some kangaroo court and hang me like the twisted whore I am. Or hell, maybe I'll just rot from the inside out, courtesy of all the cancer sticks I've chainsmoked, the booze I've guzzled, the betel nut I've chewed until my gums bleed, and the endless wanking sessions that leave me raw and empty. But fuck it, it's worth every goddamn second of ecstasy.
Let me paint you a picture, you sniveling worms. Right now, I'm lounging in my underground lab – yeah, the one where I've carved up more bodies than a butcher on steroids. The air's thick with the stench of formaldehyde and my own sweat, but I don't give a flying fuck. I've got my black JK uniform on, the one that hugs my curves like a lover's grip, paired with those thick black pantyhose that make my legs look like sin incarnate. My black knee-high boots are laced up tight, the kind that click on the concrete floor like a death knell. And on my hands? These medical latex gloves, smooth and tight, gripping everything I touch with that clinical precision. I never take them off around the crew – keeps the mystery, keeps the fear. They know better than to ask why I wrap myself up like a goddamn mummy; it's my armor, my fetish, my way of saying "fuck you" to the world without saying a word.
I light up another cigarette – one of those fat, imported bastards that burn slow and hot. I inhale deep, elegant as a queen on her throne, holding the smoke in my lungs until it burns like fire. Then I exhale through my nose, watching the gray tendrils curl out like dragon's breath, filling the room with that acrid haze I crave. Fuck, it hits me right in the core, that rush of nicotine flooding my veins, making my head spin and my pussy tingle. But that's just the appetizer. I reach for my stash – yeah, the good shit, the weed laced with whatever extras I can score from my contacts in the Sea River North District. I pack it into my pipe, light it up, and suck it in hard. The high crashes over me like a tidal wave, warm and fuzzy at first, then building to this electric buzz that makes every nerve ending scream in pleasure. My body's on fire, toes curling in my boots, fingers twitching under the gloves. It's like orgasming without the mess, but better – pure, unfiltered bliss that drowns out the voices in my head, the ones whispering about tumors and early graves. Goddamn, it's refreshing, you know? Makes me feel alive in this dead-end existence. I know I'm killing myself slow, cell by cell, but who the fuck cares? If I drop dead tomorrow from lung cancer or liver failure, at least I'll go out high as a kite, laughing at all you sober pricks.
Speaking of death, I've got it all planned out, you moronic fucks. I've set up trusts for my family – my sweet little daughter, that innocent brat who thinks Mommy's just a businesswoman overseas, raking in the cash. She's five now, living it up in some fancy villa abroad with her grandma, oblivious to the monster who birthed her. All that black money I've hoarded? It's theirs, locked away in accounts no one can touch until I'm worm food. That's my legacy – piles of dirty cash, earned from slicing open idiots like you and hawking their kidneys on the black market. No fame, no glory, just cold, hard euros to keep them fat and happy while I rot.
And for the gang? Oh, you bet your ass I've got a successor lined up. I've handpicked that slimy bastard – let's call him Jax, since names don't mean shit in this game – to take over when I'm gone. According to our internal pact, the one etched in blood and secrecy, he gets the throne the second my heart stops. The file's sealed tighter than a virgin's cunt; only opens postmortem, with all the dirt on operations, contacts, and payoffs. I've even thrown in extra bonuses for the crew – fat stacks if they stick around after I'm pushing daisies. But here's the fun part, you sick fucks: I want them to eat pieces of me. Yeah, carve off a chunk of thigh or whatever, grill it up like barbecue. Cannibalize the queen, absorb my essence or some poetic bullshit. The rest? Dump it in North Gatter Lake, right at the coordinates where my worthless husband offed himself years ago. He jumped in to dodge the heat from a botched drug deal, and poof – gone. No body recovered, just like he wanted. "If I die, don't ID me," he said. "Fake the divorce, keep it short if we meet." We were two peas in a pod of psychosis, met in college with our shared kinks and criminal minds. Robbed, stole, built an empire. But he fucked up and left me with a kid in my belly at 24. Now, I'll join him in that watery grave, feeding the fish.
As long as I'm breathing, though, I'll never unmask in front of the organization. No peeling off the silicone face I wear for deals, no ditching the gloves that shield my tats. I'm wrapped up tight, a enigma in latex and leather. Maybe one day those dumbass residents of Sea River North District will figure out who I am – the shrink who's been robbing their homes, gutting their families for parts. They'll want to tear me limb from limb, five horses pulling me apart like some medieval torture porn. Kick my severed head around like a soccer ball, piss on my corpse. But fuck them; they're too stupid to connect the dots. I've been at this for years, slipping into houses dressed in my alternates – sometimes the black JK with thick black hose and those lace-up mid-calf heels, gloves on, poison vials and my smuggled pistol tucked away. Other times, white JK, pristine white pantyhose, white sneakers or black stilettos, same gloves. I scout my clients first, dig into their psyches during sessions, then hit their pads at night. Rob, kill, harvest. No traces, because I'm a goddamn pro.
This city's a joke, anyway. North Gatter Lake City – prosperous on the surface, with its massive freshwater lake sprawling 310,000 square kilometers, shallow as a whore's affection at under 50 meters deep. Borders a bunch of neighboring shitholes, perfect for smuggling scum across the water. The black market thrives here, unchecked by those corrupt officials I bribe with wads of cash. Sea River North District? That's my playground, a cesspool of illegal immigrants, high crime, ports stuffed with contraband. It's why the whole city stinks – half paradise for the rich pricks downtown, half hell for everyone else. And I'm the devil queen, pulling strings from my suburban villa fortress. Five stories of luxury, empty rooms echoing with ghosts, garages full of supercars I barely drive. Underground lab stocked for dissections, experiments that'd make Frankenstein puke. I've grabbed street rats, tested drugs on them, recorded their screams for "research." Bodies sold to bone traders or dumped in the wilds. Security's ironclad – cameras everywhere, blast-proof walls, emergency supplies. It's my bunker, my kingdom.
My days? A blur of decadence and depravity. Work at that fancy psych clinic – five days a week, 8:30 to 3:30, lunch break for a quick smoke and wank in the bathroom. 3500 euros base, plus bonuses for keeping my mouth shut about clients' secrets. But that's chump change. Real money's from the gray shit: peddling dope, offing marks for organs, fencing stolen goods. Home life? Wake at 8, chain-smoke a pack while the nicotine buzzes me awake. Wash up, slip into something freaky – satin gloves, heavy makeup with black lips and eyeshadow that makes me look like a goth succubus. Breakfast's gourmet crap, caviar and champagne. Free time till noon: maybe plot a hit, jerk off to old dissection vids. Lunch at 12, then two hours in the lab vivisecting some poor fucker I've kidnapped. Nap from 3 to 6, dinner at 7 – lobster, steak, washed down with whiskey. Evenings? Out earning extras – deals in the district, wearing my mask, voice modulator on, clothes that feed my fetishes. Back by 1 or 2 AM, shower, crash. Always with smokes, booze, betel nut chewing my teeth to shit. Crave more? Hit the weed, feel that godlike high.
Husband was a mirror of me – evil fucker, dead from his own stupidity. We bonded over psych issues, kinks like gloves and boots. Married after a year, built wealth on theft. He croaked evading cops, lake suicide. I faked the split, kept low. Daughter born posthumous; she idolizes the "good mom" facade. When I visit, I scrub the smoke and booze stench, play nice. They think I'm legit biz abroad. Lies, all lies.
Earning extras? Dope kings love me – I mask up, alter voice, haul container loads via ships, bribing customs with cash or mayor calls. I've greased palms high up; they turn blind eyes for perks. Killed the old gang boss, threatened his crew, took over. Thousands strong now, expanding. I faked reform on socials – "We're clean now!" Bullshit. We run underground: drugs, hits, organ trade, human trafficking. Second-in-command handles daily; I'm the ghost boss. No evidence, thanks to protections.
But yeah, death's knocking. Over-masturbating leaves me sore, addictions ravage my body. Cancer's inevitable – lungs black as tar, liver pickled. Worth it for the highs. One elegant drag: inhale, hold, nose exhale – bliss. Then snort some coke-laced weed: rush hits, body convulses in euphoria, mind blanks to pure joy. Fuck yes.
If residents knew, they'd crucify me, but fuck 'em. As long as this org exists, no peace for you cunts. We'll rob, kill, traffic till hell freezes. I'm dying, but unpunished. Suck it, world.
I remember my first kill – some snitch client spilling too much in session. Tracked his ass home, black outfit on, gloves snapping as I slipped in. Injected cyanide, watched him foam and twitch. Cut him open warm, harvested liver, kidneys – sold for a mint. Felt powerful, wet between legs. Addicted since.
Another: family of four, rich pricks. White ensemble that night – pantyhose gleaming, sneakers silent. Pistol silenced pops, then knife work. Organs fresh, bodies dumped lake-side. High as fuck after, masturbating in blood.
Gang ascension? Old boss was a fat pig; I poisoned his drink, framed a rival. Threatened crew: "Join or die horribly." They folded like cheap whores. Assassins tried – caught one, vivisected alive, screams echoing. Others? Fed to pigs.
Deals: Masked, gloved, voice warped. Containers of smack, coke – ships to ports, bribes flowing. Mayor's in pocket; one call, problems vanish.
Daughter's trust: millions, safe. She'll never know Mommy's a psycho bitch.
High now: Smoke curls, weed burns throat, euphoria peaks. Body shudders, climax without touch. Divine.
Death plan: Eat me, dump rest where hubby sank. Map marked.
Unmasked? Never. Wrapped eternal.
Residents? If they knew, quarter me, skull soccer. Fuck 'em.
Alive, but doomed. Org lives, chaos reigns. You bastards suffer.
More memories: Client, depressed fuck. Robbed home, killed wife, kid. Organs gold. Laughed masturbating later.
Lab experiments: Injected poisons, recorded agonies. Data for "papers" – bullshit, just thrills.
Addictions: Smoke packs daily, booze bottles, betel staining teeth. Weed for extras. Masturbate hourly, raw but relentless.
Work facade: Kind shrink, inside plotting.
Family visits: Minty breath, sweet smiles. Lies seamless.
Villa: Fortress, labs of horror.
Successor Jax: Trained, pact sealed.
Bonuses postmortem: Loyalty buys.
Cannibal rite: Absorb my power, you fucks.
Lake dump: Join hubby.
As I fade, org thrives. No peace, ever. Die screaming, world.
I puff another cig, elegant inhale, nose exhale. Bliss. Snort line: Rush explodes, veins sing. Ecstasy pure.
Worth dying for.
Fuck you all.
（The story of this novel is completely finished.）