The weak ones gave Luis a pain in the ass. They wreaked whatever havoc they chose, then howled like jackals in the jaws of the wolf when the tables were turned. Luis checked off the list in his mind. The tongue must be taken while the man is alive, since the integrity of the skull and face must be preserved. The taking of the skin was the fine art. This was where Luis excelled. This one was a unique challenge, since the lines of the cuts would be dictated by the lines of the man’s tattoo work. The coils of the snakes began at the navel and the crack of the man’s ass. They flowed into flames which licked at the base of his chin and the mounts of his ears.
‘If he were only strong,’ Luis thought, ‘It would be so simple, scalp, take the skin, castrate and remove tongue. But this man, he is weak. He will not be around for the best of it. This one won’t last. .Nah...’ Luis casually flipped a lever on the masque and the man’s tongue was gripped and pulled taut. It hung dripping from the masque. There was a small tinging sound as the guillotine severed it and released it to drop on the floor. Luis picked it up and held it in front of the camera. He twisted the man’s head around to face the lens and dangled his bloody tongue before his tortured lidless eyes.
Luis carried the tongue to the nearby table and dropped it into a large jar of formaldehyde. It left a series of tiny blood trails as it sank to the bottom. He picked up the eyelids and dropped them in as well, wondering if they would float. They did, like palm fronds on the face of the ocean. Luis saw this as a good omen. He felt the man’s eyes watching him. Good. That was as it should be. Maybe the man was stronger than he thought. Luis hardly ever wished he could speak, words having brought him the humiliation of his life, the taking of his tongue. And, in Luis’ opinion, actions spoke much louder than words in most cases. But now, just now, he would like to tell the man, ‘The best is yet to come. You have not begun to suffer yet.’
There was a fair amount of bleeding from the hand and scalp but that should cease when the man was turned over. Luis turned a large hand crank and the trestle works wound slowly around until the man was upright. Luis never thought of his victims by name. In most cases he didn’t even know their names. They were inanimate things to him, a blank canvas for the working of his art. He took a bucket of soapy liquid from under the table, the same liquid, in fact, that Misty had used to clean Angelo’s wound. The irony was not lost on Luis as he dipped a paintbrush into the bucket and used it to bathe the edges of the tattoo where the cuts would be made. The Artist required a clean canvas. The water was cold and goose flesh covered the man’s skin. Luis stopped abruptly and dropped the paintbrush into the bucket. ‘The camera,’ he thought, ‘The puta of a camera.’ He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, then went to make the necessary adjustments.
Luis had to move the tripod back considerably to get a full body view of the man. At least he had mounted him properly on the trestle works. All he had to do was turn him around. Looking into the viewfinder, Luis saw a full front body view through the lens. And there it was. Luis had witnessed this phenomena many times before in the course of his work. The man was sporting a fully engorged erection, as if his last act in this life would be to spill his seed and maybe it would. Luis focused the camera, then took a condom from the table. He slipped it over the head of the man’s penis, pulling a bit of slack at the end and rolling it down the shaft, all the way to the base of his member. The business of being on film hadn’t bothered him until now. This was something he had never allowed others to see him do. Ah well, blood he could stomach, feces, urine and saliva, but not this thing. The Patron wished to view the entire procedure and so he would.
Luis repeated the paint brushing, cleaning the man’s skin and staring into the horror of the his soul through shiny black eyes. He was quiet now except for a series of rasping gurgling noises whenever he attempted to breathe through his mouth. Luis fished the knife from the bucket. He wiped it clean and dry on a rag, which was hanging from his back pocket. Here was a part of the Patron’s orders Luis didn’t care one little bit for. He had a fine set of thirty-three blades, collected and perfected over the years. And yet he was forced to perform this intricate piece of work with the man’s personal crude sticker. The Patron had been adamant. ‘All procedures will be performed with the man’s own blade. He says he is a man of the blade. Let us hope the irony is not lost on him.’
The man’s body jerked as Luis moved around behind him. Luis stroked the flames and serpents crawling across his skin to calm him as he made the first incision. Small trickles of blood followed the blade of the knife as Luis cut expertly, tracing the tattooed panels for the Patron’s delight. ‘Cutting, it is nothing,’ thought Luis, ‘The taking of the skin is where the real pain begins.’
‘If he were only strong,’ Luis thought, ‘It would be so simple, scalp, take the skin, castrate and remove tongue. But this man, he is weak. He will not be around for the best of it. This one won’t last. .Nah...’ Luis casually flipped a lever on the masque and the man’s tongue was gripped and pulled taut. It hung dripping from the masque. There was a small tinging sound as the guillotine severed it and released it to drop on the floor. Luis picked it up and held it in front of the camera. He twisted the man’s head around to face the lens and dangled his bloody tongue before his tortured lidless eyes.
Luis carried the tongue to the nearby table and dropped it into a large jar of formaldehyde. It left a series of tiny blood trails as it sank to the bottom. He picked up the eyelids and dropped them in as well, wondering if they would float. They did, like palm fronds on the face of the ocean. Luis saw this as a good omen. He felt the man’s eyes watching him. Good. That was as it should be. Maybe the man was stronger than he thought. Luis hardly ever wished he could speak, words having brought him the humiliation of his life, the taking of his tongue. And, in Luis’ opinion, actions spoke much louder than words in most cases. But now, just now, he would like to tell the man, ‘The best is yet to come. You have not begun to suffer yet.’
There was a fair amount of bleeding from the hand and scalp but that should cease when the man was turned over. Luis turned a large hand crank and the trestle works wound slowly around until the man was upright. Luis never thought of his victims by name. In most cases he didn’t even know their names. They were inanimate things to him, a blank canvas for the working of his art. He took a bucket of soapy liquid from under the table, the same liquid, in fact, that Misty had used to clean Angelo’s wound. The irony was not lost on Luis as he dipped a paintbrush into the bucket and used it to bathe the edges of the tattoo where the cuts would be made. The Artist required a clean canvas. The water was cold and goose flesh covered the man’s skin. Luis stopped abruptly and dropped the paintbrush into the bucket. ‘The camera,’ he thought, ‘The puta of a camera.’ He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, then went to make the necessary adjustments.
Luis had to move the tripod back considerably to get a full body view of the man. At least he had mounted him properly on the trestle works. All he had to do was turn him around. Looking into the viewfinder, Luis saw a full front body view through the lens. And there it was. Luis had witnessed this phenomena many times before in the course of his work. The man was sporting a fully engorged erection, as if his last act in this life would be to spill his seed and maybe it would. Luis focused the camera, then took a condom from the table. He slipped it over the head of the man’s penis, pulling a bit of slack at the end and rolling it down the shaft, all the way to the base of his member. The business of being on film hadn’t bothered him until now. This was something he had never allowed others to see him do. Ah well, blood he could stomach, feces, urine and saliva, but not this thing. The Patron wished to view the entire procedure and so he would.
Luis repeated the paint brushing, cleaning the man’s skin and staring into the horror of the his soul through shiny black eyes. He was quiet now except for a series of rasping gurgling noises whenever he attempted to breathe through his mouth. Luis fished the knife from the bucket. He wiped it clean and dry on a rag, which was hanging from his back pocket. Here was a part of the Patron’s orders Luis didn’t care one little bit for. He had a fine set of thirty-three blades, collected and perfected over the years. And yet he was forced to perform this intricate piece of work with the man’s personal crude sticker. The Patron had been adamant. ‘All procedures will be performed with the man’s own blade. He says he is a man of the blade. Let us hope the irony is not lost on him.’
The man’s body jerked as Luis moved around behind him. Luis stroked the flames and serpents crawling across his skin to calm him as he made the first incision. Small trickles of blood followed the blade of the knife as Luis cut expertly, tracing the tattooed panels for the Patron’s delight. ‘Cutting, it is nothing,’ thought Luis, ‘The taking of the skin is where the real pain begins.’
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