III

WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT?

Temptation’s less about wearing someone down with repetition than it is about finding the right phrase and dropping it in at the right time.
— Glen Duncan, I, Lucifer

MIAMI

MARI BLOTS THE TEARS welling in the corners of her eyes with her napkin before they can ruin her mascara. People in the outdoor restaurant are starting to notice. Maybe they think it’s a lover’s spat. It’s Pride Month after all.

“Talk to me,” I say.

“He wants the company. VilaroFit. The Vilaro System. All of it.”

“Who does?”

“Mi abuelo. Ese hijo de puta se lo quiere llevar todo…”

Something about her grandfather. Maybe he died. Seeing her upset like this does something to me. Usually I’m indifferent to so much emotional bleeding. I find it pathetic, to be honest, but not with her. What little empathy there is in my cold, black heart burns only for her.

“Give me the details,” I say. “In English.”

She takes a deep breath after placing her napkin down. “A few years ago, he offered to fund my gym back home but right after the papers were signed a fire destroyed everything. It was him, Yelena. He bought an insurance policy on the building and burned it to the ground for the money. He doesn’t know that I know. I thought I was rid of him until today when he showed up at my office. He had the gall to demand I give him an ownership stake as repayment for his investment.”

She lets out a long breath then her eyes drift out over the water.

“I don’t know what to do, Yelena.”

“Look at her,” the Other Me says while leaning into my ear with her grimy hair over my shoulder. “The fire in our loins. The itch we can never scratch. She needs our help, and even better, she wants our help. We only need to reach out our hand.”

The Other Me leaves as my hand moves across the table to Mari’s. It startles her at first, but quickly her attention moves back to me and she places her other hand on top of mine. For a moment we sit in silence.

“Here I am ruining dinner with my problems,” she says dismissively of her predicament while pulling her hands away. “I wonder where the waitress is? I feel like she’s been neglecting us.”

She’s trying to manipulate me. I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. Some people might be upset by this. Consider me tickled pink.

“If there’s anything I can do…anything at all…”

I trail off, leaving that hook to dangle in the water. Mari doesn’t know the horrible things I’ve done. Not in detail. But she knows enough. How could she not? A lion tamer doesn’t have to see the lion kill to know it can rip their throat open at any moment.

“Well,” she says, thinking out loud.

Here it comes, the Other Me says from inside my brain.

“Maybe you could talk to him? He might listen to you.”

I pick up my glass and swirl the wine around while saying, “And what if he won’t listen to reason?”

I take a drink as what’s left of her morality runs off her shrugging shoulder. She picks up her own glass and, after a sip, she says, “I’m sure you’ll handle the situation appropriately.”

You and us have done this twice before, haven’t we, Azzy? We admit in your previous run-ins with Yelena she wasn’t particularly respectful to you. She called you a “racially insensitive Star Wars character” among other things.

But we’ve seen the light. We appreciate you and even respect your contributions to this sport. Not to mention how dem hippsies be gyratin’ and dat tuchus be wigglin on da pole.

Is it wrong to fantasize about our hands on your body when we’re supposed to be focused on causing you so much pain? That dog collar will look so good wrapped around your neck. And imagine the chain-link-shaped bruises on your pretty face when you’re back at it at the Velvet Rabbit.

You can always take a week or so off and come recuperate at my place. Did we tell you we bought a castle? Do they have castles where you’re from? We’ll take such good care of you. You’ll practically forget how loud we laughed after wrapping the chain around your neck and then locking you into our Death Clutch.

See you soon, love.

ALL I HEAR IS A MUFFLED GROAN from Mari’s grandfather because a piece of tape is sealed over his mouth. He’s laid out on a metal cart with leather straps anchoring his wrists and ankles to the frame, and another stretched across his bare chest. His vulgar body, nude as the day he was born, quivers—either from fear or the cool air or maybe a bit of both.

“Alright, Estaban—can I call you Estaban? What’s that? Oh, my bad.”

I rip the tape off. He’s understandably upset.

“¿Qué me estás haciendo?”

“English, please.”

His eyes are rotating around like ball bearings in his skull, searching the massive, empty room he finds himself in. Only a few hours ago he was having a drink at the Sandbar Lounge, preemptively celebrating his takeover of Mari’s company. Now he’s restrained to a skinning cart in a shuttered meat packing warehouse surrounded by miles of nothing.

“How’d I get here?”

“You’re a disgusting old man,” I say, leaning on the rail. “You didn’t wonder why such a young woman would give you the time of day? She’s a prostitute and for five grand she slipped GHB into your drink, pretended like you’re Brad Pitt for a couple hours, then led you out the back door to a cargo van. Money well spent.”

“Why are you doing this? I don’t even know who you are.”

I ignore him.

“This used to be a meat processing plant for a cattle farm that shuttered during COVID, The owner died believing his horse dewormer would save him from the ‘Rona. The estate has kept the power on in hopes of selling. I’ve rented it for…let’s just say the foreseeable future, under the guise of maybe building a data center here and get this: they believed me.”

I point a thumb over my shoulder toward an ominous metal door with a tiny reinforced window. “That’s the incinerator. It’s still hooked up to the gas line, in case you’re wondering.”

He begins jerking at his restraints. It’s to be expected.

“Let me out of here. Now.”

I laugh in his face uncontrollably as he continues to tug and rock the cart, but it’s heavy steel meant for carrying five hundred pound hogs.

“You only have yourself to blame for this, and you’ll have plenty of time to think about that. You should’ve left Mari alone.”

His eyes, wet with tears, widen when he hears her name. With his teeth bare, he forces his head off the cart and glares at me defiantly. “Mari is my granddaughter. I have every right to see her whenever I want.”

My smile relaxes into an expressionless stare. “Just like you had every right to torch her gym and collect on the insurance policy?”

The breath catches in his throat and he struggles to say, “How do you know about that?”

“She’s smarter than you give her credit for, Esteban. If you had half her brains, you would’ve given her the money and let her build an empire. You’d be sitting on a beach, soaking up the sun, drinking mai tais.”

I start pushing the cart toward as he tries again to squirm free. Ahead is an open, insulated door, and on the other side a big empty room with humming lights that used to be a cooler.

“Luckily for you, the refrigeration in here doesn’t work, though if you look down at my t-shirt, you’ll see that it’s still a bit nippy.”

He looks. Of course he does.

I move him into the middle of the room. A drain is nearby, and a hose is coiled around a reel that’s connected to a wall faucet a few meters away.

“Okay, I think you’re good,” I say with a smile. “I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow night. Now, the lights are going to shut off when I close the door. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid—and feel free to go number one or number two. That’s what the hose is for. After a day or two you’ll dry up.”

“Please,” he says in a pathetic little whine.

I turn to leave but stop and snap my fingers. “I almost forgot! I have something to keep you company.”

I bend down to reach under the cart. While I’m there, the Other Me bubbles through my skin and I feel ourself twist together.

I hold up an old school boombox with the cord dangling. “I bought this baby at a pawnshop before picking you up. The owner called it a ghetto blaster.”

The words contort as they slip out of me…out of us.

Hee-hee…

Terror fills his eyes.

Haa-haaaaa…

Maybe it’s the grin. Or the laughing.

“No,” he shouts uncontrollably.

“Agreed. It does sound a little racist but we figured some music would be good for ya. One problemo. We only got one CD, and there’s only one track on it. Our fault for entrusting that task to our Zoomer assistant. So we’re gonna set it on repeat.”

We plug the boombox into an outlet near the door and it lights up like it’s 1991, sans the acid washed jeans and flannel.

“And here we go!”

After pressing play we walk through the door but stop to look back at him. There he is, alone and exposed, as a boisterous orchestra begins blaring a maniacal waltz and Tom Jones sings…

“What’s new, Pussycat? WHOA-OH-WHOA-OHH-WHOOA-OH!”

He’s screaming until the door closes and the rest of the building goes silent.

ONE. The smell was pervasive when we opened the door. The water blasts his body, clearing his waste from the cart. He begs for food and water. We dance around with the hose to the music before leaving.

TWO. His energy is already tanking. He barely tosses a fit when we turn the hose on him. He tries to catch drops of water in his mouth. He even begs to drink my piss. Kinky, but no.

THREE. His pleading has become little more than a whimper with a tired, unfocused stare. On the plus side, no urine or feces to wash down the drain! It still smells rather awful here though.

FOUR. He can barely talk. His skin is pale and contracted from the lack of liquids. We call it corpse chic. At one point we stop the CD and turn on some latin station on the radio. That perks him up for three-ish minutes, then Tom Jones comes back for revenge.

FIVE. We thought he was dead when we walked in but no, still a heartbeat, and though his breath is ragged, it’s still there. He freaks out when we shine a light in his eyes, as if we’ve dragged him back to this hell from some delusion he was lost in. As we leave, he’s whispering the song lyrics.

SIX. Holy shit how is this man not dead? It’s fight week! We have a dog collar match to prepare for! How rude. From what we can tell, he’s comatose. No response to any stimuli. Let’s try that sternum rub we saw on ER. Shit. I think we broke a rib.

SEVEN. We’re standing over his body. He’s been dead awhile, we think. He looks hideous and frail, like a holocaust victim. We take out our phone and call Mari.

She answers. “Yelena?”

The Other Me pulls back, allowing my voice to be the one to respond.

“It’s done.”

She doesn’t say anything, not at first. A minute passes, maybe longer, then we hear, “Okay, thank you, Yelena, seriously.”

We hang up, then grab the cart to wheel to the incinerator while singing “I’ll soon be kissing your sweet little pussycat lips!”