Reaching into his pants pocket, he retrieved a pair of thick needle-nosed pliers. Grabbing one corner of the sliced skin on Thad’s forearm, Red pulled downward, stripping the flesh from the muscle. Thad cried out and then passed out, falling over to one side in a heap, the blood oozing and flowing from his fleshless arm onto the carpet.
“Well,” Red commented, turning back towards Priss, “I would have expected more from a big, strapping guy like that. Bit of a pussy wasn’t he?” As Priss sobbed in silence, Red wiped the box cutter blade and pliers on his red pants. He watched Priss, wondering if this was enough. No. He’d made his plan. He would follow through. What was done was done. He cleared his throat twice, to get Priss’ attention.
“He’s pretty fucked up, huh?” he asked her, nodding his head toward Thad’s crumpled, bloody body. “Should make it easy on him, right? Show some mercy?” He nodded in agreement to his own query, reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny black and silver switchblade knife. With a click and swish, the blade snapped out, over six inches in length. Priss screamed out behind her gag, as Red lifted Thad’s head, paused only for a split second, and struck out with the switchblade and sliced the man’s jugular in one smooth movement, laying him back down on the floor to bleed out.
Red glanced back to Priss who looked as if she might pass out herself.
He reached into his one shirt pocket and retrieved a small plastic encasement covered in cloth. Leaning toward Priss, he snapped the vial to release the ammonia and placed it under her nose. Her eyes flew open and her head jerked back to escape the harsh, overpowering smell.
“Let’s pay attention, shall we?” he said, placing the smelling salts back into his shirt pocket. He placed a finger under her chin bringing her eyes to meet his. “One down. Two to go.” She jerked away in revulsion, and he noticed a strong contempt in those gloriously blue eyes. It hurt him to see it, but after all these years, he now saw such contempt as simple insurance.
He turned to the Playboy bunny.
“Misty,” he said to no one in particular. Then he looked back at Priss.
“Was she worth it?” he asked. “Was she worth throwing away all that we had? Our friendship? The love I had for you? Was she really worth it?” He watched as Priss shook her head violently, but he knew it was not in response to his question but in response to what she was coming.
“Head cheerleader. Beautiful girl, really. Probably doesn’t deserve this, but here we go.” Red ignored Priss’ screams as he slid the box cutter blade up and over Misty’s forehead, from one temple to the other. Misty became lucid enough to try and jerk free; blood flew out from the movement, giving her flawless complexion a dappled appearance.
Red grasped her by the back of the neck with his left hand and retrieved the pliers with his right. Misty screamed out in agony as Red dug the pliers into the cut, gripping the skin of her forehead and pulled downward. The muscle and tissue exposed, Misty struggled for a moment longer before being overwhelmed by the pain and losing consciousness. Red dropped the pliers.
“Well, now,” he commented. “She did better than the barbarian, did she not?”
Priss realized that her screams were no longer audible in the least. Her throat was raw and she was breathless from her efforts. She sobbed into the gag and felt her heart break as her stomach turned. This was the most horrific thing she had ever seen. It didn’t make sense. Why would Casey do this? He was literally insane. That had to be it. He was torturing her friends right in front of her. But, why? What purpose could he possibly have for his actions?
Priss blinked the tears away, noticing him moving Misty’s body. He looked at her pointedly, showing her the switchblade. He was torturing these poor people and then ending their lives. Was it mercy or a simple, sadistic show performed post-desecration? She couldn’t make a sound as he swiftly sliced into Misty’s neck and laid her back on the carpet to die.
Priss watched him as he stared at her with those eyes of different colors. He seemed to hesitate, but then he blinked and he shifted position to sit between Misty’s corpse and Greg, who had dressed as a gymnast from Cirque du Soleil. She remembered Greg, now. He was only nineteen and he was Misty’s cousin. He had been well over his drinking limit and was still completely unconscious, his wrists bound to his ankles like the rest. With her eyes, she pleaded with Casey not to hurt Greg.
“Two down. One to go. Now comes the interactive part of the evening,” he stated. With that, he looked over at the sleeping boy and then back to Priss. He reached down and retrieved the box cutter in his right hand and the switchblade in the other. Holding them up in front of him, he looked to each and then nodded to Priss.
Priss held her breath at the realization of what he wanted. She was to choose. On one hand was the element of torture and, on the other, swift death. She refused to play his sick little game and turned her head away to show her disgust and declination.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head. He held the tools up a little higher and then placed them both behind his back, making a show of shuffling them between his hands out of her sight.
Even though he probably could not understand her, she called him a sick bastard and told him to fuck off. The scarf in her mouth muffled her commentary far too much for any kind of comprehensibility and that frustrated her even more. She had already lost two friends tonight to this madman. She would not be party to the loss of a third.
“It’s very simple. You choose,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect,
“or, I choose. And, trust me, you won’t like my choice.” Priss thought about the consequences of not making the choice. If she chose wrong, Greg would be mutilated in the same manner as Misty and Thad. If she did not choose at all, the same would happen. Outside there was no sound of sirens or any sign that help was on its way. She looked at Casey, with his ridiculous makeup and bloody smile. How could things have gone so badly so quickly? It seemed that one minute they were all enjoying a friendly party and the next, people were being tortured and murdered. It was all too much for her. She wasn’t certain what to do, but she knew she had to do something.
Priss nodded her head in the direction of the mad clown’s right hand, hoping for the best. She felt the world slip away when he brought his hand around, into sight. He held up the box cutter. She felt light-headed and swayed from side to side. He reached into his pocket for the smelling salts, but Priss fought for lucidity. She tried to refocus on him, to see if there was any way possible to stop him before he tortured the young boy beside him.
She found herself shaking the tears from her eyes. She had to be strong. Her mind ran through all sorts of scenarios, none of which proved any success in stopping this madman from killing again.
It was then that Priss stopped still, stared at Casey and realized that there was a good likelihood that she was next, after Greg, to face the mad clown’s blades. She was pondering her own mutilation when he cleared his throat.
“Hold on a second while I make this call,” he said, retrieving a cell phone from his pockets. She found herself wondering what he had in those bottomless pockets of his. He pressed a few buttons and then began to speak, slowly with exaggerated enunciation. It seemed it wasn’t as easy to talk so clearly when you had safety pins in your cheeks. “Hello? Yes. There have been some murders. Three dead. Hurry.” He gave the 911 operator the correct address and laid the phone aside, still connected to the service.