Master of Shadows
The Slaughter Chronicles universe is not limited to vampires and werewolves. More sinister eldritch creatures lurk in the shadows. Games aren’t just games. Somewhere outside Las Vegas is a lodge, of sorts, not listed on any map. Part gladiatorial arena, part gambling den, part sanctuary. The principal attraction goes by the name of Corpse Grinder; a vicious predator, an unstoppable killing machine. Anyone who kills him will win unimaginable riches and crowned badass of all badasses. Monster hunters and supernatural creatures come from all over the world to fight and die by Corpse Grinder’s claws. Some want the money, some want the fame, but, to this day, Corpse Grinder remains undefeated.
Read it because: Even though these characters will not appear for you on the page until Book Five, my main character, Regina, follows their exploits closely.
This story is told from the point of view of Victor, one of my side characters, and it is also in first person, present tense. All Slaughter Chronicles stories published so far are in third person, past tense. As a 'pantser' or discovery writer, I write whatever pops into my head and weed out the good and the bad in my lengthy revision process. This short piece came out in a writing session where I was developing Victor’s personality. It will not be in any of the books, but I liked it so much and had to share it with you.
This story is told from the point of view of Victor, one of my side characters, and it is also in first person, present tense. All Slaughter Chronicles stories published so far are in third person, past tense. As a 'pantser' or discovery writer, I write whatever pops into my head and weed out the good and the bad in my lengthy revision process. This short piece came out in a writing session where I was developing Victor’s personality. It will not be in any of the books, but I liked it so much and had to share it with you.
Enjoy!
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SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE LAS VEGAS
It’s Friday night at the Lodge. The bar is full.
A cheer rises, a wave of sound crashing into the haze of beer and blood. Most of the patrons can only smell the former. I smell both. It’s going to be a good night.
A squad, ten combatants strong, is up against Corpse Grinder. Gunfire is still filtering through the speakers, but they’re already dead even though they’re still running around and shooting. Above my head, five flat-screen monitors display a live stream of carnage tinted green from the night vision cameras.
As the bartender, I replace empty drinks and wipe up the occasional spill. On the screens, Corpse Grinder, rampaging colossus, whittles the squad down to three. The crowd collectively recoils as he picks up one of the three and rips them in half. A shower of blood and ropy entrails rains down on Corpse Grinder’s scarred, lumpy head. He tosses the bottom half away. He only wants the top half, the abdominal cavity. That’s where all the tender parts are.
Jaws yawn wide and close on the dead combatant’s intestines. Corpse Grinder’s head thrashes from side to side, the way a dog plays with a rope toy. Then he throws the hollowed out torso to the ground and flops down on top of it. He rolls onto his back and wriggles.
The remaining two combatants close in and pepper his exposed belly with silver bullets. I’ve seen it before. They think they have an advantage. Wait until Corpse Grinder stops playing.
“Yeah! Get him!” One of the low tier patrons screams. Then his face falls as Corpse Grinder hops up on all fours and charges like a bull into the closest combatant. A severed, kevlar armored arm goes flying over the large slabs of flesh Corpse Grinder calls shoulders. The patron slumps against the bar, horror and disgust war with disappointment and panic on his face.
He must have bet a lot on this squad. Rookie mistake. I turn away, shaking my head like a grumpy old man. I shouldn’t be so critical. Everyone has a first time.
I grab a full bottle of house vodka, the cheapest brand available in Vegas—found only in the Underground. No sane person would pay even a dollar for this poison—and head to the other end of the bar. I set the full bottle on the bar and take an empty one away. The patron in front of me never uses a glass. He’s one of the few we accommodate in all things, even if he has shitty taste in liquor.
“They lasted longer than I thought,” the man says as he unscrews the cap.
“It’s only been two minutes,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says, lips around the bottle. I watch his throat work with mild fascination. Sometimes I forget just how long it’s been since I’ve needed to drink or eat.
“You’re staring. Quit being weird.” He thumps the bottle down on the scarred bar top.
“I don’t know if I miss it or not.” I don’t expect him to understand. Vlad isn’t exactly a mind reader.
“You think too hard, you’ll hurt yourself,” he says. The barest trace of a Russian accent bleeds into his voice.
Keep drinking like that and we won’t just have bloodshed on the screens. He’s getting close to his cut-off point.
Vlad can do whatever he wants here, as long as he doesn’t kill anyone. And he’s played by the rules so far, even the times he’s really let himself go. But I believe in taking precautions. Not for my safety, but for the bar. Repairing broken tables is more expensive than you might think.
The Lodge has two rules. One, the only person allowed to kill anyone is Corpse Grinder. Two, the only person—if you can call him that—anyone may try to kill is Corpse Grinder.
Vlad lifts the bottle to his lips again and nearly drains half of it in one gulp.
“Rough day?” I ask.
“I go underway tomorrow,” he says. I read the bitter subtext in the set of his shoulders and the grimace on his face.
“There is a way out,” I say.
“Don’t start with that again, Victor. I know. I fucking know the way out.”
I hold my hands up for peace. “All right, but if you hate it so much, why do you keep going back?”
Vlad snatches his bottle off of the bar and swivels on his barstool. “Because I’m a masochistic asshole obsessed with my own misery, and I don’t deserve the release of death.”
“I didn’t mean suicide. I was thinking you could blow up the boat.”
“And waste precious artillery on that floating piece of garbage? Fuck you.” Vlad walks away to find a quiet corner. He’ll watch the replays of past hunts in a broody sulk for the rest of the night.
A few hours later, after the excitement has calmed down, a familiar face walks into the bar. He doesn’t look much younger than Vlad but no one, not even I, knows his actual age. Drying blood streaks his white t-shirt, plasters his short black hair to his forehead.
He got dressed without cleaning up again.
Max plops down on the bar stool Vlad vacated and grins at me. Max is always grinning. Some people get freaked out by him. It used to annoy me but, as with all things, I got used to it. I tell everyone he’s my cousin’s nephew. I tell them he cleans up the hunting ground after Corpse Grinder disappears. He brings back the leftover weapons and ammunition. I tell them he disposes of the bodies, the broken pieces. I don’t lie to my patrons, but I don’t tell them how, either. That would ruin the game.
“Did you have a good time?” I ask.
Max nods enthusiastically, “Super fun.” Max surveys the thin crowd and his grin wilts a little. “Did everybody leave already?”
“They’ll be back, don’t worry.”
“Ooh! Is that Vlad in the corner?” Max’s wide, excited eyes take on a mischievous sheen.
“Yes,” I say, reluctantly.
“I’m going to go poke him,” Max says.
“Please don’t.” I also tell people Max was dropped on his head as a child.
“I’m bored. No one’s here... except Vlad.” Max hops off the bar stool like a kid less than half his age, and skips—yes, skips, with his blood-soaked sneakers squeaking across my nice, clean, wooden floor—over to Vlad.
Two more regulars walk into the bar. They follow Max’s trajectory and quickly turn around and leave. I accept the inevitable and pull a plastic bucket out from under the sink. In it are a few spray bottles of cleaning products and a sticky, well used tube of wood glue.
Max giggles. Vlad curses. A chair breaks.
It’s Friday night at the Lodge. The bar is full.
A cheer rises, a wave of sound crashing into the haze of beer and blood. Most of the patrons can only smell the former. I smell both. It’s going to be a good night.
A squad, ten combatants strong, is up against Corpse Grinder. Gunfire is still filtering through the speakers, but they’re already dead even though they’re still running around and shooting. Above my head, five flat-screen monitors display a live stream of carnage tinted green from the night vision cameras.
As the bartender, I replace empty drinks and wipe up the occasional spill. On the screens, Corpse Grinder, rampaging colossus, whittles the squad down to three. The crowd collectively recoils as he picks up one of the three and rips them in half. A shower of blood and ropy entrails rains down on Corpse Grinder’s scarred, lumpy head. He tosses the bottom half away. He only wants the top half, the abdominal cavity. That’s where all the tender parts are.
Jaws yawn wide and close on the dead combatant’s intestines. Corpse Grinder’s head thrashes from side to side, the way a dog plays with a rope toy. Then he throws the hollowed out torso to the ground and flops down on top of it. He rolls onto his back and wriggles.
The remaining two combatants close in and pepper his exposed belly with silver bullets. I’ve seen it before. They think they have an advantage. Wait until Corpse Grinder stops playing.
“Yeah! Get him!” One of the low tier patrons screams. Then his face falls as Corpse Grinder hops up on all fours and charges like a bull into the closest combatant. A severed, kevlar armored arm goes flying over the large slabs of flesh Corpse Grinder calls shoulders. The patron slumps against the bar, horror and disgust war with disappointment and panic on his face.
He must have bet a lot on this squad. Rookie mistake. I turn away, shaking my head like a grumpy old man. I shouldn’t be so critical. Everyone has a first time.
I grab a full bottle of house vodka, the cheapest brand available in Vegas—found only in the Underground. No sane person would pay even a dollar for this poison—and head to the other end of the bar. I set the full bottle on the bar and take an empty one away. The patron in front of me never uses a glass. He’s one of the few we accommodate in all things, even if he has shitty taste in liquor.
“They lasted longer than I thought,” the man says as he unscrews the cap.
“It’s only been two minutes,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says, lips around the bottle. I watch his throat work with mild fascination. Sometimes I forget just how long it’s been since I’ve needed to drink or eat.
“You’re staring. Quit being weird.” He thumps the bottle down on the scarred bar top.
“I don’t know if I miss it or not.” I don’t expect him to understand. Vlad isn’t exactly a mind reader.
“You think too hard, you’ll hurt yourself,” he says. The barest trace of a Russian accent bleeds into his voice.
Keep drinking like that and we won’t just have bloodshed on the screens. He’s getting close to his cut-off point.
Vlad can do whatever he wants here, as long as he doesn’t kill anyone. And he’s played by the rules so far, even the times he’s really let himself go. But I believe in taking precautions. Not for my safety, but for the bar. Repairing broken tables is more expensive than you might think.
The Lodge has two rules. One, the only person allowed to kill anyone is Corpse Grinder. Two, the only person—if you can call him that—anyone may try to kill is Corpse Grinder.
Vlad lifts the bottle to his lips again and nearly drains half of it in one gulp.
“Rough day?” I ask.
“I go underway tomorrow,” he says. I read the bitter subtext in the set of his shoulders and the grimace on his face.
“There is a way out,” I say.
“Don’t start with that again, Victor. I know. I fucking know the way out.”
I hold my hands up for peace. “All right, but if you hate it so much, why do you keep going back?”
Vlad snatches his bottle off of the bar and swivels on his barstool. “Because I’m a masochistic asshole obsessed with my own misery, and I don’t deserve the release of death.”
“I didn’t mean suicide. I was thinking you could blow up the boat.”
“And waste precious artillery on that floating piece of garbage? Fuck you.” Vlad walks away to find a quiet corner. He’ll watch the replays of past hunts in a broody sulk for the rest of the night.
A few hours later, after the excitement has calmed down, a familiar face walks into the bar. He doesn’t look much younger than Vlad but no one, not even I, knows his actual age. Drying blood streaks his white t-shirt, plasters his short black hair to his forehead.
He got dressed without cleaning up again.
Max plops down on the bar stool Vlad vacated and grins at me. Max is always grinning. Some people get freaked out by him. It used to annoy me but, as with all things, I got used to it. I tell everyone he’s my cousin’s nephew. I tell them he cleans up the hunting ground after Corpse Grinder disappears. He brings back the leftover weapons and ammunition. I tell them he disposes of the bodies, the broken pieces. I don’t lie to my patrons, but I don’t tell them how, either. That would ruin the game.
“Did you have a good time?” I ask.
Max nods enthusiastically, “Super fun.” Max surveys the thin crowd and his grin wilts a little. “Did everybody leave already?”
“They’ll be back, don’t worry.”
“Ooh! Is that Vlad in the corner?” Max’s wide, excited eyes take on a mischievous sheen.
“Yes,” I say, reluctantly.
“I’m going to go poke him,” Max says.
“Please don’t.” I also tell people Max was dropped on his head as a child.
“I’m bored. No one’s here... except Vlad.” Max hops off the bar stool like a kid less than half his age, and skips—yes, skips, with his blood-soaked sneakers squeaking across my nice, clean, wooden floor—over to Vlad.
Two more regulars walk into the bar. They follow Max’s trajectory and quickly turn around and leave. I accept the inevitable and pull a plastic bucket out from under the sink. In it are a few spray bottles of cleaning products and a sticky, well used tube of wood glue.
Max giggles. Vlad curses. A chair breaks.
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