The Sisters pt. 3
Poor Little Pocket Size Nosferatu
Women screamed from fucking loudly. It was a different kind of music. The hallway of the hotel was tinted. Color of a green hue without a limelight appeal. The party from the upper floor spread into a disease. Bodies puppeteered displayed for all eyes to see, want, touch. In Calypso’s rhinestone pouch was the bottle of chlorpyrifos mixed with olive oil. At first scent, they might think it was infused with garlic for a cooking concoction. To us, it was an offering from the gods.
Shadows of the patron's illusions swished back and forth in flux. Fast forward on a VHS player x30 speed. Eyes without color eclipsed in their own dreams. Restless expressions around their brows. Somewhere else in this world, this could be someone's hell. My hell, my battlefield.
In the spaces of my mind, there was a darkness that spoke to me. The voices were clear amongst the screaming, a wispy voice beneath the floorboards. Calypso’s eyes scanned the floor as we walked down the hallway. I could taste her shallow breath in my mouth. Voices chattered from diverse languages, barely understood. The long strides down the hallway were beloved to me as the songbird who sings.
Calypso turned to look at me but, then hesitated. She turned her face toward the wall not making eye contact. Her anxiety filled the air, and I could feel her swimming beneath me trying to break free from the final act. My hand touched her cheek as she wilted into my skin, this nurturing she desires before the kill.
Identical twins, I wore a long white fur coat with a pencil maxi white dress slit at my thigh. My moon, my Calypso wore it in black to match our exquisite dance in rebirth after death. Underneath the fur our nude bodies hugged see-through chiffon petite dresses, shadows playing with our eyes. Our ritual was important to me as her sun, the protector of her world before she transformed. Every piece of the puzzle mattered for our offering to the underworld. Nothing could replace our dead sister's final revenge.
Whispers start as slow quiet noises that raise in volume before I turn the handle open. When the silence hit, I was welcomed by Michel sitting at a rectangular table with two chairs across from him. He has a glass of wine with a bottle resting as the centerpiece as if that was the final prize. Sweat is rolling off his brow as he anticipates us. There was a few harlots in his bed sleeping from the sex earlier.
Pinching Calypso’s arm, I gesture her towards the whores in the bed. Our compromise for continuing to add trophies to our list was for Calypso to save the whores. She would extract them from the hotel room and leave a few hundred for them to find. Money, a whore’s first love. Not many coaxing measures were needed with the right amount.
Our second curse, Calypso believed was brought to us by the death of the early trophy killings. Escorts left in the hotel room burnt to a crisp by the merciless Bosch himself. Only the sisters and the chosen vermin were allowed to witness the final act. It surprised me he didn’t at least sell their organs and how he muttered about how their meat was tainted. It’s true the fumes alone from the chlorpyrifos would have already paralyzed them all the same. Still, it didn’t seem fair to me that spineless men had a say on who could partake in the act. That prick Bosch didn’t take too kindly to opinions of others unless they were named Luxe.
"Monsieur Michel. Thank you for waiting for us." I slide off the fur, let it fall to the floor, and rush to touch his hands holding the wine. His eyes watch the angle at the curve of my back sticking out through the chiffon dress. Wicked moans, I place his fingers in my mouth and begin to suck them.
At the left side of the room, Calypso is slapping the whores to wake them from their sleep. Their eyes roll open, fingers dried with cum. Mouth pressed open barely stirring.
"If you follow me you'll be gifted a few hundred each." Calypso’s voice is a thick hushed tone and begins to pull them out of bed. Her words are whispers to keep Michel from prying at the removal of the whores. My hands set his wine glass away from me as I let him touch my collar bone. He breathes in sucking the air through his teeth. His sigh swirls in my head hypnotized by me, just the way I like it.
Calypso holds the women up from the bed and winces in my direction. Not many people get paid to leave a hotel room. And, never the whores.
I listen to the door shutting behind me and the sounds of crumbled up paper falling into their hands. It’s louder than I wanted it to be. Michel almost darts from my grasp when I shove my tongue down his throat and stop him. Pigs breathe funny when they’re all excited.
"Scatter and suck some cock in the hallway. We never spoke." Calypso speaks by the door.
My tongue travels along the ridges of his mouth and slides against his jagged teeth.
Imprinted in my mind this pocket sized Nosferatu breathes heavy with each lick. Michel’s lineage has done him dirty in old age. One can only imagine if he will resemble a pufferfish when it's all over.
Once Calypso returns to the hotel room there's no longer the threat of distraction. Repositioning my body, my hands graze the wine bottle handle and I put a little wine in my mouth before I spit it back into his and whisper, “This can be dinner, too.”
My hands undo the tie around his neck and bite my lip, “Do you want to play a little game of sensory deprivation?”
His whole head moves up and down as I wrap his tie around his eyes pulling it tight. I check the parts where his eye sockets live and my fingers can’t slide underneath the fabric. Fair hands wave in front of his blubbery lips and the shadows of my body are only seen by us. Michel listens to my hands as they move close enough to his cranial vault without touching him and he moans.
“Now Monsieur, tell us about the people you will gift to us.”
“Do you like champagne, miss? They'll drink off your breasts.”
Pressing away from the table, I let my chiffon dress fall to the floor and Calypso followed me in suit. She pulls gas masks from the bag that was hidden in the hotel by the previous whores and gently hands me the respirator. Michel is about to speak when Calypso chimes in for him.
“We love Champagne, monsieur.”
We learned that if Calypso doesn’t speak during the poisoning that the men get cagey and unnecessarily aggressive. Calypso knew how much I loved to savor their persecution by consuming it in my mouth. Letting it roll around through the orifices of my throat and swallow their fear whole. The laceration of their flesh leaving behind pieces of them that used to be human.
Calypso walks towards a dresser with a wide mirror that may have looked at one point elegant. Wood chipped along the corners with a landing of where varnish used to reside. Calypso pulls off long gloves and replaces them with medical grade latex. She wraps a workers apron around her body and black leather work boots. She holds up her hands silently to remind us to put on the gas masks now, I slip mine on quietly.
My hands move over my breasts and I begin to stroke them, “Monsieur, we’re so lucky to have you be our master.” Walking back to the table, I let him touch my nipple in a circular motion. This bastard gets a little taste before he dies because I am a benevolent goddess. I guide his hands just below the belly before I pull away as Calypso flicks at the perfume bottle of poison. Within the perfume bottle is an eye dropper that collects the poison to drop over his hands. Calypso holds his hands and begins to rub it all over his skin coaxing him.
“This will make you smell delicious,” Calypso speaks through the gas mask, her voice guttural and distant.
“We love a man who tastes as good as a French delicacy.” My voice chimed in after her, and now my voice raised to the sound of him breathing. “Don’t you just love your country?”
“I love women who are francophiles. When will you let me touch you again?”
Calypso moves to his left hand going quickly because at the number three, it will begin to take hold of his skin. If we wait too long he will notice that something is wrong and it will become more violent for him. One must remind oneself to never receive gifts from the Greeks.
At the minute mark, Calypso begins to moan and remove his shoes exposing his feet. In unison, they moan alongside each other as she drops the poison massaging it into his skin. Misjudged confusion. Typical rich aristocrat. The pity I felt washes away from my mind. His kind can be smelled from miles away. Arrogant by nature. Privileged vermin. At count 120, Calypso will remove the tie and present him to me as the sacrificial lamb.
Raising to her feet, Calypso stands behind him and pulls the tie off of his face. This is my act, where I live to shine like a burning star. His seedy eyes look shocked at the gas mask covering my head like a monster. My naked frame pushed into the wall. Away from the fumes and the poison that may injure us. Three minutes too late.
The rash begins to react and settle on his skin with boils. Bruises form along his veins turning black against the red. His hands contort, frozen in a claw shape as if he's had a seizure. Poor pocket size Nosferatu. His voice makes a distorted gurgle as if he’s trying to speak through the pain. It would not be wise, but they always want the last word.
He’s cursing angrily in French unable to move his hands or his feet. Rocking back and forth in his chair, words dribble from his mouth unintelligible. Every inch he moves, the boils pop and bleed falling to the floor. Weeping skin. The boils.
Calypso’s poison has gotten worse throughout the years. I loved that it only took three minutes to dismantle a privileged man and make all the age mean nothing. A blimp, a picture in the dark. Memories lost, messages in the bottle floating at sea. Land of the free.
“This will pay your debts. You owe Bosch money, fool.” My voice changed from delicacy to a fiery rage. “You're lucky, not many men get to die surrounded by beautiful women.”
"Death?" He spits from his mouth onto the table. He still seems confused as if he doesn't understand what's happening to him. I love when they don’t know who they are or where they are. The Nine gives you what you deserve.
“The poison will dissect every vessel and vein.” My voice is now the neutral informative tone, as I dress myself in newer lingerie closer to the wall. The whores were useful sometimes. Calypso holds his throat with one hand and pries open his mouth with the other. Dropping about a couple of milliliters down his throat.
If he doesn't die, he'll wish his genetics had taken him, I continue, “Your fingers and feet are already permanently paralyzed. If you survive, you'll live like this forever.”
Closing the bottle, Calypso returns it to the purse. She removes the gas mask, the gloves, and the apron setting it on the dresser. A discard pile.
I see my reflection in his eyes the long platinum blond hair with bangs identical to Calypso. In my belly, a sheer boisterous laugh spreads out from my gut into hysteria. Pulling off my gas mask, I watch his skin change, his neck growing stiff. Choking on his own spit before respiratory failure takes him, he stares with glassy swollen eyes. I move closer to the table and let out a deep sigh waiting for Calypso to come hold me around the waist.
“Don’t you love the way they look right before they visit Hades?”
We succeeded by gorgon magic because the spirits have told me this is how it would always have to be done. The spirits never lied. Only people who pretended to know them.
From my bra, I pull out a white daisy that's been crushed from the night and stick it in his mouth. His eyes are dilated and void of feeling. Hands clawed out. He was ready to fight us, but he just didn't make the cut. Now he's immortalized in the suit by how photographs tell you a story. The shapes on his face swirl around each other the way that aged bodies are art. The man just looked as if he had seen a ghost and died in his chair. It’s no wonder this rare ingredient is internationally banned.
Prick Bosch would never understand the ritual of our trophies. They were given to us as presents. These men say the same kinds of things. They just walk the Earth as The Gods’ gifts and take all that they can. He just wasn't able to succeed this time. Brought to his knees by the Queens of Whores.
Our curse is an illusion of lies. We will wear your crown. We will carry the hatred. We will cut you down.
A solid golden coin for your sins.