His smile spread wide across his face, revealing cracked, broken, and missing teeth. His gums were nearly the color of licorice, littered with tiny splits in the skin that revealed green, rotting flesh beneath. His top and bottom teeth didn’t touch—in many places because they couldn’t, but also because his smile was just too damn big—and Harry's tongue looked like some fat, swollen slug sitting in his destroyed mouth.
John stood in front of him and Harry could see the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. The Mexican weather was very different from America’s, but Harry couldn’t have given a single fuck if he had a pocket full of them. His fucks were all invested in the scenario about to take place.
John had entered what Harry thought of as the zone.
Which was another way of saying, John now channelled his inner Harry.
The woman hadn’t noticed anything amiss yet—she stood in front of an ancient Coke machine, one that only produced cans, though it looked like it might not even do that anymore. John stood maybe ten feet behind her, just outside the reach of a glowing overhead light, allowing the shadows to shield him.
John was almost ready; Harry could fucking feel it.
John wanted the woman to turn around because he wanted to see her face before she died. That’s what Harry loved so much about John—despite his holier-than-thou attitude all the damn time, he was a sick, sick puppy. He loved this, and all anyone had to do was watch him in action to understand that simple fact. No amount of holy rolling priests or group sessions with a bunch of weirdos would change it.
Come on, Harry thought. Turn around you goddamn bitch. Turn around so we can get to work.
He whispered the words inside his mind, like she might be able hear them if he thought any louder. Hearing Harry right now wouldn’t be good, though he thought John could still handle the situation if it came up.
The woman bent over and reached for the Coke that fell from inside the machine, landing in the cramped bucket at the bottom.
Harry didn’t remember a lot—it was tough going far back into his past, but he had an inkling that they once killed someone as pretty as this woman. He didn’t remember who or when or how, but something stuck out like a buoy in the distance, bobbing up and down in the waves, disappearing sometimes before reaching the surface again.
What the fuck does that matter? Harry thought.
It didn’t. Because this woman was bu-tee-full.
Long brown hair and dark, tanned skin. She wore shorts and while Harry didn’t get the primal urges of most men, he appreciated a nice pair of stems as well as the next dead guy inside a friend’s head.
Oh, yes, oh, yes! She was turning around, slowly, her eyes still on the drink as she opened the can. John didn’t look at her legs, ass, or anything but her neck—zoned in for sure.
“Go,” Harry whispered.
John moved with a speed that Harry helped hone over two decades, something that only came with practice—which Harry was a big fan of.
The woman barely heard him, her face flashing upwards, surprise in her eyes, but as John barreled forward, Harry watched surprise turn to confusion, then fear.
John grabbed her by the mouth with his left hand, clamping it closed so that her screams didn’t venture further than the glow of the light overhead. Not even the shadows would hear this woman die.
Harry stood back, watching the knife hammer down, back up, back down, back up, back down. John didn’t even know Harry was there, or maybe John was Harry? Certainly Harry didn’t know and certainly he didn’t care, either.
Blood shot out the woman’s neck, splattering John’s face and clothes. His hand was soaked, dripping the red liquid back down onto the woman’s white t-shirt. Tiny buds of red, blooming as beautiful as any flower.
Harry felt the burn in John’s arm, knew that lactic acid had spread through it and was trying to slow him down, but John wouldn't slow—not until her heart quit beating. John's muscles could burn worse than being boiled alive, and he'd keep stabbing away.
Yes. Yes, he will, Harry thought.
He’s not ready for me to leave, either. Because even if he won’t admit it, he knows we have to go back home.
* * *
Harry was good at certain things.
For his money, no one on the planet could think out a murder better than him. Like, Harry was good at that shit. He didn’t forget anything, not a single detail, but that wasn’t what made him so good (he would dare venture say great). He didn’t just remember the details; he saw everything. Where people would move before John subdued them, how they might try to scream early, so John knew the best way to approach, even how they would fall, and from there which way their blood would leak.
He was Michelangelo looking at the Sistine Chapel.
Areas existed, though, in which Harry wasn’t a master. Long term plans. He was not good at that shit. Much like he couldn’t remember a great deal of the past, things got super hazy when he started considering the future. Normally this wasn’t a problem because Harry was the type of dude that lived in the moment. The future wasn’t promised and the past was dead, so why not live it up while you can, right?
However, it could become a problem.
In fact, Harry thought his long-term planning abilities might already be a big fucking problem.
He and John could stay in Mexico, cutting up ladies outside of motel rooms, but they would eventually get caught. Harry decided he wouldn't mind that, just not down here. Not while he had the opportunity to take John home and do some real damage. Murdering people down here was all fine and dandy, but God, the sweetness that awaited if Harry could convince John to hurt …
Dare he say it?
Or the boys?
Oh, Jack jumped over a fucking candle stick, that sounded uh-maze-ing!
But that’s where his inability to think past five minutes in front of his face created an issue. Harry made John think whatever he wanted John to think, because John needed to put in work instead of always bitching and making up excuses. Harry knew the cops were looking hard at John and they wouldn’t simply back off because John fled the country. Which meant Harry couldn’t just tell John it was time to head back across the border, because that meant probably getting caught, and getting caught before Harry had his fun wasn’t an option.
Wasn’t that big of a deal though. Harry didn’t believe in Big Deals. No, things always seemed to work out the way he wanted them to.
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