In a club, the ceiling lights dim, small chatter of folk in the cold leather booths surrounds the woman. Soft jazz floats in the background. The high-status ladies and men mingling wear exquisite clothes, studded with enormous amounts of jewelry. Knives and guns gleam from the hidden compartments in their stockings and pockets.
She sits in a velvet chair, a maroon shawl draped over her long, green snake-like dress. Everyone is aware, aware of this woman sitting regally in the chair. They know; this is where she resides. The shadows of politics and the world of the corrupted is not something to reckon with.
The ghostlike telephone with chips of black paint flaking off starts to ring. Her dainty white hands with long red nails scratch the wooden table as she picks it up.
“Who would you like me to take care of?” Her voice slithers through the phone. The mask she wears-- unbreakable. The dirty information that resides in her brain, is enough to shake the city, the ground cracking into an infinite void of secrets. She is the only one fit for this job --this job that breaks people, turns them into low-lives with dirty info--exchanging bribes and money. She has a chained mind, sharp attention and wits; she possesses an endless vault that nobody, nobody can ever unlock.
People often wonder how she throws away the keys into a bottomless pit.
“Yes, I got it. Leave it to me.” She places the phone down, and motions to a man in a black suit with a scratched white mask on, barely showing his sharp green eyes. Veins in her witch-like fingers slightly bulge as she writes on a crisp red piece of paper. As she hands the paper over, she accidentally cuts her ring finger. A small stream of dark liquid stains the black diamond with a gold ring.
She smiles. She licks it slowly, savoring the familiar taste. The man tucks the paper into his silk tie and stalks out of the underground club.
The disheveled black hair of the bartender glints ever so lightly as he walks over to the woman.
“Nice job on this one.” He throws a newspaper on the table and places a drink with a slice of blood orange resting on the rim. She sips it, the dark red lipstick imprinting the glass.
4 year old boy, son of wealthy entrepreneur found burnt in ditch.
Cause of death: burning alive.
Suspected Murderer: The Telephone Woman.
She slowly sets the glass back down, her fingernails tapping the crimson-stained reflection.
“Thank you.” Her smile a twist, her calm pupils widen with dangerous excitement, a look of fun gleams in her diamond-slit eyes.
“After all, toying with people is my specialty.”
She sits in a velvet chair, a maroon shawl draped over her long, green snake-like dress. Everyone is aware, aware of this woman sitting regally in the chair. They know; this is where she resides. The shadows of politics and the world of the corrupted is not something to reckon with.
The ghostlike telephone with chips of black paint flaking off starts to ring. Her dainty white hands with long red nails scratch the wooden table as she picks it up.
“Who would you like me to take care of?” Her voice slithers through the phone. The mask she wears-- unbreakable. The dirty information that resides in her brain, is enough to shake the city, the ground cracking into an infinite void of secrets. She is the only one fit for this job --this job that breaks people, turns them into low-lives with dirty info--exchanging bribes and money. She has a chained mind, sharp attention and wits; she possesses an endless vault that nobody, nobody can ever unlock.
People often wonder how she throws away the keys into a bottomless pit.
“Yes, I got it. Leave it to me.” She places the phone down, and motions to a man in a black suit with a scratched white mask on, barely showing his sharp green eyes. Veins in her witch-like fingers slightly bulge as she writes on a crisp red piece of paper. As she hands the paper over, she accidentally cuts her ring finger. A small stream of dark liquid stains the black diamond with a gold ring.
She smiles. She licks it slowly, savoring the familiar taste. The man tucks the paper into his silk tie and stalks out of the underground club.
The disheveled black hair of the bartender glints ever so lightly as he walks over to the woman.
“Nice job on this one.” He throws a newspaper on the table and places a drink with a slice of blood orange resting on the rim. She sips it, the dark red lipstick imprinting the glass.
4 year old boy, son of wealthy entrepreneur found burnt in ditch.
Cause of death: burning alive.
Suspected Murderer: The Telephone Woman.
She slowly sets the glass back down, her fingernails tapping the crimson-stained reflection.
“Thank you.” Her smile a twist, her calm pupils widen with dangerous excitement, a look of fun gleams in her diamond-slit eyes.
“After all, toying with people is my specialty.”