Maria Petrinelli was an amazing chef and a rare beauty. Standing over the stove, preparing a hearty pesto sauce, she resembled a goddess more than the owner of a meagre, but highly acclaimed diner."What am I forgetting?" She wondered, aloud. "Ahh, I know!" She slid her arm under her dress, pushed her panties aside, and retrieved three cloves of garlic from deep inside her period-ridden vaginal cavity. "Now where is that garlic crusher?"
As she started to reach for the drawer, she noticed a strange shadow on the wall directly in front of her. Though it was hard to see at this angle, she could just barely make out the faint silhouette of a man -- someone was behind her. Standing as still as a ancient petrified tree in some long dead forest, she contemplated running.
"Turn around, my dear." An extremely deep voice whispered.
"You know, I'd rather not."
"I don't like to hurt women. You, however, are leaving me little choice."
Slowly she turned around, clutching the large wooden spoon with both hands. Staring intently, she didn't know quite what to make of the man in her kitchen when her eyes first found his. Whoever he was, and however he'd got here, he cut a fine figure for a man. Tall with a well defined face and ruddy complexion, he possessed dark searching eyes. He was the definition of imposing.
"Reinhardt ... oh my god ... why'd they send you here?" She put her hand to her heart. "They sent such a big bad man for little old me?" She dropped her hand and smirked. "Honestly, I feel a little flattered."
"You know my name?" He looked troubled. "How do you know this?"
"Word gets around. You're quite the character."
"You hear much, woman?"
"Yes. I've heard quite a bit. If you're here, I'm probably about to die," She said rather nonchalantly.
Reinhardt slowly lowered the gun. "I'm not here to kill you, Maria. I'm no hit-man. Hell, you might even say I'm a ... how you say? Um. Oh yeah. A diplomat," He smiled coolly.
"And I'm the pope," she burst out thunderously in a loud fit of laughter, far too loud for such a petite woman.
"What does his mean?" His face was red.
"Oh nothing. Look Reamhair --"
"Reinhardt."
"Yeah, whatever. Look, I'm not giving my recipe to you or anyone. You got that? It's been in my family for hundreds of years. It was my birth right. I'm sorry, but I can't."
As he walked towards the stove, Reinhardt looked more like he were strolling on a golf course than being in the process of committing multiple felonies. He was totally at ease.
"You know, it fascinates me." He said, now standing inches from her, leaning down to smell her hair.
"What?" She cringed and pulled away.
"I've eaten your food before. I've also eaten at some of the finest restaurants in both Europe and America. Your sauces, in particular, are exquisite. I really mean that. Honestly, I would have taken this assignment for free." He blushed. "I really must know what's in the sauce.
"I'm sorry but the answer is still no. I just can't do --"
"Oak?"
"What?"
He was staring at one of the cabinets, a dazed expression on his face.
"The cabinet."
"Ahh, yes."
"Very nice. You have a lovely home."
"Thank you." It was all she could manage. That and a forced a grin.
"What is the secret ingredient, whore?" He asked, seemingly unfazed by her flattery.
Her body repelled, as if for one brief second words were bullets, and whore was a 50 calibre. If it weren't for the washing machine directly behind her, Maria Petrinelli would have likely cracked her head open on the linoleum.
Reinhardt stood above her. He held the same cold visage as earlier.
"The ingredient?" He said, extending his hand.
After several seconds of silence, she took his hand and lifted herself up off the floor.
"I'll never tell," She sung.
"Fine. I give up." He sighed, held his head down and headed for the door.
Her eyebrow raised and she started to move, but seemed frozen in her tracks. She couldn't figure out if she should run out the side door, and leave through the alley, or just stay there and wait for Reinhardt to leave.
About halfway to the door, he spun around. Within a blink of an eye, Reinhardt dashed across the room, closing the 10 feet distance between the two of them. He slammed the gun butt into her temple and she fell to the floor. Rubbing her temple, and experiencing an awful mix of shock and confusion, she stared up at him.
"You bastard," She said, gasping and holding her chest. He slammed the butt down again, this time causing a stream of blood to come gushing from the chasm he'd created on the top of her head. She looked up at her assailant through a stream of blood and tears that now covered her face.
"I really had you going, didn't I?"
She stared up at him angrily.
"Talk bitch! Where is it?!"
"Please st--"
He slammed his foot into her abdomen. Her body jarred and she held back the desire to vomit, fighting not to reveal any signs of weakness.
"Okay, okay, it's down the hall in the red room." She whimpered.
"Red room?" Reinhardt said, leaning down and eyeing her suspiciously.
"The red door," She pointed down the hall. "The only red door in the hallway. It's the last door on the right."
Reinhardt leaned down even lower, pushed the gun against her temple, and met her eye-to-eye. "If this is a lie," he pulled back the hammer, as if to emphasize what he might say next. "This will have seemed like a day in the park, whore." He winked. "Be right back."
Reinhardt inched his way towards the red door, moving slowly with heavy feet. He looked remarkably at ease, his face and hollow eyes showed no signs of anxiety or fear about what he was about to do. Without hesitating, he pushed the door smoothly open, revealing a darkened room, empty save for a cat perched on an arm chair. The cat licked its lips, eyeing inquisitively the stranger that had stepped into his world.
"What the fuck is going on woman?" He shouted towards the kitchen. "Nothing in here but a pussy cat."
There was no response. Reinhardt turned his attention back to the room and the cat.
"Is that your secret ingredient, whore?" He said, staring directly at the cat. "I thought felines were reserved for oriental dishes." He said, still watching the cat with a childlike wonder.
The cat held its gaze, staring him directly in the eyes. Most animals aren't fond of direct eye contact with humans; they'll usually back down. Reinhardt knew this. Majoring in animal husbandry in college, he was all too familiar with the psychology of beasts, and had even taught an evening class on methods for seducing gorillas.
He finally turned his head, forfeiting the staring contest with the house-cat. He began to search the room with his eyes. Decorated in a post-modern style, complete with pink lace curtains and a Mcfly bread-spread, it looked like any other bedroom in your ordinary American household.
He wasn't worried a bit. After all, he was an expert in finding things that were meant to be lost -- that was his job. He pulled all the drawers out of the dresser, all of the cheap, Van Gough copies off the wall, and even pulled up part of the rug. It had been nearly a half an hour, and he was frustrated, tired, and looked like an absolute mess. His slick, gelled-back hair was completely out of sorts, and his calm exterior had been replaced by a look of frenzy and agitation.
"I'll find it woman!" He cocked his head to the side, as if trying to hear if she were speaking back. He heard a strange giggling sound, and turned his head, instinctively, to the right. It was the cat. Somehow, it managed to laugh.
That's crazy, he thought, cat's can't laugh, you fool.
He stared at the cat, who was still in the exact same spot as when he entered the room, squinting his eyes.
"You think that's funny, pussy?" He said, staring directly at the cat.
"Whry, yres, rye dro! Ree-hee-hee!" The cat seemed to respond. Still not quite sure of what he was hearing, Reinhardt scanned the room for some alternative explanation. A microphone? A hidden person? He had, after all, been tricked before. In his business, all manner of psychological warfare was used. He wouldn't past, even a innocent looking house-wife, to employ such methods.
"Herro broyy, rim trakrin tro yrou!" The voice seemed to say again. His head darted all around the room, a desperate attempt to find the source of this peculiar voice.
"Yrou ristening, ridiot?" This time he was staring directly at the cat. He saw its lips move in unison with the impaired speech.
"Oh my god!" He said, barely audible in a horse, faint whisper.
"Grod?" The cat said, and stood on its hind legs. "Hrardlry!"
The cat leaped directly at him, and with a mix of top-notch reflexes and the experiences of over thirty years as a hardened killer, Reinhardt raised his gun and fired three shots. The cat flew back against the wall, slowly sliding down, stuck to the wall with a mess of blood and gore.
Reinhardt stood there, for several minutes, seemingly awe-struck and perplexed with what just happened. In his years as a professional hit-man, Reinhardt had experienced a lot. He'd shot old ladies out of a cannon, coldly slit the throat of a toddler whilst the mother looked on, and even one time, fucked a gorilla. But nothing he had experienced in the past could have prepare him for this. A talking cat. Was it really possible?
After several minutes of staring at the talking cat's carcass, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen.
"What kind of witchcraft are you pulling, whore?" He said, staring at Maria, who was still tied up and lying on the floor.
She stared back, directly in his eyes and began to laugh hysterically.
"You fool," She winked "My ancestors created that cat, from ancient spells and the blood of toddlers."
"Speak sense, whore," He slammed the butt of the gun into her head.
"You're going to die."
"From what?" His head flew back, and he burst into a laugh so loud it'd crack a dick. "I killed your fucking cat. And next I'm gonna fucking kill you. Unless you have any other tricks up your sleeve? A dog that throws its voice maybe?"
"What?" He screamed, his, normally, cool façade, obviously broken down. "What?!?!?"
Reinhardt turned slowly, weary that the woman may be pulling some kind of trick on him. She was bound tightly by the wrists and legs, but the way things were going tonight Reinhardt wasn't even sure that would guarantee she couldn't escape.
Suddenly he jolted. Taking a step backwards, he couldn't quite believe what his eyes were seeing. The cat was not only alive. But it sat, directly behind him, on the chequered linoleum, ears back, fur standing straight on end, ready to attack. And, if that wasn't strange enough, it showed no signs of the bullet wounds from earlier.
"How many cats do you have, woman?" He pleaded, not risking turning his back on hellish carnation, masquerading as a kitty-cat.
The woman merely cackled evilly from behind him. His mind was overcome with a diabolical image – the beautiful woman he had been looking at before replaced with the wretched figure of a witch; foul, ugly and wart-ridden. Suddenly, he was forced to snap out of his reverie.
“Whry dridnt yrou knrow??” The cat began with satanic glee. “Rall crats hrave nrine rives! Reeheeeheeee!”
“This is a trick! An illusion!” He bellowed back, not sure if he was answering the cat or merely trying to reassure himself; to regain control of a situation that was rapidly
Ron thre contrary mry friend...thris is realitry” Before he had time to interpret this cryptic comment the cat launched itself off its hind legs and flew through the air towards him, with enough force to land claws-first on Reinhardt's face. It sank its rotten teeth directly into Reinhardt's eyes with deadly accuracy. The intense pain made Reinhardt flail his arms with rage; trying in vain to make contact and detatch this foul beast from him. But the cat's claws and teeth merely sunk deeper, sending jolts of pain through Reinhardt's face and neck. He stumbled back and fell awkwardly to the floor. Now he lay on his back, sprawled uncomfortably on the blood-soaked linoleum. He tried once more to force the cat's body off of him, but the more he pulled on its tail or hind legs the more it resisted and the more his flesh was ripped to shreds. Slowly, the pain became too much, and everything went black.
Reinhardt slowly began to regain consciousness. His eyes opened and fluttered, trying to adjust to the light. The cat was directly on top of him now, and it was tearing open his pants.
"What the hell is going on?!?" He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse whistling sound.
He started to get up, but the cat forced him back down to the floor with one paw. It felt like a thousand pounds of pressure pushing down on his shoulder. The cat seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously, checking that the desired effect was taking place. Reinhardt knew he was losing his strength, but exactly why, he couldn't say.
The cat, still staring down at Reinhardt, lifted his right paw and extended a single, long and sharp claw. Pointing it up in the air, it smiled at him.
"You are so beautiful," Reinhardt smiled.
The cat moved his claw at warp-speed, in a circular motion, across the crotch of his pants, and then lifted up the round patch of fabric, tossing it aside to the floor, and exposing Reinhardt's massive, uncut penis. "Cramrandro hruh?" The cat laughed hysterically. "Prrerfrect!"
"Oh fuck yes!" Reinhardt screamed.
There was no response. Reinhardt turned his attention back to the room and the cat.
"Is that your secret ingredient, whore?" He said, staring directly at the cat. "I thought felines were reserved for oriental dishes." He said, still watching the cat with a childlike wonder.
The cat held its gaze, staring him directly in the eyes. Most animals aren't fond of direct eye contact with humans; they'll usually back down. Reinhardt knew this. Majoring in animal husbandry in college, he was all too familiar with the psychology of beasts, and had even taught an evening class on methods for seducing gorillas.
He finally turned his head, forfeiting the staring contest with the house-cat. He began to search the room with his eyes. Decorated in a post-modern style, complete with pink lace curtains and a Mcfly bread-spread, it looked like any other bedroom in your ordinary American household.
He wasn't worried a bit. After all, he was an expert in finding things that were meant to be lost -- that was his job. He pulled all the drawers out of the dresser, all of the cheap, Van Gough copies off the wall, and even pulled up part of the rug. It had been nearly a half an hour, and he was frustrated, tired, and looked like an absolute mess. His slick, gelled-back hair was completely out of sorts, and his calm exterior had been replaced by a look of frenzy and agitation.
"I'll find it woman!" He cocked his head to the side, as if trying to hear if she were speaking back. He heard a strange giggling sound, and turned his head, instinctively, to the right. It was the cat. Somehow, it managed to laugh.
That's crazy, he thought, cat's can't laugh, you fool.
He stared at the cat, who was still in the exact same spot as when he entered the room, squinting his eyes.
"You think that's funny, pussy?" He said, staring directly at the cat.
"Whry, yres, rye dro! Ree-hee-hee!" The cat seemed to respond. Still not quite sure of what he was hearing, Reinhardt scanned the room for some alternative explanation. A microphone? A hidden person? He had, after all, been tricked before. In his business, all manner of psychological warfare was used. He wouldn't past, even a innocent looking house-wife, to employ such methods.
"Herro broyy, rim trakrin tro yrou!" The voice seemed to say again. His head darted all around the room, a desperate attempt to find the source of this peculiar voice.
"Yrou ristening, ridiot?" This time he was staring directly at the cat. He saw its lips move in unison with the impaired speech.
"Oh my god!" He said, barely audible in a horse, faint whisper.
"Grod?" The cat said, and stood on its hind legs. "Hrardlry!"
The cat leaped directly at him, and with a mix of top-notch reflexes and the experiences of over thirty years as a hardened killer, Reinhardt raised his gun and fired three shots. The cat flew back against the wall, slowly sliding down, stuck to the wall with a mess of blood and gore.
Reinhardt stood there, for several minutes, seemingly awe-struck and perplexed with what just happened. In his years as a professional hit-man, Reinhardt had experienced a lot. He'd shot old ladies out of a cannon, coldly slit the throat of a toddler whilst the mother looked on, and even one time, fucked a gorilla. But nothing he had experienced in the past could have prepare him for this. A talking cat. Was it really possible?
After several minutes of staring at the talking cat's carcass, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen.
"What kind of witchcraft are you pulling, whore?" He said, staring at Maria, who was still tied up and lying on the floor.
She stared back, directly in his eyes and began to laugh hysterically.
"You fool," She winked "My ancestors created that cat, from ancient spells and the blood of toddlers."
"Speak sense, whore," He slammed the butt of the gun into her head.
"You're going to die."
"From what?" His head flew back, and he burst into a laugh so loud it'd crack a dick. "I killed your fucking cat. And next I'm gonna fucking kill you. Unless you have any other tricks up your sleeve? A dog that throws its voice maybe?"
"What?" He screamed, his, normally, cool façade, obviously broken down. "What?!?!?"
Reinhardt turned slowly, weary that the woman may be pulling some kind of trick on him. She was bound tightly by the wrists and legs, but the way things were going tonight Reinhardt wasn't even sure that would guarantee she couldn't escape.
Suddenly he jolted. Taking a step backwards, he couldn't quite believe what his eyes were seeing. The cat was not only alive. But it sat, directly behind him, on the chequered linoleum, ears back, fur standing straight on end, ready to attack. And, if that wasn't strange enough, it showed no signs of the bullet wounds from earlier.
"How many cats do you have, woman?" He pleaded, not risking turning his back on hellish carnation, masquerading as a kitty-cat.
The woman merely cackled evilly from behind him. His mind was overcome with a diabolical image – the beautiful woman he had been looking at before replaced with the wretched figure of a witch; foul, ugly and wart-ridden. Suddenly, he was forced to snap out of his reverie.
“Whry dridnt yrou knrow??” The cat began with satanic glee. “Rall crats hrave nrine rives! Reeheeeheeee!”
“This is a trick! An illusion!” He bellowed back, not sure if he was answering the cat or merely trying to reassure himself; to regain control of a situation that was rapidly
Ron thre contrary mry friend...thris is realitry” Before he had time to interpret this cryptic comment the cat launched itself off its hind legs and flew through the air towards him, with enough force to land claws-first on Reinhardt's face. It sank its rotten teeth directly into Reinhardt's eyes with deadly accuracy. The intense pain made Reinhardt flail his arms with rage; trying in vain to make contact and detatch this foul beast from him. But the cat's claws and teeth merely sunk deeper, sending jolts of pain through Reinhardt's face and neck. He stumbled back and fell awkwardly to the floor. Now he lay on his back, sprawled uncomfortably on the blood-soaked linoleum. He tried once more to force the cat's body off of him, but the more he pulled on its tail or hind legs the more it resisted and the more his flesh was ripped to shreds. Slowly, the pain became too much, and everything went black.
Reinhardt slowly began to regain consciousness. His eyes opened and fluttered, trying to adjust to the light. The cat was directly on top of him now, and it was tearing open his pants.
"What the hell is going on?!?" He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse whistling sound.
He started to get up, but the cat forced him back down to the floor with one paw. It felt like a thousand pounds of pressure pushing down on his shoulder. The cat seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously, checking that the desired effect was taking place. Reinhardt knew he was losing his strength, but exactly why, he couldn't say.
The cat, still staring down at Reinhardt, lifted his right paw and extended a single, long and sharp claw. Pointing it up in the air, it smiled at him.
"You are so beautiful," Reinhardt smiled.
The cat moved his claw at warp-speed, in a circular motion, across the crotch of his pants, and then lifted up the round patch of fabric, tossing it aside to the floor, and exposing Reinhardt's massive, uncut penis. "Cramrandro hruh?" The cat laughed hysterically. "Prrerfrect!"
"Oh fuck yes!" Reinhardt screamed.
"Arirse," The cat said, and seemed to will Reinhardt's penis to a state of full erection without laying a paw on it. It lowered its head to his crotch and ran Its sand-papery tongue against Reinhardt's shaft. Each lick rewarded with sighs of ecstasy from Reinhardt, who was now looking very odd: His skin had taken on a sickly, gray color, and his hair seemed to be getting thinner by the second. The cat raised its head above Reinhardt's bulging erection, and opened his mouth revealing dozens of decayed and slimy fangs. With one smooth motion, it lowered its head and engulfed the whole of Reinhardt's manhood.
The look of joy on Reinhardt's face was replaced with a nightmarish mixture: confusion, panic, grief. "What's happening to me?!?"
He held a hand up and stared at it. His skin wasn't skin any more. Instead, it was a gray slime oozing off his bones. He reached for the cat, and Maria--now standing directly above him, watching this all with a shit-eating grin on her face-slapped his hand away with her wooden spoon. The flesh from his hand flew off and onto the wall. He screamed. He screamed so loud that it was heard for blocks, and in doing all the skin fell off his face. Worse yet, he was still alive. His eyes were darting back and forth, inside his naked skull, from Maria to the Cat. Maria knelt down next to him, and scooped up some of the small remainder of melted flesh on his left cheek-bone. "Mmmmmmmmmmm! Delicious!" She said, licking it off her finger.
With his last fading breath, it dawned on him. The secret ingredient.
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