Killing Spree

A Story by KioneCookie

(Prequel to my main story) Once every three years, the Pariah Corporation hosts a "killing spree", in which patients, interns, and Pariah Tactical have to fight it out in the Rosemary Asylum.

“This is your commentator for tonight, Mr. Martin Gonzales, and welcome to another round of “Lose the money you’re earning too fast to spend anyways”! Next to me is my partner in crime, Dr. Kione Barkovsky, who will spill their two cents whenever they find it necessary to do so! AND THEY’RE IN! PEOPLE I REPEAT: THE MEAT IS IN! Eleven of the world’s finest chaps; only one gal, sorry, and they’ll make sure your Saturday evening is spent cheering and booing rather than with your boring family!

For the record, here is an updated list of bets: Kione bets that the Minnesotan will either die last, or survive. Personally, I want the Texan to get ripped into at least five mayor shreds, and Easton and Steve bet on head football or soccer. Michael from accounting bet five thousand on two or more killed patients, and five random casualties- playin’ it safe, you little p***y, hah! David Annapurna, head orderly, in charge of today’s shots, has assured me that everyone’s adrenaline has been injected and measured and the folks are good to go! Countdown, places, Tac Team ready? Good.”

The tri-yearly bloodbath at Rosemary was in full swing, as cell block B already roamed with rather confused patients and the eleven interns that reeked of fear. Once the toughest looking had established for the health of his own mind that this had to be a prank, he became braver and went on walking into the middle of the block. “Got us good there, Mr. Gonzales, Sir! But Nick shat his pants, and we all need to get back to work!” The others nodded, and Nick stared at his boots.

Martin, ignoring his employee, went on giving commandos: “Annapurna, door are locked. Would you be so kind as to stimulate the adrenaline flow in our patients? Oh, what’s that?! We have a special guest tonight? A gentleman, as I am told, and great with the ladies, owner of superb manners! Give it up for IIIIIIsaac Kirstein!”

“Oooh! I like him!” Kione said, pressing their finger up against the glass and smiling.

Still unconscious and half-dragged in by two other blind patients, Isaac Kirstein slumped down onto the stone floor, his breath shallow. The five interns working on Project KaTe immediately stepped back, drawing their unloaded guns.

“What the f**k?” hissed another, aiming at Isaac’s head.

“He’s supposed to be in cell block C!”

“Has he been transferred?”

“Who the f**k is Kirstein?”

“Well, buddies, I’m afraid things ain’t gonna go to swell for that lot of ya tonight; but be assured that your untimely demise will serve as an example of how s****y the justice system works in the good ol’ US of A!” Kione declared while spinning around in their office chair.

“Well said, Sir!” Martin crooned through the other microphone, “well put. So very well spoken...in any case, all of you serve the purpose of pure entertainment. Your death certificates have already been signed, so no worries; Mr. Nick-be assured we hold a French copy for your father’s side of the family. We’re not monsters after all...”

On Martin’s commando, the doors and security gates were locked, and Tac’s weapons were loaded. The elven interns tried in vain smashing against the doors, pleading for mercy, or swearing revenge.

“Champ, if I had a dollar for every time someone swore to get back at me-“Kione began, but was overpowered by the unison scream of over one hundred inmates reacting to the almost-overdose of adrenaline plus “a little somethin’ “, as Kione had put it, and Annapurna’s face went white.

“You told me this was Tac training! These men have to use violence in order to survive-the patients are too unruly and the supervision lacks-“

It was a Pariah Tac member who knocked Annapurna out before he could spoil the mood.

With a groan, Isaac woke from his induced sleep and stumbled on his feet, looking around with a hazy stare.

“This is why I prefer leaving the mall to the ladies. They tend to overreact when it comes to such exquisite footwear.” He dizzily shared with the few interns who’d stayed dead silent. One of them nodded as a reaction to the nonsense-a fatal mistake.

“Are you trying to coax me into buying you something?” Isaac wanted to know in a dangerously low tone, slowly approaching the Texan.

“N-No, Sir!” the young man squeaked, aiming the gun at Isaac’s head.

“HOW RUDE OF YOU! UNGRATEFUL S**T!” the star inmate snarled and without much effort, tackled the intern to the ground, cracking his skull open in one move.

“YEEEE-HAW!” Martin shouted into the microphone and waved his arms about, “that’s some classic Isaac right here! Using his hands when he doesn’t have a knife! Oww-that must have hurt!”

Alas, half the skull and the body still only made two parts, not five, and Isaac lost his interest in the twitching mass as soon as he saw another, more smallish patient lurk around an opened cell. “Well, hello there, young lady...”

“THE GUNS AREN’T LOADED! WE HAVE NO AMMO! WE HAVE NO AMMO!” came a horrified shriek from another corner as another man got buried beneath a bloodthirsty bunch of riled up inmates who sunk their teeth and fingers into anything that moved.

Although quite frail looking and wiry, the adrenaline pumping through the damaged veins and arteries supplied the formerly calm men into savage beasts. Isaac, however, was in deep conversation with an unlucky cellmate (who he had in a headlock), a poor soul forced to endure a rather one-sided discussion about why petticoats needed a re-introduction into the modern fashion would, and pronto if you please.

“I am not saying I dislike the general idea of dames in pants, it is more a certain standard of morality which continues slipping downwards, don’t you agree? But of course you do, sweetheart! Of course!”

The Minnesotan struggled against a skinny, but clingy patient who was convinced he was a gigantic steak which begged for consumption, and she appeared all too eager to fulfill this wish. The poor intern didn’t stand a chance; neither did half of the interns torn apart in the devouring process.

“And Michael from accounting takes the f*****g lead, can you believe it” Martin groaned, hands pressed against the thick glass as he followed the spectacle beneath him with furrowed eyebrows. Kione, right next to him, focused on the tin pretzels and grapes that had been kindly provided by Pariah Food Supplies TM. “Getting’ scroogier by the year; like where’s the Gouda? Nobody ever thinks of the cheese...” was the doctor’s commentary while they continued stuffing themselves. “How much are you making these day, Kione” Martin asked with a moue of disappointment that turned into roaring laughter as Isaac, who had apparently stolen the other inmate’s pants, was now chasing away, gleefully yelling “Panty Raid! You asked for it! You always ask for it!”

“Two five a year” Kione yawned, crossing off another intern as his head flew up and smeared gum and teeth against the window. “You?”

“One eight plus two” Martin gave back, doing some calculations. “Mhm, we have a bossy intern left on the upper floor, middle door. Ring the alarm to get ‘em to head the final one!” he yelled into walkie-talkie, and the Tacs send a few fireworks against B 256 behind which Nick, the Canadian, cowered and prayed to a God that just wouldn’t answer him tonight.

“Too bad Mathias ain’t here” Kione commented dryly, shoving the last pretzel into their mouth, “coulda been a little moral crutch or whatever...”

While Monsieur Nick fell off his faith and off the stair-rail too, sailed had first into a pile of mashed organs, and finally went unconscious, he luckily didn’t experience the shameful debauchery that was his death. “Once again, I suggest we give ‘em some more ladies of the evenings once in a while...or else this is what happens.” Kione sighed, but their over the speaker uttered suggestion was heavily questioned by a blood-soaked Isaac, who eagerly shook his head. “These ladies will only stir vile thoughts! They have no place in this establishment!” he growled, waving a ripped-arm against the nearest camera.

“You tell him, Mr. Kirstein.” Martin agreed in false indignation, chuckling as he ordered a full clean up and sedation for the surviving inmates.

“Ladies of the evening, mhm?” Martin snickered once the microphones were turned off and those who were allowed to leave drove off the premises and towards their enormous homes. Kione shrugged, “Been a while; the last Pariah shindig was...last weekend?”

“A horrible dry spell!” Martin mocked and buttoned his suit. “You sound like the hick twins” Kione tsked, correcting their tie.

“My place then?” Martin suggested, with one eyebrows raised, and they made their way to the parking lot. “It’s where the bigger bed is” Kione admitted and shook the key ring. “Plus, I got a spare there.”

In the whole purging process, Nick’s death certificate; at least the French translation, went missing, and the board didn’t lift a finger to re-translate it. Martin forgot about the interns’ name within a few days, and Kione made it their personal task to call Nick’s father and explain everything to him in the finest Russian, then immediately hang up, giggling like an idiot.