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PISTOL WHIP ME, DADDY
‘TIME FOR TEA’ – EMILIE AUTUMN
KOOKABURRA
God, this place is a fucking dump. I think the straitjacket, ankle manacles and fuckingmuzzleused to transport me here were a touch unnecessary. Though I guess Ididbite my handler’s finger off. Tasted like a grisly hotdog. But I’ve eaten worse.
Makes me laugh that they had the biggest, baddest, meanest looking sons of bitches to keep me in my place, yet with just one look they were quaking in their combat boots and reaching for their extra restraints. Pathetic.
Joke’s on them; I’m into that shit.
Even when BBA – Baddest Bitch A, also known as chief douchebag, head of security – came at me, teeth bared and gun in hand, my thighs were clenching with hope.Fucking do it. Shoot me. Or at the very least pistol whip me, Daddy.
Snort.
Of course he didn’t.
Didn’t want to get that close. Even with me all restrained and trussed up like a gift under the Christmas tree. They didn’t want to risk it.
So here I am. Waking from my sedation – because even restrained better than Hannibal fucking Lecter I’m apparently a flight risk – in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where the weather is fucking diabolical if the grey skies and drizzle on the window pane are anything to go by.
I’m surprised they’ve left me unattended in what appears to be a shrink’s office, all restraints gone. They must be watching. As if I’d be so stupid as to try to escape when I still have the remains of fuck knows what sleepy juice coursing through my veins and no idea of the lie of the land.
Stupid and reckless I am not.
I’m playing the long game, baby.
And as soon as I get out of here, I’ll hitch a ride right back to my hometown to finish what I started. Namely, laying my demons to rest in hell. There’s still many names on my list. This is a side quest for me, not the finale to my story.
“Ah, Miss Kingfisher, you’re awake. I am Director Seytan.”
“Conscious,” I correct, refusing to turn to see who has just joined me in the shrinky dink. Director Satan?
“Excuse me?” The voice is definitely female. Affronted. Maybe she doesn’t like being corrected. Maybe she’s got a wart on her clit because I didn’t immediately jump to attention upon her arrival.
She doesn’t walk to her desk and take a seat. That would mean putting herself in the line of fire. It would mean showing weakness. It would meanlosing.
Oh, I love a good game. Bring it, bitch.
She clears her throat. It’s not a nervous gesture, it’s an angry one. Like a huff that’s half oesophageal and half nasal. Attractive.
I don’t bother to hide my smirk, it’s not like she can see my face anymore than I can see hers.
Eventually, when she realises that I’m not going to draw my eyes away from the dreary vista outside the window, she huffs and stomps over to her desk. In my periphery, she takes a seat and stares at me, expectantly. Studying me intently while I tally raindrops that could almost rival my body count.
Whatever.
“Miss Kingfisher, I am a very busy woman and I can’t sit around all day waiting for you to—”
“You’ve only just sat,” I point out flatly.
Again, another angry throat clear. Maybe itisa nervous gesture. Can you be angry and nervous at the same time? I wouldn’t know. They’re not emotions I’m acquainted with.
“It’s an expression.”
“So is ‘don’t shoot the messenger’. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Your perverse sense of humour will not be tolerated here,” she snipes.
