Sloan Vicious: Ravished


Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

[1] Icone Label Pictures “Sour Dreams”

[2] Icone Label Pictures “Put Your Knives Up”

[3] Icone Label Pictures “The Rampage”




“Jesus Christ. Is that her?”

“The one and only. That’s Sloan Vicious and I’d advise approaching with extreme caution if I were you”

“She looks pretty harmless to me”

“You’d think right? Well don’t be fooled. She’s anything but”

“What’s she gonna do? Fuck me to death?”

“That depends if she’s feeling generous”

“Doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go”

“You’d think right?”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I’m missing something here but she doesn’t have that stone cold killer look if you ask me. High maintenance perhaps but far from my worst nightmare”

“Suit yourself”

“Is that it then?”


“Suit myself? No other helpful tips for me?”

“Just don’t let her suck you in. Ms. Vicious has been known to be quite the persuader when it suits her”

“Got it. Although I have to say, small talk wasn’t really on my agenda tonight”

“I’m sure it’s not on hers either”

“Whatever. Look, I’ll buzz you when it’s done alright?”

“Make it clean”

“Are you kidding me? You think my fee is so high because I don’t clean up after me?”

“I think you’re overrated”

“Great pep talk. Go fuck your mother”


Overrated? Where the fuck does he get off calling me overrated? And what was all that shit about watching myself? I mean, look at her. Hardly Joan of fucking Arc is she? Of all the hits I’ve ever performed (47 at last count), this proposes to be the easiest by far. There’s no security system to override, she clearly lives alone, weighs no more than 100 lbs wringing wet, and couldn’t look less threatening if you glued a pair of tiny deer antlers to her head for chrissake. Yet I’m supposed to be shaking in my Converse here. Sorry to disappoint you eye in the sky but you seem to have me confused with someone who won’t put a bullet in an innocent woman’s head because there’s $50k riding on it. My kids have got to eat you know. I can’t help it if they have expensive tastes. Fuck it, may as well just get this over with. Suit myself? Yeah, I might just do that.


It looks like our Ms. Vicious is about to run a bath and I have to say good for her. They say never to mix business with pleasure but I never really saw the logic in that one. When in Rome right? That’s just one bundle of bloody linen I won’t be expected to dispose of and, should I cop an eyeful of the wares she’s packing beneath that satin gown (which clings rather delightfully I might add), then she’s hardly going to file for an injunction is she? It’s hard to protest with a six-inch serrated hunting knife rammed through the reverse of your skull. That’s right, no messing around here, she could boil a kettle now and I guarantee I’ll have her gift wrapped heart signed, sealed, and primed for delivery before it can so much as percolate. At any rate, it appears as if she is headed upstairs to the boudoir, so I guess I should slip inside and introduce myself personally to Sloan Vicious.


Isn’t it correct that a person’s home is supposed to say something about them? If that’s the case, then I reckon I’ll be doing her a favor by snuffing her out. Talk about cold and clinical, almost to the point of sterility, this place may as well be a mortuary for all the character it has and I’d hedge a bet that few are going to miss this nonentity when she’s gone. Where are the family photos? The proof of existence? Has she simply failed to unpack all the boxes in her attic yet? Don’t get me wrong, I’m hardly what you’d call a pack-horse, and it comes with the territory to travel light as I’m always on the move. But I’m beginning to feel sorry for this chick. I’m no longer sure whether to level her or put her in touch with an interior decorator and hope he can add that bit of the je ne sais quoi this soulless show home sorely needs.


Not my problem. Right now I only have a solitary objective and I’m not about to compromise that out of pity. She’s already upstairs and I can hear her making her way to the bedroom so I’ll just hang back and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Naturally I’ll be required to let her perform whatever rituals she ordinarily partakes in before watching the light in her eyes fade.


She’s even done me a favor by leaving her boudoir door ajar so it would be positively uncivil not to linger just for a moment or two, particularly given the full-length mirror she’s currently eyeing up with intent. Don’t mind me Ms. Vicious, just pretend I’m not here. Oh that’s right, I forgot. You haven’t got the faintest clue what’s planned for you this night. Keep doing what you’re doing and all will become crystal clear the moment I’ve committed the next few seconds to memory.


Goddamn. It almost seems a shame to destroy such a thing of beauty. Almost. It’s a good job I’m a professional as I know some pretty unscrupulous cats who would give this baby a test run before or shortly after finishing the job. As for me, well watching has always been my thing and my eyes are working overtime right now running over every last contour of the exquisite work of art before me. There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on you know.


Even though she is totally oblivious to my presence, it almost feels like she is watching me watching her, and getting off at the very prospect. Sloan Vicious may be lacking a little in the creature comforts department; but body confidence is certainly not at a premium here. Of course, once I introduce her to my trusty bone saw, it’ll be little more than human refuse, but I feel obliged to spend just a little longer celebrating this fine fondue of flesh before taking things there.


She’s on the move. This is where every second becomes significant as my window of opportunity will be slight if I wish to get in and out with minimum fuss. To reach the bathroom, she will be required to pass by the open doorway I’m currently tucked behind and will be absolutely none the wiser as the cold steel of my blade gets acquainted. I’d be lying bare-faced if I suggested that this part of the process didn’t supply me a kick as the thrill of the kill is what gets my dick hard. Ask any hitman worth their cut and they’ll tell you the exact same thing. The money is just a tidy bonus for services rendered and my bank account is hardly in arrears right now, so greed need not supply my motivation. Judging by the intoxicating aroma dancing tantalizingly around my nostrils and the soft pad of her feet approaching from my right, I’d say it’s game time.


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Honestly, is that the best you can do? Look at the sorry face on this silly little rabbit as his worthless life flashes before his fast fading eyes. He really didn’t see it coming did he? It tickles me that he actually believed he had an iota of control when the truth is so far from the illusion. I especially like the way that he’s fighting it to the very last, as though the major artery in his chest I just cleaved wide open with my scissors hasn’t already sealed his fate.

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I should put him out of misery and would, if it weren’t for the fact that I can provide it such good company for the last few pitiful moments of his life. It should take a minute or so before he passes out and that suits me fine as I can bring myself to climax by the big sign-off and it would be frightfully wasteful not for one of us to benefit from this transaction. Regrettably for him, this particular gift is about to keep on giving, as I fully intend on benefitting once again once I’m in the tub. Nothing drives me wilder than a good hearty death rattle you see. The joys of being multiple orgasmic.


So don’t keep me in suspense, was that as good for you as it was for me? I could have drawn things out a little longer admittedly but bath water soon loses its appeal once you acclimatize to its temperature and the fun part is still to come as disposal provides all the opportunity I desire to get creative. It just so happens that there are two bathtubs in my residence and the other, down in the storm cellar, is rather handy when it comes to the all-important breakdown. Five minutes soaking in hydrofluoric acid should do it. I plan to use this time pouring myself a cocktail. This hardly constitutes as an excuse to break out the best crystalware but I’m feeling frivolous tonight and what’s life without a dash of whimsy? In case you didn’t catch it, the name is Sloan Vicious and you’d better pray to whatever false idol you worship that we’re never formally introduced as the pleasure will be all mine if we are. Run along now.

Artwork by Emilie Flory







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