KISS OF DEATH

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

KISS OF DEATH

By Randy Romero

 

 

The vagrant lingered in the alley, propping himself up against a brick wall to keep his balance. He was clearly drunk. If his lack of equilibrium wasn’t a dead giveaway, JP could smell the whiskey wafting off of him. As far as vagrants smelled, this one carried an exceptionally offensive odor.

JP could not hide his disgust, nor was he required to as far as he was concerned. The alley was behind JP’s nightclub, The Wild Stallion. It was his nightclub, and that meant this was his alley. This was JP Taylor’s territory, his jurisdiction, his property. He’d be damned if any scruffy, mangy vagrant was going to stink up his alley.

JP didn’t just own The Wild Stallion. He owned half of Spring Harbor. JP’s money and influence came with a considerable amount of power. A power that JP was perpetually drunk on.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the vagrant, either. Sure, plenty of them have come and gone over the years, but this one JP remembered from his filthy red-and-black flannels and lime green hat that was stained white from bird shit.

JP was a tall, slim, athletic young man, dressed in a charcoal gray Brioni suit with an immaculate cut. For some, that suit was almost six months salary. For JP, it was what his club made in a single night.

JP adjusted his navy blue tie, slicked back his dark brown hair, and took his phone from his breast pocket and pressed a few buttons. “Security,” was all he said, and in seconds, two of his bouncers walked around back, at his beck and call.

“I can’t have this skunk stinking up my alley,” JP told them. “Get rid of him. Don’t hurt him too bad. Just enough to send a message to the other bums. Let them know that this alley is off limits.”

JP didn’t stick around to watch. He never did. He went back inside where his assistant, Gregory, was waiting for him in his office. Gregory was a meek, spineless shell of a man whose answer to every question was yes, unless JP wanted the answer to be no. That made him the perfect and most dependable assistant for JP. Never mind he was twelve years older than JP. He didn’t mind taking orders from a spoiled rich kid, so long as he got a taste of the spoils himself. “That Veronica chick is on line one. I can’t fucking get rid of her.”

“Did you try simply hanging up the phone?”

“She’s relentless. She wants your head on a spike.”

“Who doesn’t?” JP said, lighting a Cuban cigar. He puffed away and a thick, pungent smoke filled the air. “I’ll deal with her.” He picked up the phone. “Veronica, baby. Miss me much?”

“I went to the police,” Veronica said vehemently. “I filed a report. I already spoke to a lawyer.”

“Good, and he can speak with my attorney in the morning. Try as hard as you want, you’re never going to win. You don’t stand a chance against me.”

“You’re a monster,” she cried.

“A rich monster. And that entitles me to do just about anything I desire. Don’t you know who I am, you dumb little bitch? I’m JP fucking Taylor. I’m the man that other men can only dream of being. I have it all. I own more than half this town. I own the bars, I own the clubs, I own restaurants and music venues. And if you haven’t figured it out by now, I own the cops, too. But do feel free to drop by anytime you want. Your first drink is compliments of the house.”

“Rot in hell, you slimy piece of–”

JP didn’t give her a chance to finish that thought. He hung up the phone, finished his cigar, gelled his hair, fixed his tie, and headed back downstairs.

It was Tuesday night, and Phil, the bartender, knew what that meant. The owner would be on the prowl for that evening’s unlucky prey.

JP had it all. Money, good looks, clear healthy skin, a pearl white smile. And he had a routine, a plan. First, he would select that evening’s sexual conquest. He’d have Phil or whoever was working the bar that night send her a few free drinks, compliments of the owner. That would be JP’s cue to sidle up next to her and introduce himself. He was smooth and suave and the girls took to him like flies on shit. He had a white rose, one single rose, for every girl he approached. It was his signature, his calling card. And most of the girls fell right into his hands. His routine worked every time.

JP was well known and he had a reputation for being a womanizer and a heartbreaker. But that didn’t stop the girls from trying their hand with one of the youngest, richest bachelors in all of Spring Harbor.

JP helped himself to a few complimentary drinks of his own and scoured the dance floor. Nothing of interest there. But the girl at the bar caught his perverted eyes. She was short, slender, had jet-black hair, and eyes as green as a cats. He gave Phil the signal to give her a free drink. Then he slithered in beside her and offered up a white rose, along with a Cheshire grin, which let JP flash and flaunt his pearly whites.

“JP Taylor,” he introduced himself. “I own the place, but you own my heart.”

She laughed. “Does that cheesy pickup line really work?”

“Most of the time, yes, actually.”

“I guess I’m not most girls.”

“You can say that again,” JP said, still showing interest. “What brings you here? Don’t break my heart and tell me you’re waiting for a date.”

“No, I’m alone tonight. But I was hoping to meet someone…”

“Really, who?”

“You.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling my chain now.”

“No, I’m serious. I heard the owner was smart, handsome…rich.”

“That I am.”

“You know, I can hardly hear myself over this music. Let’s go outside.”

JP was all smiles. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

She led him to the alley where the vagrant had resided a few hours prior, twirling the white rose in her fingertips. She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“You’re sweet,” she giggled, placing the rose in the palm of her hand. “I can see why the ladies fall for you. You’re handsome, you’re smooth, you know exactly what to say. But not everyone falls for your act.” She clenched her fist, rose petals squeezing out between her fingers.

He recoiled from a sudden burst of pain. “What the…what did you do to me? What did you do to my face?”

“I gave you a taste of your own medicine. All those girls you’ve used and abused. All those lives you’ve destroyed. All those hearts you’ve poisoned. Now I’ve poisoned you. Did you really think you were invincible? Did you think you could get away with things forever?”

“What are you?”

“Justice,” she whispered.

The spot where she kissed him felt swollen and irritated. He touched his face and winced. His skin stung when he grazed it. Bumps and blisters and boils began to emerge. He stumbled back inside, ran straight for the bathroom. He recoiled again at what he saw in the mirror.

“My face!” he wept. His features were grotesque, his face unrecognizable. For once, the monster in the mirror reflected the monster deep inside of him.

This mysterious infection, this curse, it spread across his face like a carnivorous cancer, until it all but enveloped his identity. When they found JP, he tried to alert them of his assailant, but by then, he couldn’t speak; his face was completely obscured, and his airways were blocked. And by then, his assailant was long gone. Like a goodnight kiss, her presence was fleeting but everlasting.