Wine and Gun

The reason why they would stand in such a place in the end was entirely because of the shadow in Herstal's heart, the endless river of blood.

Profilers say Westland pianist killed because of childhood trauma and feels safe when he kills someone similar to the one who traumatized him - these profilers don't really judge precise.

He is no vigilante in the dark, or even his own saviour. He was still standing in the river of blood.

"But look at yourself, Herstal: you're so angry, and it's not just because of what the tasteless guy did - you're also angry because Billy chose to run away from it all. , you are annoyed at his escape as you are annoyed at yourself; so although of course you can empathize with him, you do not choose to save him, and when you watch the soul leave his body, it is like seeing the one from many years ago You too."

"Although it doesn't make any sense to discuss traveling through time and space now, assuming you have such a chance to go back in time, would you really allow yourself to die while trying to commit suicide?"

"How much do you hate yourself for not being able to resist in the first place? How happy are you when you kill them, and how painful is the nightmare that visits you late at night?"

—Albarino knew him too well, it was a shame.

He frowned at these tumultuous thoughts as the car came to the end of the driveway, next to the huge white building with its lights on. There is even a valet parking service in this manor. He just drove to the door when a parking clerk came to help him drive the Chevrolet away.

At this moment, there was almost no sound in the huge manor, and Herstal could only hear some kind of nocturnal bird chirping in the hedges built in the shape of robins, and those strangely shaped hedges were like It is a huge shadow walking on the ground.

Herstal had to walk alone to the absurdly large main entrance of the mansion in the middle of the manor, first up a long series of steps, a bleak gray-white in the moonlight—the door was tightly closed. Yes, Herstal stood there and knocked tentatively on the door, which echoed in the dead night.

The door was opened within seconds, and it was obvious that someone had been standing there waiting: another doorman in a vest and a bow tie, who at first glance looked like a hotel waiter, right. He responded with the stylized smile of a hotel waiter.

Hestal didn't really think about how to speak, so he just handed him the card in his hand - since, as Albarino said, this is a club composed of rich people, then he should endure the money The kind of quirk that a person might have.

The young doorman looked at the card carefully for a round, apparently unaware that the card might be older than him. Then he opened the door, and respectfully let Herstal in.

Herstal entered and was greeted by a foyer with a row of lavish crystal chandeliers: a dazzling tapestry of gaudy columns on the colonnade and a thick, bright red carpet on the floor made the room look extraordinarily special. It looks like a hotel lobby; a group of three abstract paintings hang on the wall with rhombus dark gold plaid wallpaper on one side. The painter uses messy brushstrokes to describe a bunch of cucurbit plants with particularly erotic shapes.

Now, Herstal understands why Albariño has adjusted "bào fortune" and "want to integrate into the upper class" for a long time - even though the decoration of the whole house is very expensive, this kind of self-liberating mix and match style looks It still makes my head hurt.

"It's your first time here, isn't it?" the doorman asked respectfully. "Then please wait here for a while. Mr. Slade will be here soon, and he will introduce you to the specific activities of this club."

So Herstal remained in the colorful hallway that gave him a headache, until a few minutes later, a door on the side of the hall was pushed open by a hand. Before the owner of the hand appeared, a string of jovial laughter hit Herstal's ears first, causing him to frown: the voice sounded unpleasantly familiar.

"We haven't had a new member for a long time," the voice said loudly. "I thought our patrons had already used up the rare invitations!"

Then the man appeared. Of course, there was no sound when the shiny leather shoes stepped on the soft carpet. The appearance was silent like a dead ghost in a tomb. It looked to be a man in his late fifties, with a shiny forehead and thin, blond blond hair that had been brushed into an unstoppable Mediterranean hairstyle; The protruding beer belly; between the same sparse light eyebrows and heavy eye bags, there were a pair of small flexible eyes, which were now full of smiles.

Herstal felt a piece of ice slide silently into his stomach.

Or, that description wasn't quite accurate, he felt the thick carpet on the ground suddenly turn into sticky quicksand, he felt the walls tearing, and the air was filled with cries of pain that could not be traced back. The things looked down at him, sneering coldly, mocking his inability, sending a painful shiver down his spine. He felt something grow hideously in his stomach, tearing through the flesh, and growing painful and hideous branches from the throat.

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