Wine and Gun

"I love you more than sons."

Herstal didn't know what his expression was like at this moment, and he didn't know whether he could maintain the mask that was supposed to be indestructible, and this "Mr. Slade" - that was not his real name, no Doubt, at least the priest in the Kentucky church didn't use this surname - he seemed to be ignorant, he just looked at Herstal, still with that flattering smile on his face.

"My name is Kaba Slade, the manager of this club. Back then, Mr. Thompson took care of me his favorite club." Now, the other party said with a smile, "Who are you?"

Herstal didn't know if he was shaking in place, his knees went numb.

When he just opened his lips, he only felt that a fragmented air sound was thrown out, like a dying bird flying away from his mouth. He gān swallowed dryly before finding his voice.

"Herstal Armalite," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Armalite," said the other, reaching out to shake his hand.

- The other party didn't recognize him, obviously. After so many years, he no longer looks like the thin young man in Kentucky, whether in height, appearance or accent; the cold mask is so tightly sewn that no one can easily see his true heart.

His time in Kentucky left no records that would be uploaded to the Internet, and he changed his first and last name as soon as he left his father. He uses his mother's surname now, and no one can easily associate him with the young man who was in Kentucky back then.

So now, in the eyes of this Kabbah Slade - a former priest who somehow became the manager of the club - he is just a domineering rich lawyer, which is not surprising, and the other party will not remember the victimization human face.

It's so strange that people who have hurt him can easily forget. Herstal himself could not recall the face of every victim of the pianist, but—

"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?"

Herstal stared at each other's smiling faces, a nauseous desire lingering in his chest; a voice was screaming for him to escape, just as he had done day and night when he was fourteen. The feeling of self-loathing stuck in his throat, telling him that he was still the same as he was back then, that he was just as vulnerable and incompetent, and just as fearful.

Kill him, another voice whispered in his ear. kill him. kill him. Then you'll be free—his fingers tickled with lust, and the knife lay in his pocket as always, his skin more thirsty for blood than the cold blade.

But his reason is still as cold as ever in the screaming làngcháo, and it is a rock that stands still: because now is not the time, if you make a move at this time, no one will be able to retreat.

Herstal took a deep breath with trembling, trying to concentrate: The only problem now is...

It's still a bit too coincidental that he was involved in the investigation of the case at the instigation of Albarino, and then met Slade here. There is so much drama in it that one has to wonder, did Albarino really know nothing about it?

Is this what he planned?

If it was his plan...

Herstal still remembers the bào blizzard on Christmas Eve, the gift box wrapped in blue delphinium wrapping paper, in the ambulance on Fifteenth Avenue, Albarino resting his forehead on him weight on the shoulders.

Perhaps, he should not have such unnecessary expectations of the other party.

He could still taste the thorn in his throat at this point, and something more pungent and piercing had grown out of it, making the end of his eyes hurt. And Slade, who knew nothing, was still babbling about the history of the club, though Herstal didn't hear a word.

They walked all the way to the end of the foyer. Herstal felt like he had walked to death. Slade pushed open the heavy wooden door for him. The house was well soundproofed. The music and a sweet and greasy taste blowing.

Behind the gate is a large banquet hall, with its usual over-the-top decor; waiters in tuxedos come and go to serve drinks to the guests, some of whom are spread out on the soft sofas that can be seen everywhere, breathing some apparently not very legal fumes. ; Others danced a close-up dance with some girls in bào clothes to the music, and the air was filled with the giggles of the girls.

"You're lucky to have made it to our party on your first day," Slade exclaimed, as if proudly showing Herstal the scene, "Welcome to us, Mr. Armalette. The Wuyou Township."

Wuyouxiang, under the dome of the church, the priest's teeth brushed his throat.

Stryder moved nimbly through the crowd, introducing Herstal to the richness of their party: the dance floor, some regular and some spiked drinks, marijuana leaves, ecstasy and other pleasant little pills, gathered Many people's gaming tables, and almost half-luǒ boys and girls sit on velvet fabric cushions for everyone to choose.

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