Wine and Gun

Albarino sat casually on the altar, as if he had no intention of taking care of the tie that was hanging loosely around his neck. His shirt was unbuttoned twice, his waistcoat was wrinkled, and he didn't know where his suit jacket was thrown, but he didn't bother to look at these things at all.

He was looking at Herstal Armalite.

The latter was standing on the table top of the sacrificial table, just in front of Slade, his line of sight could be just level with the other side, he was holding the bloodstained knife in one hand, the sharp blade flashing in the light. Pass a beam of cold light.

He finally condescended to take off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which Albarino took off with his own hands. But this preparation was not so that he would not get his clothes dirty: in fact his clothes were soaked with blood, from the fingers to the elbows, with dried blood, as if he had just groped through a river of blood. Fan-like.

Herstal was looking at Slade at the moment, as if he were a painter thinking about where he was going to drop his first strokes. The way he looked at Slade was the same expression that a painter would have when looking at a canvas and a sculptor looking at the marble: they were congregated, but there was no excess emotion, no hatred or grief, and an unbelievable peace of mind.

Finally he pressed the tip of the knife against Slade's chest and cut it shallowly.

This knife is not deep, but penetrates the skin, fat and superficial muscles, and will never stab into his organs. Still, it must still hurt terribly, and even though the previous bullet had destroyed Slade's ability to speak, everyone in the world screamed the same.

Albarino watched the blood trickle down the other party's red body, as if splashing paint on the cloth, he turned a deaf ear to the harsh screams, but asked enthusiastically: "I want to be on the boat in a while. Is it ok to decorate them with delphiniums?"

Herstal paused for a moment, apparently not forgetting some of Albarino's remarks about bone piles and delphiniums more than a year ago. But very rarely, he did not spit out any mean sarcasm, but said crisply: "Okay."

He then switched the bleeding knife to his right hand and stabbed the fingers of his left hand directly into the bleeding wound in the hanging victim's abdomen.

Slade twisted and struggled frantically, like a swimming fish that fell on dry land. Albarino watched casually as Herstal ripped apart the last bit of sticky texture with his fingers, blood gurgling along the edge of his palm.

"Originally, my plan was to leave the country from Mexico, but a friend I met recently could provide more convenient help," Albarino continued, lightly changing to another inconsistent topic, "she said she would like to Lend me her private jet so I can make my first stop directly in Spain - I have a few properties there and it's a good place to stay."

"Okay." Herstal repeated this again, his voice so flat that it seemed perfunctory, making it suspicious that he wasn't listening at all.

Albarino smiled softly, stood up and walked to Herstal's side. When he stopped, his chest almost touched Herstal's shoulder. It was a little too close, definitely beyond that so-called "reasonable social distance", but Herstal didn't seem to care either.

The other party just stared at Slade attentively, and his fingers may have touched those soft internal organs. Slade was sweating from the pain, and his face was as pale as death.

"So—" Albarino said softly, his lips close to Herstal's ear, and under the thick bloody smell, he could already smell the sweat on his skin and the aftermath of sex. that special taste. Albarino's voice was soft, like the wind, the fluff on the belly of a bird, the trace of a cloud that flashed across the reflection of the river. "Would you like to go with me?"

Herstal finally stopped the movement in his hand, and for the first time since standing in front of Slade, he turned to look at Albarino, with a sneering smile flashing in his eyes.

"Did you only think of asking this question now?" he asked in his usual cold tone.

For some reason Albarino looked relieved, and then he laughed again and said lazily, "I just wanted to hear the answer again: just give it to me."

Herstal glanced down at the blood-red tie on his chest, the silk was splattered with blood, and then he pointedly pointed out: "I should have accommodated you several times today."

Albarino still stared at him, his eyes calm. And Hestal turned his wrist flatly, there was a sticky sound between the flesh and blood, the smell of blood became stronger, and Stryder's face was full of tears, and the regret in his eyes at this moment was genuine, if he could open his mouth, he would definitely Will pray as loudly as those people just now - but this is not worthy of forgiveness.

Herstal pulled the bloody hand out and let the horrific wound in Slade's abdomen continue to bleed, falling like tiny rivers from his pale skin. Then he turned gracefully, and the shoes ran over the pool of blood on the ground, like a never-ending circle dance in the music.

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