World's Audi was too showy to be taken for this kind of work. Something that could be as easily identified as that was not needed.Â
The director's residence was simple enough to track down. Thursday found it nestled in the cushier part of Chicago's museum districts on the eighteenth floor of a renovated apartment complex that looked as old as the Field Museum itself. He took the stairs up, three knocks being all it took for the bastard to answer his door.
Thursday smiled as he was let in by the speculating whoreson bitch, hefting his duffle bag on his shoulder. He explained that he, Thursday, was part two of the deal that Mr. World forgot to mention.Â
Once the door was locked, he began his dispatch.
It was so easy to just spin him around and slam his face onto Thursday's knee. The satisfying sensation of a nose crunching upon contact heightened his senses, his berserker rage.
He kicked the director onto the floor, delivering a kick his stomach which brought on the cracking of ribs below his feet. Thursday glanced up for only a moment, eyeing the glass table World mentioned, and a wolfish grin crept across his features. Hauling the scum from the floor, he began to slam the director's face into the clear table until it began to crack and splinter, crimson slipping into it's new fissures. Thursday pulled the pig away from the table, sitting him upright and retrieved a baseball bat from his duffle, grinning as the wood made contact with the side of the director's head and a resounding crack echoing through the unit.
Thursday heard a shrill gasp from behind him and turned to see the bimbo the director brought back from the club. Before she could begin screaming, Thursday had her by the throat, already crushing her vocal chords with ease, and jammed one of his knives into her abdomen. World had given him this knife as a present for their 2,000th year anniversary.
"I dedicate this death to Loke," Thursday hissed under his breath with a grin.
She slumped to the floor, her eyes wide yet unmoving, and Thursday moved past her to the director's bedroom, retrieving the box from under the bed and making his way around the body once again.
He set down the box and hefted up the director, bringing out World's knife and spat the same words to the director as he did to his whore. He hated slitting throats, it was too easy, but he had been there long enough.
Once he climbed back into his car, the rage had quieted within him and Thursday glanced out onto the waters of the lake as he drove down Lake Shore. Storm clouds brewed in the distance, and he wished with fiber of his ungodly being that he could bring them close and hold them to his chest as he did in the days of old.
World was curled up on the couch when he came in and the thump of the box from the director's house woke the trickster.Â
"I'm going to take a shower, you gonna join me?"
