cherry bomb. -slow updates-

EXORDIUM

                  
"make it look pretty,
but train it to kill."
--Allin KHG

            THE GANG OF girls move swiftly through the night, their footsteps mere whispers upon the broken asphalt, their bodies shrouded in emerald cloaks.

            The destination of interest is that of a looming brick mansion with ivy covered walls and tall, shimmering windows. The entrance is awash with dolled up guests arriving to the party to end all parties; sleek black cars and flashes of pure white light cover the scene, but everything—and everyone—stops with the gang's arrival. One by one, they all march inside the mansion, batting their thick eyelashes.

            It's a goldmine, to say the least.

            Row upon row of crystal chandeliers hang above them on a ceiling that depicts nude angels carrying harps, floating through the silver outline of clouds. The red carpet beneath their high-heels is plush and muting; the girls practically walk on air as they make their way, in a single file line, towards the grand stairs that lead up to the party.

            Sasha, the leader—a tall southern woman with olive skin and messy black hair—lowers the hood of her cloak and unclasps the hook in front, letting it slide from her shoulders. She folds it neatly on her arm as she ascends. Her slinky red dress is bedazzled to the max, catching the light (as well as the men's attention), made to match her cherry red lips. She smirks to herself, absently feeling the twin set of daggers stashed away in her thigh high stockings.

            The others all follow her lead, removing their cloaks and shoving them into the hands of nearby staff, revealing low-cut party dresses and killer smiles. Their glossy hair bounces along with every step.

            Oh, there would be blood.

            Flukes of champagne are thrusted in their pretty faces, other (less attractive) faces begging for their acknowledgement. But the girls are on a mission. The real party was past the grinding of inebriated adults, through an archway covered in hanging diamonds, and into a dim vestibule.

            It's almost too easy. . .

            The grand double doors that await them are pushed open with a notable whoosh. More chandeliers—Sasha rolls her eyes—and thick maroon tapestries drape the walls. A large canopy bed swings directly across the room, and on it, their target.

            Way too easy.

            "Babydoll," Sasha orders of a short black woman in a white gown. "Do the honors?"

            'Babydoll' grins devilishly and turns on her heel. She glares into the poorly lit hallway they just came from and pulled the doors shut much harder than she needed to. The bolt clicks eerily in the silence that follows.

            The man waiting on the bed stands, grinning too, but for far different reasons. He's not scared yet. And for what reason should he be? He only knew of the five attractive women standing in the room with him, throwing him smiles that could end wars. Of course he wasn't scared.

            "Who can I thank for the honor of you gorgeous ladies joining me tonight?"

            He scans each of their faces. A girl, much too young, with cascading purple hair; the dark-complected one, looking nearly angelic in her white dress; another, wearing pigtails and a smirk; the presumed leader, with the gossamer eyes and cherry lips; And a fifth, who he recognized but could not place a name to her round, ageless face. . .

            "You can thank Bee," says Sasha.

            The man furrows his brow. He's conventionally handsome, the whole nine yards, really—chestnut brown hair, thick brows, sharp cheekbones, dark brooding eyes—and it would be a shame. To kill him, that is. Sasha sure hated a waste in attractive men. But he did this to himself, after all.

            The girl he had been unsure about before steps forward, further into the light, and lets her hair down from its bun. Thick black curls frame her face and the gray of her eyes intensifies. Bee was something short of a sadist; as the man's eyes clouded in recognition and a generous mix of fear and confusion willed him backwards, she smirked and followed his stumbling gait towards the bed. He collapsed on the chest in front of it, his hands shielding his face from the impending chaos.

            The other girls stood like guards at the door. Their weapons appear with the blink of an eye—daggers, a bow and quiver, a barbed baseball bat. . .

Bee takes her time with teasing him; she plants a foot near his head, her razor sharp heels digging into the leather trunk he cowered on, and she absolutely marvels in it. She trails a scarlet fingernail up the length of her leg, leaving a river of red in her wake, before she extracts the knife pinned to her thigh.

            "Do you have any last words?" She asks him, drawing a bead of obsidian blood from her finger with the blade. She showed it to him, like it was a manifestation of her life—she was here and seeking revenge.

            A loose string of curses left his lips.

            "That's a strange choice, never heard that before killin' somebody," says Bee. "But to each their own, I suppose."

Her last word is drowned by his screams as she violently swings her arm through the air, drawing the blade across his face. It leaves a diagonal wound, oozing and angry, like that of a thin, red snake.

            At the back, Sasha cocks her head to the side, her dark eyes trailing to the massive doors behind them. Although she was sure Babydoll had bolted it, there was no telling when someone would come snooping. Screams attract people like a flame does a moth, after all.

            "Bee, baby. . ." She scolded in that sweet southern voice. "Let's not play with our food, sweetheart."

            Bee smiles as the man tries to push her away, his bloody hands gripping her thighs.

            "Yes, ma'am."

            And her knife plunges hilt-deep into his throat.