and Los Angeles counties-the area that so many chamber of commerce types
liked to call the Southland-that were the real thing. Many of the
others catered to people who wanted to play at the lifestyle the same
way some dentists and accountants liked to put on hand-tooled boots,
faded jeans, checkered shirts, and ten-gallon hats to go to a
country-and-western bar and pretend they were cowboys. At Rip It, there
was no pretense in anyone’s eyes, and everyone you encountered met you
with a challenging stare, trying to decide whether they wanted sex or
violence from you and whether you were likely to give them either. If
it was an either-or situation, many of them would have chosen violence
over sex.
A few were looking for something that transcended violence and sex,
without a clear idea of what it might be. Vassago could have shown them
precisely that for which they were searching.
The problem was, he did not at first see anyone who appealed to him
sufficiently to consider an addition to his collection. He was not a
crude killer, piling up bodies for the sake of piling them up.
Quantity had no appeal to him; he was more interested in quality. A
connoisseur of death.
If he could earn his way back into Hell, he would have to do so with an
exceptional offering, a collection that was superior in both its overall
composition and in the character of each of its components.
He had made a previous acquisition at Rip It three months ago, a girl
who insisted her name was Neon. In his car, when he tried to knock her
unconscious, one blow didn’t do the job, and she fought back with a
ferocity that was exhilarating. Even later, in the bottom floor of the
funhouse, when she regained consciousness, she resisted fiercely, though
bound at wrists and ankles. She squirmed and thrashed, biting him until
he repeatedly bashed her skull against the concrete floor.
Now, just as he finished his beer, he saw another woman who reminded him
of Neon. Physically they were far different, but spiritually they were
the same: hard cases, angry for reasons they didn’t always understand
themselves, worldly beyond their years, with all the potential violence
of tigresses. Neon had been five-four, brunette, with a dusky
complexion.
This one was a blonde in her early twenties, about five-seven. Lean and
rangy. Riveting eyes the same shade of blue as a pure gas flame, yet
icy.
She was wearing a ragged black denim jacket over a tight black sweater,
a short black skirt, and boots.
In an age when attitude was admired more than intelligence, she knew how
to carry herself for the maximum impact. She moved with her shoulders
back and her head lifted almost haughtily. Her self-possession was as
intimidating as spiked armor. Although every man in the room looked at
her in a way that said he wanted her, none of them dared to come on to
her, for she appeared to be able to emasculate with a single word or
look.
Her powerful sexuality, however, was what made her of interest to
Vassago. Men would always be drawn to her-he noticed that those
flanking him at the bar were watching her even now-and some would not be
intimidated. She possessed a savage vitality that made even Neon seem
timid. When her defenses were penetrated, she would be lubricious and
disgustingly fertile, soon fat with new life, a wild but fruitful brood
mare.
He decided that she had two great weaknesses. The first was her clear
conviction that she was superior to everyone she met and was, therefore,
untouchable and safe, the same conviction that had made it possible for
royalty, in more innocent times, to walk among commoners in complete
confidence that everyone they passed would draw back respectfully or
drop to their knees in awe. The second weakness was her extreme anger,
which she stored in such quantity that Vassago seemed to be able to see
it crackling off her smooth pale skin, like an overcharge of
electricity.
He wondered how he might arrange her death to best symbolize her flaws.
Soon he had a couple of good ideas.