Malady hummed along to a Doris Day song, covered by an Italian death metal band. The female lead crooned 'Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered' sweetly, sincerely, but the savagery of the guitars was a lie.
"Shoulda played some deadmau5 love. I can always tell liars," she told the man strapped to the table, the struggling man, the mexican-jumping bean man.
She took the sharpened ice scream scoop out of its barbacide jar, and ran it under the tap.
"There's just a slight breaking in their voice, or a little inconsistency in what they do. Its especially strange because most of the time, liars aren't making any obvious mistakes. Everything is by the book..."
She placed the scoop's sharpest edge against the man's right eye, and began to adjust. The wrist would do most of the work. The man was doing the machine gun, rat-tat-a-tat kind of pleading. The kind where the body and mind think that if they say "no" enough times then the problem will go away.
Maladay copied him for a moment, turning the staccato "no's" into a little tune until she crescendoed with a shriek that echoed through the halls and through the bones.
The man's pleading was silenced by shock, and terror of the broad smile splitting Malady's face.
Some people love it when their little babies discover themselves in the mirror. Other people love other things: like the fear that only the soul can show on a mortals face when it knows that even the cop-out of death may not save it. Malady loved other things.
Malady looked down at her man, keeping the smile, keeping her eyes locked on his as she bent lower. She commanded her Cytes to grow one of her french manicured nails into a long claw, and brushed the man's lower lip with it, painting a thin line of shiny red blood on it.
"Wasn't that fun, honey?"
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