I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.
~William Shakespeare

 

He knows the apartment well. After all he has been a member of the Organisation for fifteen years. A well serving member, he has always done what the Supreme Master has required of him. His work has been hard, dirty and without a doubt bloody too. He’s thinking of the dangers he’s subjected himself to. All to protect the identity of the chosen few and their secrets. He doesn’t have a name. But the few that know him refers to him, in whispers, as Mr. Nemo. Nemo – the Latin word for Nobody. And Omen in reverse. Because although few people know of his existence, and even fewer could identify him, the mention of his mere name carries prophetic qualities. Mr. Nemo has no designated number within the Organisation or within the Seventh Degree. He is outside the Organisation, yet entirely within.

Ever since he was appointed, he has taken care of the Organisation’s dirty work. He has made sure the few vested with wealth and power got what they wanted, needed and craved. Whether it is sex, drugs, weapons, violence or even snuff, he arranges it all. He remembers the girl he procured for a relation of the Supreme Master. Blonde, petite but with large breasts. They had to be natural. It was a difficult task finding one who fit the bill exactly — especially one whose bounty was the work of God himself. He prayed to God, envisioned the woman that he needed, and one day, as he was taking a stroll with his dog, she was there. He followed her home, and from then on watched where she lived — a derelict house not far from the industrial terrain where he resided himself. It was not a difficult operation, and having served in the Foreign Legion for five years gave him the competitive edge few people had.

As the name implies, he is neither French nor European. He has operated in most warzones from the Congo to Afghanistan, often as a mercenary before he handed in his passport and former identity known to most as Meldrick Reed. Since then, he had been employed in Bosnia and New Guinea before he was discharged under his new identity of Albert Long and disappeared from the face of the earth. Few people, if any, know the name that his only legal passport was issued under, and the few that did have long forgotten it — even when he stood in line for his application, most people didn’t notice him. Far from conspicuous, he looks like any other mixed-breed American. A quarter Italian, a little bit of Irish, some German and a hidden strand of Danish made him almost French. Or British, or even Dutch for that matter. Thus when the thirty-something MILF handed him his passport at a communal services office in Paris, she only remembered to log out of her computer before 5 PM as she had to pick up her children from the crèche. Mr. Nemo walked out into the sunshine, knowing that God protected his luck.

But Mr. Nemo is not thinking of this. Instead his mind turns to that busty blonde he’d raped for hours disguised with a leather mask. Just as the Supreme Master had wanted. He had received the script beforehand, dropped at a deserted building on the industrial terrain. It was also here where the filming took place, this remnant of a failing metal industry, which had received its final death knell in the late 1980s. Occasionally he sees runaway kids using the dilapidated buildings for shelter. But even they have started to dwindle as rumours have it the place is haunted. For kids who have made it their ramshackle home have disappeared under uncertain circumstances, and the police takes little interest in pursuing their whereabouts. Mr. Nemo knows this all too well, and without feeling or remorse he continues his activities when opportunity presents itself.

The industrial properties serve his activities well. Without being ostentatious, the main building is heavily secured by bolt locks, blocked-out windows and camera surveillance. This is where he has set up his studio, complete with cameras covering several angles and props and tools that hang behind a curtain. It is a curtain that, when drawn, seals the fate of the unfortunate victim. As with the busty blonde.

When he was done with her, raping her repeatedly, he set out to work on her. She was tied to a makeshift bed, her wrists and ankles struggling for freedom, but only creating more cuts and bruises. Nothing in comparison to the treatment she was about to receive that ultimately ended her life. He had started with a knife. A small one, with a thin razor-sharp blade. He used it to slice her pale skin, under her feet, tracing the curves of her hips and breast before he plunged it into in her soft belly. Her screams were so vivid, almost excruciating to listen to. But as per the instructions, under no circumstances was she to be muted or blinded. The Supreme Master had been explicit in his request for her eyes to show the fear of death as life ebbed out of her. And she delivered a good show for him. After he’d spent sufficient time with his knife, he continued with a machete, which he used to remove her hands and feet. This served not only an erotic purpose but a most functional one too in his later efforts to dispose of her body. He has used a machete many times before, and is proficient enough in the weapon regarded as the poor man’s rifle in the Congo. In the early 1900s when the country was exploited and violated by the Belgians more ruthlessly than any other African colony, it was a common scene to see old and young alike with their hands removed from a single blow by the mighty machete. Mr. Nemo had a prized photo collection documenting the atrocities. It had been the first picture he had bartered for from a friend whose great-grandfather had been a missionary. It cost him his prized Joe DiMaggio card and a few of the lesser New York Yankees. He felt bad until supper. Then he decided to become a mercenary.

The guest star for the last part of the sadistic rape, torture and murder of the Blonde with Big Tits was a round-bladed chainsaw. She was already falling in and out of consciousness, but with a few slaps and old-fashioned smelling salt she came to her senses just in time to witness him power on the device and start to dissect her in two. Before he did so, he told her a little story, as he always does, for his victims. He enlightened her as to the nature of her death and the historical facts behind it. In this case, he drew inspiration from the Chinese, who were known for their cruelty when executing unwanted elements for the Emperor. One such punishment was waist tearing, or sawing in two across the midriff. Not always a quick death, it eventually leads to shock and loss of blood after minutes, ensuring the victim passes his final breath in unimaginable pain. Emperor Yongle of the Ming dynasty was said to have executed Fang Xiaoru using waist tearing. It is also said that after the midriff had been severed, Fang still crawled on the ground and used blood on his hand to write the word “usurped throne” twelve times before eventually giving in to death.

He told the Blonde with Big Tits this as she stared at him in terror, fully knowing what was awaiting her. She screamed a final, torturous wild cry, like no other sound, before her anguish was obliterated. Her eyes remained open, the pupils dilating until her blue eyes almost took on the colour of black. She was finally at peace, and so was her tormentor. His faithful cameraman wrapped up the filming, after which he was left alone for a few minutes so he could take care of his own needs. When Mr. Nemo returned, he noticed white flecks of sperm over the human carcass as the cameraman pulled up his zipper. He preferred going about the dirty work himself, so the cameraman started to edit the film as Mr. Nemo picked up the remains of the Blonde with Big Tits, dumping them into a barrel of acid. He cleaned up and stayed until the early morning to see the final cut of the film. He was pleased with the work, watching it on his own in the darkness of his living quarters before he made five copies for distribution through the Network.

This is his job, a job which he takes much pride and satisfaction in. But it is a lonely one. He has no friends and his only human interactions come from the few trusted members he works with, his Supreme Master and his victims. In all honesty the closest intimacy comes from the latter and, if it weren’t for them, his life would probably have little meaning or value.

He is now back in his living quarters. The apartment on 160 Rue de l’Université had turned up empty. He should have known they would take the escape route that connected with the theatre, but they locked it well and he was forced to work his way back and leave through another secret exit which took him to the house on the other side. It gave them enough time to disappear. He knows it was the Seneschal who had been there, with an unidentified woman. As all names in the Organisation and the Network are strictly confidential, everyone goes by a codename. But the Seneschal had been seen a number of times, and finding his real identity and where he lives would not be difficult. Not for him anyways. He already knows his first name is Cyril.

Mr. Nemo is now certain the Seneschal is behind the disappearance of the jewellery. It is a place he had been requested to use by the Supreme Master. Also the place where the heads were to be interred. He often wonders if the Supreme Master ever uses that place himself. Reliving the events that had taken place at Chateau Vert. If he does, he hasn’t noticed, as he always finds the underground cove exactly the way he left it. Clean and undisturbed. That was, until two weeks ago when the jewellery box went missing. He looked for evidence of disturbance of the tomb that contains the remains of seven mummified heads, but could find none. He will need to discuss this with the Supreme Master as, for once in his life, he finds himself in uncharted waters.