Andre studied the tall, dark, mysterious (ok, no, he was short and round and had both a sweating and a patchy-balding problem, but no one wants to hear that, right?) prisoner hanging before him, and rolled his eyes mightily and with great might. The bad guy (because aren’t all prisoners being tortured supposed to be either villains or bad people or villainous bad people?) was whining as tortured villainous villains are wont to do, blood was dripping all over the place as involuntarily-released blood was wont to do, he (Andre, but I suppose this could apply to the villainous bad guy, too, if you want) was late for his lunch as he was never wont to do, and he still hadn’t learned anything of importance as he…oh, fuck it.
Then he sighed again because sighing was so 2014.
With casual cruelty he doused the writhing short/tall muscular/flabby handsome/not handsome Were with a lightly-scented colloidal silver wash – the one with the blue tint since the pink tint clashed horribly with Were blood – to stop all that pesky, not to mention smelly, bleeding, and instructed his unpaid apprentice – wait, they’re supposed to be called “interns” now, right? – to hose off the floor and that one wall.
Fucking blood splatters.
Fully expecting his orders to be carried out forthwith and without delay, Andre then stalked with purposeful stalkage (all the better to show his tight ass in the best fashion possible) from Dungeon Room #4 (#s 1 and 3 were undergoing renovations and #2 was currently occupied).
Once he reached the upper Dungeon level where the cattle were kept – actual cattle, TYVM, not the human meals on heels (they were kept quarantined near the kitchen, of course) – he stopped by and patted his favorite beauteous benevolent bovine Bessie BoBo Bambina (BBBBBBB for short). She was a sweet old girl, rescued/stolen a couple years ago from an illegal milking and photography operation running impudently in downfuckingdown New fucking Orleans of all fucking places.
The upper Dungeon level was perfect for her, and the donkey, and the goats, and the sheep, and the chickens, and the rather rudely rapaciously randy red raccoon also salvaged and/or rescued in recent years.
No one discussed the squirrels.
The squirrels never happened, got it?
As the Palace was built on what N.O. considered a “hill”, the upper Dungeon level was actually partially above-ground on the one side – no, not that one side, the other one side – so it was easy to let the animals meander around on what used to be a parking lot (but once the asphalt had been removed – ugh, what a muddy mess that had been! – and grass seed had been slovenly and sedately sewn, eventually it turned into a muddy field with a few blades of grass).
Fresh grass was carried in nightly by a troop of vampires he’d personally selected for that task. Their main qualification was that they didn’t run in the direction of away quickly enough. Now they were known as The Grass Wranglers.
Other vampires laughed at them.
Once he finished greeting the old girl affectionately and with affection, Andre continued onward to the kitchen. Normally he had his meals walk on their heels to his quarters, well, not his actual quarters, you understand, more like the quarters where he entertained guests and meals on heels but not the one where he rested his weary head come morning, but it was already half an hour past his feeding time and he didn’t want to risk getting grumpy and/or malnourished, did he?
No, of course not.
Who wanted a grumpy Master Torturer?
No one, that’s who.
Once full, topped off, and burped, Andre strode manfully and with great purpose to The Play Room. The great manful striding also showed off his tight ass to its best angles and/or tightness.
The tight leather pants did, too, but they tended to chaff his inner thighs, and chaffed inner thighs were fun for no man or vampire. Weres didn’t seem to mind it so much, and no one cared enough to ask Fairies what they thought about inner-thigh-chaffing.
Fairies were weird.
They popped in and out a lot and smelled like candy.
Vampires didn’t *eat* candy, so it didn’t matter what the flighty little freaks smelled like no matter who said what, but that popping nonsense was stupid and made him wonder just how big fly swats came.
He might have to commission someone to make some really big fly swats.
Andre bet stupid fairies stupid inner thighs didn’t chaff, either.
Ahhh, his Play Room.
He loved his Play Room.
It was fully equipped with all the latest gadgetry, electronic and otherwise.
As he approached The Red Door – The Red Door that led to The Play Room, not The Red Door that led to The Great Stairwell leading to the top floor of the Palace, and no, not The Red Door that led to his Maker’s The Great Perfumery – the “The” made no sense to him, but then, neither did his Maker – either, he’d have you know – he paused for a long moment.
One should never enter one’s Play Room when one is in the wrong frame of mind, oh no, one mustn’t.
One must show proper and correct respect for one’s Play Room at all times.
Once appropriately in the appropriate frame of appropriate mind, Andre opened the door firmly and purposefully with appropriately firm purpose.
He entered The Play Room and felt all the cares and concerns and stresses of the night simply melt away.
Torturing Weres was harder work than people wanted to admit, but he didn’t blame them. People were dumb.
With a soothing roll of his massive shoulders Andre strode over to the changing room, the room where he, you know, changed from his “outside” clothes into something “more comfortable”.
And just because he managed to keep from getting nasty little blood splatters on his clothes in the Dungeon (the Lower one, you know) didn’t mean he’d be so lucky in The Play Room.
Sometimes accidents *did* happen.
End Act 1
**A/N: So… Love it? Hate it? Want more or did you run away screaming?**