PRINCELESS by Cam Jace Storykiller
Copyright©by Cameron Jace 2019
Venus Wilde’s Diary Part 1
Monday, Prodigy Nightclub, Berlin
Today I was dressed like a weirdo in black latex, waving glow sticks in the air. Everyone around me danced to a frantic beat. Smoke and mirrors, lights and thunder. Wasted youth, alcohol, and time. The world before me rippled in waves from the heavy bass.
But it wasn’t all music tonight. I was there to kill it—not on the dance floor though.
My target? A couple.
Ain’t that romantic?
Nazi acquaintances of Alan Drax, or Creme Alan Creme, the man I killed weeks ago in Colmar, France.
The couple had been looking for me since then. Assassins, too. Nazi assassins who wanted to put a bullet between my eyes.
I’ve always known the Princeless Organization had its deep roots in history. Five centuries old, I’ve been told, since the day Bluebeard’s French wife killed him and became the first Princeless. I didn't blame her. After all, Bluebeard was documented to be the serial killer of women in history.
Thus, was the beginning of the Organization. I've grown to like the idea, but I needed to know more. Were all those we killed related to history's first serial killer, influenced by him? No one ever told me.
I asked. They said later. I asked again, they said we’ll call you.
Today they did. I was given a piece of the puzzle. Not because they liked me but because it explained why the couple had to be killed.
A keystone in the Princeless achievements was killing Hitler. Unlike common belief, World War II allies didn’t kill the bastard. He escaped and it was the Organization that hunted him down for five years and managed to kill him in Rio de Janeiro where I was born. Recent historian backed up the fact that most Nazis fled with their money to South America, so they were nothing to scoff at the possibility of the greatest evil in history hiding there as well. Besides, his body had never been found–fact.
Hitler, ladies and—perhaps not all gentlemen—was executed by a woman, a Princeless.
It’s not my place to doubt in this diary. It’s just a diary. When I’m not killing people, I use it to kill time. Shit, even in my spare time I kill stuff.
Back to how I did it…
I wasn’t without allies in the club. The Pillar danced next to me, dressed in a rainbow-colored joker suit with his gay friends he just met. This was Berlin. It was its own world, and I really liked it. I could be whoever I wanted to be.
“The next song is a techno masterpiece,” the Pillar shouted in the club. “A nineties song by a band called Faithless.”
“So?” I screamed against the music.
“It has an escalation point where people go crazy. The lyrics goes something like ‘tearing up tits with my teeth.”
“It happens.” I winked.
“Shoot the girl on ‘tits’ and the boy on ‘teeth.’” He shouted, not caring if they even heard him.
I laughed. The Pillar’s ability to find amusement in killing was refreshing.
“I’ll be dancing and making a scene. A fight or something, so you leave the club right after you shoot them,” The Pillar said. “In this dark cloud of smoke and laser beams, no one’s going to notice they’re dead that soon.”
A minute in, I shot the couple on cue. I loved my silencer. Even better that everyone else was shooting water guns nearby.
“Go,” The Pillar said. “Kiss Pierre for me,” He blew me a kiss from his hands and winked, biting his rouge-stained lips and wetting a finger, touched his eyelashes.
Tuesday, Einstein Park, Munich, 2 PM:
Pierre and I walked in the park. We held hands. We said nothing. I enjoyed it.
But then he became my best friend, not a man I liked. He was flying tomorrow to a small town in Southern Germany to check out what might be a replica of the Singing Bone. His obsession alarmed me a little, but then I realized it was his only hobby besides video games.
“So you’re doing the programming thing forever?” I asked. “I mean you strike me as talented and can pursue other careers.”
“It pays the rent,” he said. “My parents are getting older and they can’t work in the bakery anymore. I need the job to help them. My mother, to be honest.”
I nodded in silence. This was a boy who cared so much about his mother while I hated seeing mine.
“Pierre,” I squeezed his hand. “Will you always like me?”
“Why do you keep saying ‘like’?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know I don’t just ‘like you.’”
My left cheek twitched. “I know. My question was what if you discovered something about me you didn’t like?
“Oh,” he stopped. “I understand.”
“I’m coming off too strong. Always putting you on a pedestal. It’s making you uncomfortable. You think I imagine you a princess who has no past is naive and such a good girl. We all have our secrets.”
“It’s comforting hearing it from you.”
“Like I said, I haven’t been with many girls. My parents raised me to think of family,” his mouth curled as if suppressing the words he was about to say. “You’re lucky I didn’t propose yet.”
My eyes widened, but then he nudged me. Thank God he was joking—or?