Sopa de Sangre Falsa 

The house, at first glance, didn’t look to be the abode of a killer; the innocent whitewash brick accompanied by a vast array of exotic plants. It more seemed to be that of an avid gardener. But once one looked closer, something sinister came into light.

Mr. Black stood there, essentially amazed at the massacre that lay before him. His hands, soaked red. He donned the apron once more inevitably doing the one thing he had always hated. The instrument came down onto the vessel with raw tonnage, making its demise quick and painless.

“Three down, seven to go” Mr. Black thought in his head.

As Black continued with the execution of the vessels of red liquid,  he counted down, making the process much more tolerable. His apron’s pigment getting further away from its original colour as he did. He was bad at it, his blunt masculine strength. The job needed something subtle, soft. Black thought that his wife should have been the more suitable choice.

Mr. Black didn’t consider himself to be a killer. He found the term demeaning. Labelling. With the last vessel, he struck down hard and fast. It exploded upon impact, spraying Mr. Black's face with the red liquid that was encased inside. He sighed, once again raising his arm to cleanse his face from the liquid, what was left after he had wiped. He licked himself clean. It was labouring,  a workout for his slavering hands. The massacre that lay before him, was not something he was proud of. Not something that gave him pleasure. It was business. It had to be done.

Making tomato soup was harder to make than he remembered. It was definitely, not in his best interests.

THE END