Excess. Oh, how he would so love to absolutley drown himself in excess. He lay sprawled across his usual wingback leather chair, golden hair falling in toussled ripples around his face, shoulders, and over the arm of the chair. He wore his usual: tight fitting black pants of some unidentifyable material, and an open white shirt. Said shirt revealed much more than a pale chest, for example, it practically showcased a pink, faded scar from a once vicious battle. Anton ran his fingers over the mark, nearly shuddering at the memory of the pain. It had been so utterly intense, so real. The haze of normalcy that clung to his life like a dastardly cloak had been lifted, and things had seemed so much clearer...

Anton's eyes slit open as the door to his personal chamber vibrated with a resounding knock. There was only one Ishak with that insistency and strength. Itzcoatl. Just the perfect man to see in times of pain-craving bliss. Well, and utter annoyance with the prime minister of Russia. Blue grey met black as Anton nodded the handsome sadist into a chair across from him.

"Tell me, Itzcoatl. How are you?"

Itzcoatl sucked the last bit of blood from his fingers as he entered the crypt, jumping off the last step on the inside. His buckled combat boots made a sharp sound that resounded through the hollow stone structure, and he reckoned he could feel the very ground vibrate. A smirk slinked across his face, as he pulled his two forefingers of the left hand out of his mouth with a soft popping sound. Even now, those dark eyes of his glittered maliciously, and the smirk just added to his overall message.

‘I’m fucked up, and I like it that way.’

And it was quite true. Anyone who found out about his little encounter with a small, lonely fourteen year old girl only minutes before would attest to this fact. Young girls… Only the blood of warriors could match the appeal, and even then, it was hard pressed, especially in this day an age. Men were ingrates; weaklings who preferred to watch violence on television than go out and… mm… taste it. The little girls though… the girls still tasted the same, like fresh strawberries, still ripe with morning’s dew.

One would be hard pressed to describe Itzcoatl’s walk, but… One could certainly liken it to a leopard, stalking through the trees with ferocity and beauty that no other animal could match. This was the walk he walked now; the walk of a hunter. He passed another Ishak member, a woman, and looked at her as he passed, taking in her scent. For all the arrogance she must’ve contained in that lovely, frail little body of hers, she kept her gaze on the floor, and walked faster.

Itzcoatl grinned.

Coming to Anton’s door, he thudded on it, and walked in before waiting for an answer. Pulling a package of cigarettes from his pocket, he lit one, inhaled, and exhaled purposefully slow. He nodded at his leader, before slouching down into the chair in front of Anton Vladmir.

Like Anton, various scars dotted his chest. Also like Anton, he’d enjoyed them. The fact that they were usually plainly visible with those button down shirts that he wore (where the buttons rarely reached higher than his bosom) was tribute to the fact that he took some sick pleasure in them still.

Still grinning, Itzcoatl gave a shrug that meant nothing and everything. “Just fed on a fourteen year old delicacy. So ripe and beautiful… I can’t complain.” He took another drag.

Anton smiled passivley, and reached deep into his pants pocket. After removing a sledge hammer, tractor, australian razor cat, air horn and golf club, he came to his intended object. A small, wallet-sized picture, crumpled from numerous foldings, rested in his hand. He surveyed the face staring back at him, nodding. And suddenly, his face took on the expression of a child on Christmas morning, delighted that they had recieved just the gift they had longed for. The Ishak leader gave a small flick of his wrist, and sent the photograph spiraling into Itzcoatl's lap.

"It's the prime minister of Russia, Darling." Anton spoke evenly, seductivley, as if he had presented Itzcoatl with a gift. In a way, he had. "He's upset me as of late. You wouldn't mind...having a word with him, hm?"

Heavy matter off of his mind, Anton had real time to search his 'enforcer' over. Itzcoatl was such the perfect compliment to Anton, such the perfect opposite. A sadist and a masochist. A minimalist and a libertine. Ebon hair and golden hair. Anton smirked at the contrast. He slid his hand up his torso, slowly hissing in pleasure. Such displays were not so uncommon with the Ishak leader. But he had his own set of plans for seducing Itzcoatl.

Itzcoatl’s dark eyes watched the picture emerge from Anton’s pocket, and come sailing to him in an instance. Seconds before the photo fell onto his black clad legs, he caught it between two nimble fingers. He brought it up to his face, the smoke that came from his mouth billowing around the piece of paper.

The grin on his face slowly faded back into that arrogant, dangerous smirk of his, and those eyes glittered in amusement. The man in the photograph looked like he’d never done a day of exercise in his life, and for that, Iztcoatl laughed out loud. It was a deep, rich laugh that nevertheless made one feel as though bits of glass were being shoved deep into their flesh. One darkened hand ran through even darker hair, and the man leaned even harder back into the chair, smoke billowing around him in unfathomable shapes that only added to his dangerous allure.

“Had a disagreement, did we?” asked Itzcoatl, raising an eyebrow. He gave a curt nod. “Sure, I’ll take care of it. Mr Prime Minister won’t know what hit him.” There was a flash of fang. “I wonder how long it’ll take the authorities to find what’s left of him.”

Putting the picture on a pocket inside his shirt, he took one last long drag from the cigarette before flicking it out with his fingers. He’d watched Anton pull this little stint before, but never with him. He was rather curious to see how it turned out.

Anton lolled his head back, and sighed. A hint of boredom and something else – maybe longing – tinted his exhaling breath. It was all a game, such a delicate, insubstantial game. A pun here, a subtle touch there – such was seduction. But not with Itzcoatl. The dark haired executioner was so stark, so violent – perfect. He required no romancing, and Anton was glad of it. Such simplicity was almost weightless.

By that time, Anton was practically aching for punishment, for pain, for anything. He longed to commit the sin of touch. To be – ruthlessly and cruelly – screwed senseless. But it was...not to be.

As usual.

Anton waved him out of the room, turning his back to him.

"Go."