The death of Junior was spoken throughout the casino, the particular details lost in the game of telephone, but the gist of it very much real and true: Thomas Wolfe Jr. had died at the very height of the casino, his body opened like a pig and his head bashed in.

Needless to say, the party was spoiled. That was only the beginning of the ruin of the Wolfe. For now, standing in front of the two large silver doors with the carved and frilly design, stood Aenea in front of a crowd of about fifteen. Fifteen workers, who stood with their black and white suits and with their anthropomorphic masks in their hands, berated Aenea.

Bombarded her with questions. A shell shock of angry, bitter, resentment of what had happened. Resentment, shock, disgust.

"Who killed Junior?" One such worker said, a card dealer with edgy eyes and greasy slicked hair.

"When did it happen?" Another.

"Are we safe?"

"I want to quit."

One after another. And her, standing in front of the very doors to the very corpse. There was a thin line of white tape and some tarps put over the blood stains. Wet floor signs were used to stop anyone from approaching, like little yellow blockades. That didn’t stop people. They simply walked over it, in resentment. For this was the second murder, and after Thomas Wolfe, they (the casino workers) could no longer hold their fears.

Because, as she realized quickly, they were also dealing with the fallout of a LaVerne. Some poor girl gone missing. And it was all coming down on them, a harbored animosity and fear.

"We'll have a public announcement tomorrow. Please just go back home, alright? You're free to leave." She said, her palms extended out for the rising crowd. She was standing on a raised plank, most of the workers were on the stairs opposite of her, in a circular form, like a crescent moon had been cast out in front of her.

Their faces looked fierce, tense, somber. Sad eyes, thin-lipped, wooden-faced men and women. They were all wrinkled, as if they had aged ten or twenty years from the very stress of being around the blockaded room.

"I'm calling the police." One person said.

"No!" She screamed. A silence came across them all. She walked in between the circular crowd, to the person who had said it, who had her phone out. Aenea yanked it and hung up. Her eyes shook, and she threw the phone onto the floor.

"We already have private investigators on the situation." She said in a voice quiet and hostile.

"There is a body in this casino. We need to inform the police. It probably has something to do with the gas-station killer."

“Or with the Old Man (Thomas Wolfe Sr.)”

"We don’t know and I’m not paying to speculate.”

“You’re not paying us nearly enough to tolerate this shit.” Someone threw their mask on the floor. “This casino’s gone to shit. I’m not surprised someone died in all the hurrah of today's mess. Do you know insane people have been acting in the party? Violent and uneasy.”

Another continued.

“I’ve seen it too, some of the servers were harassed. Seen a girl nearly raped in the damn broom closet. By God.”

“None of this would fly if The Old Man was around.” It was the older bartender again. The rest of the workers shook their head in agreement. “And I can assure you, we wouldn’t have a murder to clean up either.”

No response could satisfy them, really, and really, she had no response that could satisfy her. What words would or could be said?

They were all silent, Aenea staring down at them from the top of the steps. They took one hard look behind her, to the tape and the tarps and the bits of dried blood like autumn leaves on the ivory tiles. One walked in front of the pack, towards Aenea. She threw her name tag onto the floor.

"I'm quitting."

The first of many.

Like a trail of gasoline to a stronghold of TNT. It set off the reaction, one after another, throwing their name tags onto the floor.

“I refuse to work in such a sordid place.” The bartender said.

Another, chef perhaps, for his arms were hardened and cut and burned and calloused.

“And you ain’t got your head right if you think I’ll let myself work in a god damn murder factory, little girl.” He said. “Forget those two weeks, I ain’t working one hot minute.”

And her, standing there, with her eyes closed, clutching her arm (because they hurt. They hurt?) and her eyes falling onto the floor and her mouth strained into a forced frown.

"Somethings wrong in this place, girl. There’s a devilment here that is going to tear you apart. If only Thomas were still alive…" One said with a voice that sounded ubiquitous amongst the crowd for they all nodded in agreement.

"Thomas was a great man. He always had things under control."

And her arm kept hurting the more she heard it. She winced now, holding her arm at the elbow, winced as she felt the blood trickle down her fingers. She looked at it with strained eyes, to something nasty growing on her arm, something that carved into her. Her coat was soaked with blood, she held her arm behind her back. And they would not shut up. Not one bit.

"Why, I don't think anything bad happened under Thomas -"

"Get the fuck out of here!" She screamed, her face looking down to the people who looked back with renewed anger.

“He’s dead and if you don’t like it, get the fuck out!”

They stood for a moment, but looking at her, at her sweating face and her reddened cheeks and the blood trickling down her arms, they felt a wave of fear. Eventually, they obliged and stepped out. They took the elevator down in groups, and before they could even leave the building, she had already begun to hear the phone calls through the casino intercoms. Phone calls regarding a mass exodus, dozens upon dozens of resignations. And she knew they would continue, she knew, and she fell on her knees, the phone dangling by the side of the wall. She sat on the tarp, holding her arm.

"Why?" She said and slowly fell on her ass onto the floor. Her head leaned forward and dug into her raised thighs. She felt like a child again as she cried into her legs, cradling herself left and right.

"Why?" Like mantra. "Why?"

♣

It had been a tiring night for Richter, one he was glad to finally see come to its natural conclusion. He walked through the hall of the party, now empty and echoing of shuffling feet. His clothes were, admittedly dapper and clean. He wore no mask save for the small band of cloth wrapped around his eyes, and he led himself, with his cane, into an elevator and feeling the buttons, to the floor of his room.

“All good works is tiring,” He stretched his shoulders and his neck.

Murder was always exhausting on him. On the spirit, on the body. And Junior, grown man as he was, was a hardier person than usual. A thick skull had made him difficult to hurt.

But neither the difficulty nor the nature of the killing seemed to inspire guilt into him. For guilt only appeared to those who could not coordinate both nature and moral will, of which Richter was confident, he had done. For he believed, emphatically, that he had done right.

Perhaps he did. As everyone knew, Junior was a daft boy unfit for any rule.

He walked casually to his room, casually to the door and opening it, casually to his bedroom. A small drawer lay on its side, open and stuffed with small flowers and a piece of pink cloth. There were candles, a picture of Jesus Christ, and a chipped-cross who was uneven in weight and length from one side.

He reached into his pocket to a small chained necklace and the strange rune that made up the circular piece of metal. Gold colored, with an odd curve to it, and a peculiar name in Hebrew perhaps whose archaic gave it a sense (even to the touch) of something esoteric and wrong, something that ought to have been lost in time but by sheer will of its horribleness, had survived. He felt the necklace, almost crushed it, and stuffed it into the drawer and snuffed out the candles. The smoke wrapped around him and up, to the walls. He laid on his knees in front of this wall, staring at it.

Nothing around him was of any particular interest. He had no furniture but the drawer. And no bed, but a small mat on the floor.

He was reclused into his room and took off his clothes for bed. It would be a tiring tomorrow, as it had been tonight. So he was quick about it, to quickly go to bed.

He worked his coat and shirt and tie off. Shoes put neatly on his side, pants tucked into the corner. The bloody gloves in his pockets came out last. Those would have to be burned tomorrow.

He laid his cane down, horizontal and adjacent to him as he sat down on his futon bed. The ceiling fan moved slowly, the wind pulsed and hit him on even intervals and produced a noise he could only describe as, harmonic.

He took off his cloth wrap and let his eyes breath, they were white and empty of all visage. And he laid there in rest with his arm raised above him.

“It’s started.” He said. The mark of the beast had begun to cut its way into his arm, bleeding him and leaving it burned and exposed. His body, specifically his right arm, eviscerated upon. His flesh was pried open by an invisible force it seemed, and whatever strange design was writing itself upon him, he could only feel and hurt. So he rested there, with his sigil-tattoo, stroking it with two small fingers like unholy Braille.

Above him, in black paint, the symbol was there.

A pentagram with an infinity symbol, like two snakes eating themselves, wrapping around and entwined with the pentagram. Around it, a ring, and the words Mammon. Once in English, once in Hebrew.

He sat there, letting the pain wash over him, for it was penance and reward and the thing he loved and the thing he hated. His back against the rough floor, his scalp hurting and his hair pulled back.

He laid in false-sleep, with tired eyelids and tired thoughts, without hope for sleep or sedation. He laid awake, perhaps in prayer, asking; “What’s there to do next?”

And the voice came to him, a minutes later, scratchy and rugged; “The Matriarch first.”

It came from his drawer.