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And before the supplier could withdraw his grubby fingers from the bag, Marcus jammed the blade through the back of his hand and the plastic. And then there was the bleeding and the screaming and the squirming. Marcus left the mess for his staff; he didn't do 'clean up'.
He did not get off on hurting mortals- well, not on the pain itself, but sometimes it entertained him. That put him in a good mood. As he stepped out of his office and into the showroom where the music drowned out the screams of his would-be supplier, he scanned the satellite stages for her. Paige Udinov was the best dancer he had, one of his top earners every night she performed, and he never grew bored of watching her. He liked her. She mesmerized him when she was on stage and when she wasn't, she reminded him of someone he used to know.
But it was years ago, back when he was still a god. He found her on the wrap-around island stage in the middle of the club and walked a crescent around the eager men (sometimes it was men and women) all but salivating at the sight of her. He only looked away from her once he reached the bouncer, who unhooked the 'VIP' stanchion rope for him. He took the last unused chair in her VIP section, sitting down next to the stage to watch her finish. And once she did, he unrolled a fifty dollar bill from the clip in his back pocket and held it up for her attention (and to signal to her customers that she was going to be busy - with him). "I have a business proposition for you," he said to her in greeting.
"You know it turns me on when you extort me for money," among other things. She always turned him on and if he'd cared to explore why that was (he lost interest within weeks, if not days, most of the time), he would have looked into it further. But he was more intrigued than annoyed by his own fixation, so he let it go (instead of letting her go).
Before he could continue - less flirting, more getting to the point - the waitress reappeared with two shots of whiskey. They were both for him (he'd developed a taste for Jameson) but he slid one across the table to her. "Do you drink whiskey?" he realized he didn't know, and he was making conversation until the waitress was out of earshot again. "This is not about you giving a private show to my... partners, greasy-haired or not," only one of them that he could recall had that specific hygiene issue, but it did annoy him to see his associates mistake Paige for something she was not. She was not a prostitute, this was not a brothel, and even if she was it would still be her choice. "Although I might want one later," but not until security removed the supplier from his office.
"I've come into some new product," he'd decided to keep the pound of coke, and sell it for the marked up price. He knew it wasn't "pure" but most addicts didn't (or they didn't give a shit), "Marketing it to professionals," lawyers, doctors, the ones with something to lose, and most of the people who worked for him couldn't handle that (amateurs, you know, not nearly as charismatic - and with none of her untapped potential), "I think you could sell it for me in a month, and you'd be making twice what you make in a month here. You have my word." And he supposed there was a risk in owning up to - even obliquely - his side business, but he was not concerned about Paige. She was clever; she had to know that most of his income was not related to the club. "Are you interested?" he asked her, "I would make it worth your while."