The Croupiers Vintage

 

I stand stoic and ready,

unashamed or moved by Valkyrie’s command,

She set her cards at play,

the demise of discerned brethren, to be mortally harmed.

 

I do as instructed,

unwavering in grotesque purpose,

Dialing up my spirited friend,

my voice highly insistent.

 

He arrives by car at location given,

Reeking of apricot brandy,

I demand not to be driven,

I guide him inside to turn him into Chianti.

 

He stumbles at my behest,

The stairs his worst enemy,

Footing not best

Unaware of impending calamity.

 

Inquiries are introduced,

At sight of ancient wine press,

My intended victim seduced,

Ignorant at soon being put to rest.

 

I entice him closer,

Dear friend of old,

‘Never fear of getting sober,

Wine favors the bold’.

 

Shuffling on to impending doom,

His bright red face,

Soon to be utterly removed,

Welcome to his final resting place.

 

Where grapes be crushed,

His head peeks in,

A turn of the crank,

Murder is my mortal sin.

 

Slowly I churn,

His body goes numb,

For out of his ears,

Spurts the remainder of cranium.

 

Body convulses in surprising throes,

My dear friend Chris,

Out the press’s tap,

Your tainted blood flows.

 

My task now complete,

A friend extinguished,

I shall now greet,

Valkyrie with her contestant.

 

As chunks of jellied cerebrum,

Coat my bloodied hands,

Dearest Valkyrie,

Give up your brotherly cherub.

 

For it’s the angelic Jon,

You shall terminate,

Completely sever his throat,

With crimson hues he shall be innate.

 

Your choice of weapon creative must be,

A rusty instrument will work quite well,

Perhaps a farmer’s sickle,

Send the angelic boy to hell.