Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Turning back to his prey, he began the necessary clean up. He grabbed the hose and filled some clean buckets with soapy water, so hot it steamed and fogged up glass and mirrors in the room within seconds. Bleach—two bottles’ worth.
Yellow sponges became dark red and heavy as bricks. When he was finished, his muscles were sore and the place was sparkling clean. The Heavy Horses’ ‘Pale Rider’ tantalized his ears as he wrapped up his chores. Now it was time to bag up the prey and sell it while it was still fresh.
He grabbed two thick plastic bags used to haul big construction loads, placed them inside Styrofoam coolers, filled them half-way with ice, and one by one, placed the pieces of meat into each one, nice and compact. He topped them off with more ice, and secured them shut. Soon he was upstairs, in the shower. He lathered his body three times, first with the Lava bar of soap, then finishing with Dove Men’s Care, ‘Fresh,’ soap. He was particularly funny about his hair and beard.
All debris, dirt, blood and mess needed to be cleaned away. He was a messy man when it came to work—but no other time during the day. Not the least bit squeamish, he could stomach most hunts, but the aftermath needed to be wiped away. As if it had never happened. No need to sully up perfectly good spaces. Just a bit of elbow grease was all that was required. Crushed bones and brain matter left behind were inexcusable. Always lick the plate clean.
He heard his phone ringing, but didn’t bother reaching for it. When he was finished, he stepped out of the shower onto a soft, plush rug, then checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Snatching a nearby towel, he ran it over his tattooed arms, hairy chest and long legs, then took care of his back. Naked and cold, he made his way into his massive bedroom, which was decorated sparsely with a couple of well-made nightstands he’d crafted himself, an unassuming king-sized bed covered in white sheets, and a television mounted to the log wall.
As he got dressed in boxer briefs and white wife beater, he watched Orvil, a large moose that lived on his property, saunter by. He never bothered Orvil, and Orvil never bothered him. In fact, he’d feed the beast sometimes, especially during the colder months when food was scarce. He never went after the moose’s family, either. The two had an understanding. In fact, he mainly kept his domestic hunting to prey that was either a threat, or abundant in population.
Kage took a deep inhale. His heart rate had finally slowed, and all was right with the world. This was peace. Solitude.
Though many felt differently about him. Some said he was a recluse. That wasn’t true at all. He enjoyed going out into the world of the living; he simply didn’t wish to live there. He was often called anti-social. There may have been a thread of truth to that. The jury was still out. Maybe it was his preferred audience that was the problem? He enjoyed company just fine, such as precious time that he spent with a falcon he named Rook that lived on his land, and the elusive lynx cat who skulked around, that he’d affectionately named, Persia. Persia had had at least two kitten litters over the past year. When he’d hear the babies crying, he’d lay out food for Persia and watch her grab it and drag it away to her den through the cameras. Persia was a bit skittish, but they had an understanding, too. He respected nature, and nature respected him. Kage owned three acres of land in that glorious wilderness. He woke up every morning to the sounds of birds chirping, water brooks singing, the river flowing, and the sounds of life. Besides, he didn’t want for anything.
When he wanted food, he hunted, fished, drove to the farmer’s market, or went to the grocery store. When he wanted more money, he took on a builder’s job. He had his own company and team, consistent, content customers, and could choose the hours he so desired. He was educated and accredited, with glowing online ratings of his work and employees, and well-trained in construction, carpentry, plumbing and electric work. A real blue collar renaissance handyman. He had more requests for work than he could shake a stick at. When he wanted intimacy, all he had to do was go to a local watering hole, or any place single women migrated to, and walk in the gotdamn door. Somebody’s daughter was coming home with him, and that was that.
His intimidating height was typically the first thing women noticed. His gruff voice came next, sounding richer, darker and older than his forty-three years on the planet, and he was rough, but also deemed handsome and on occasion polite and courteous—when he saw fit to act so. Women usually complimented him on his arctic blue eyes, then his neck-to-foot tattoos, followed by his silky, thick blonde hair, threaded with platinum and silver. He now had this stunning log cabin home, two floors of wooden beauty, thanks to a motherfucker who burnt his garage down that was attached to his prior humble abode. After that unfortunate instance, he decided to scrap the whole damn thing and start from scratch. Besides, he had way more money now—an upgrade was overdue. What more could he ask for?