Aggressive Pillow Talk

    Vance was euphoric. He had graduated from Merlin’s Wizard Academy with the highest grades of any student in the Academy’s prestigious history. The son of a wealthy noble, he would have to travel hundreds of miles to find someone who didn’t know his name. He was the pride of many and the envy of others. The most envious, of course, was the Academy’s second greatest student, Bilderby.

    Vance chuckled to himself as he imagined Bilderby’s rage over finishing second yet again. Try as Bilderby might, he was never as popular, wealthy, or as successful. Vance loved to remind him of this at every opportunity.

    “Well, handsome, are you ready?” asked a woman from Vance’s canopy bed. Vance appraised the courtesan: she had an elf’s vibrant green eyes, yet her healthy curves suggested mixed heritage. Her hair was raven black, her skin dark olive, and her minimal silk clothing close to falling off.

    “Absolutely,” said Vance with a lustful grin. “My friends spared no expense, did they?”

    The courtesan laughed delightfully. She coyly sat up and held an embroidered violet pillow in front of her bare stomach, teasing him with a false hint of modesty. She leaned over the pillow, proudly displaying her ample cleavage.

    The wizard could take it no longer. He hastily removed his robe and wizard hat.

    “Prepare yourself, doxy!” He charged the woman with outstretched arms.

    Whap!

    Vance fell to his knees, certain that several ribs had been broken in one blow. The prostitute stood above him, pillow in hand. Gone was her charming smile, replaced by a mask of contempt.

    Vance’s eyes watered from the pain. “Why?”

    “Bilderby sends his regards.”

    Vance winced as the assassin raised the pillow above her head. She stepped as she swung downward, crashing the pillow into Vance’s head.

    The impact fractured his skull, which consequently broke into pieces and pierced his brain. As the pillow continued its trajectory, Vance’s soft brain was smashed to bits. The pillow’s lower arc tugged at Vance’s open neck hole, pulling his body to the floor.

    The dirty deed done, the whore spat on Vance’s corpse and tossed away the bloody pillow.

    Vance’s ghostly jaw dropped as his killer sauntered out of the room. He looked to his corpse, to the door, and then back to his corpse. A loud pop! rang out as his eyes ejected themselves from their sockets and rolled away somewhere under the bed. The chunky remains of Vance’s smashed head resembled one of his chef’s culinary experiments.

    “Dad was right,” he muttered. “I should have been a fighter.”