The Snow Queen Chapter 4

The hallucinations induced by the illness persisted for days. I stared blankly at them for a while before preparing food. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had eaten. Dealing with customers had become unbearable.

It was torturous, but I decided to accept reality. Even if I was wasting away from illness, my stomach still cried out for food. I didn’t want to die like this. So, I ate. I had to. Let’s just deal with the pain in front of me for now.

The meal was delicious. Terribly so.

As I filled my stomach, I gained some courage. My mind also cleared up.

Was it all just a problem of the mind…?

I chuckled bitterly.

I went out for a daytime stroll for the first time in a while. 42nd Street remained unchanged. The smell of decaying garbage pierced my nostrils. People hurriedly walked by on the street. Men cast red-eyed glances around. Prostitutes with garish makeup grabbed arms indiscriminately. In a corner, an old woman laughed, saying, “I’ll suck you with my sweet gums.” I tightened my coat hood and quickened my pace.

After a long time, I opened the used bookstore that had been closed. The interior was permeated with the smell of old paper. I turned on the heater and opened the windows wide to let in fresh air. I hung my coat on the chair.

I shouldn’t do this anymore.

About a twenty-minute walk down the alley where my bookstore was located, “Snow White” appeared. I vowed never to go there again, no matter how agonizing it got. I wouldn’t mingle with unknown men anymore. After all, my nerves had been worn out.

Snow White.

A chill ran through my whole body. Why did it have to be that name? One night, tormented by illness, I ran out of the house as if fleeing. I walked down the street and entered anywhere that caught my eye. Did I even have the leisure to read signs back then?

I couldn’t remember. The moment I entered, I realized it was a gay bar, and all that remained was the confusion I felt when I realized it.

That day, I sat somewhere and spent time, then headed to a hotel with the men across from me. It was an impulsive act in a daze. It was an action I couldn’t even imagine as someone who usually avoided even talking to neighbors. But that day, after having relations with the men, I could sleep comfortably for a few days. It was a rare sweet slumber.

From then on, whenever the illness came, I always rushed to Snow White. I felt pathetic equating sex with medication, but I couldn’t help it. But soon, even that shattered.

I knew from the beginning. The illness couldn’t be cured with sex. The rest provided by sex was just a coincidence.

But from now on, things would be different. I bit my lip as I meticulously cleaned the shop.

“Anyway, let’s see how far we can go until then.”

Unnamed.

I’ve given this bizarre illness, which I’ve suffered from since childhood, a name like this. No name, unnamed.

I often referred to the unnamed as the “illness.” In fact, it wasn’t a disease. But the suffering and symptoms it brought were no less severe than a terminal illness. So, I think it’s an appropriate expression.

It’s similar to the riddle of the Sphinx. Strange symptoms with no official name or cure. A bizarre condition that scholars hesitate to tackle.

The most peculiar aspect of this disease is that it is born with “bacteria” regardless of genetics or infection. Similar to Siamese twins.

I wasn’t the only one suffering from the unnamed. Not everyone who suffered from the unnamed was trapped in severe pain. The characteristics of the bacteria varied. The symptoms of the patients were also diverse. Some lost consciousness or turned into raving lunatics, while others lived peacefully without any problems. Occasionally, there were those who enjoyed their symptoms. A kind of coexistence, if you will. They maintained separate lives regardless of whether the bacteria were rampant or not.

But the characteristics of the bacteria I possessed were the worst.

I had always thought something was strange since I was a child. I don’t remember clearly when I realized the illness distinctly. The most serious period was from the age of twelve to seventeen. During that time, I collapsed from a heart attack. The illness consumed my mind and my body. Someone once said. “Those who do not dream are like the dead…”

The illness deprived me of my dreams and ruined my life. Reliving the moment when my heart stopped beating was terrible. I tried every possible way to learn about the illness in an attempt to shake it off. The conclusion was despair.

And now, I realized that the bacteria in my body were rapidly aging. The bacteria and I were speeding down the expressway in a straight line. I didn’t even know the name of the terminal station might be death.

***

The masquerade was nearing its end. On one side of the hall, where golden moldings curved, a band was playing music. Masked nobles below the chandeliers, ablaze with hundreds of candles, laughed, chattered, and danced. The flickering of the crimson hall made them look like marionettes in a puppet show.

The Geiger guards followed Count Wolfscott like shadows. Among the masked nobles, the group of Count Wolfscott stood out like drops of blood on white linen curtains. Leaning against the pillar of the hall, I watched them. The red wine in my glass swirled gently.

Count Wolfscott exchanged noisy handshakes with the nobles. His escorts, wearing death masks and uniform coats, were as vigilant as ever. One of the guards cast a fleeting glance in my direction. Leopard.

We exchanged a brief glance. Leopard subtly adjusted the collar of his uniform coat. It was the signal that the hunt was beginning.

I turned around. Marquis Aristien Courtbique

Today’s prey is Marquis Aristien Courtbique. As a confidant of Marquess Manon, he was a popular figure in society and the queen’s illicit lover. Frankly, in my opinion, Marquis Aristien Courtbique is far superior to the foolish lad who is like a shepherd boy.

“Shepherd boy.” It was the king’s nickname. Nobles, fearing threats to their own lives, had covered up or assassinated the royal heirs who posed a threat to them. Even the sons of the reigning king were not spared. Eventually, the worst happened. The line of succession dried up.

Desperate, Count Wolfscott and Marquess Manon, searched through dusty genealogies until they finally found a royal grandson, known as the “shepherd boy” Kruger. His grandfather was the seventh prince of Terence IV. Ousted from court due to the impeachment of the regent, the old grandfather died while trying to console himself with various women.

Kruger was the product of seeds sown by the exiled prince. Unaware that royal blood flowed in his veins, Kruger, who had lived as a humble shepherd for over fifty years, finally returned to the palace. Of course, it wasn’t for free. Kruger had to divorce his wife and marry Manon, the daughter of Marquis Aristien Courtbique. It was inevitable that the queen, who married the elderly Kruger pushed by her father’s ambition, would seek solace elsewhere. Courtbique was her fifth lover.

I silently left the ballroom. Descending the marble stairs, I stepped outside the palace. The French-style garden was dotted with patches of snowflakes. The night sky was dark and deep like the sea. The tolling of bells from a distant cathedral drifted on the wind. It was a night of -23 degrees Celsius, but I walked slowly without impatience.

As I walked around the palace, I saw the greenhouse. The red light emanating from the glass greenhouse illuminated the dark like a gas lamp. Approaching the greenhouse, I peered inside. Beyond the glass, tropical plants were clustered like a forest.

I silently opened the glass door. Inside the greenhouse, it was hot and humid. Water droplets streaked down the glass walls, and the damp air mixed with the smell of tropical plants was as unpleasant as the stench rising from a sewer.

A moan echoed from somewhere. Quietly, I walked forward and pulled out a silk cloth from my pocket. Among the lush tropical plants, tangled vines revealed a hidden couple. A man with his back exposed was vigorously thrusting into a woman lying with her legs spread open. I approached stealthily behind the man. The woman, who had been moaning, startled at the sudden approach of the shadow.

In an instant, I wrapped the man’s neck with the silk cloth. The woman, about to scream, quickly covered her mouth with her hand. She remained composed, befitting of a queen. Count Courtbique, suffocating helplessly, trembled all over. I exerted even more force with the hand holding the silk cloth. The wriggling sensation transmitted through the silk was exhilarating.

Count Courtbique tried to tear the silk cloth with his fingers several times, but it was futile. Soon, his arms drooped. Seizing the opportunity, I whispered softly, “It would be an honor for the queen to greet death within her.”

Count Courtbique’s waist twitched involuntarily. It was a sign that he was ejaculating inside the queen’s body. The trousers of a victim of strangulation are usually soaked with semen. Strangulation brought about a death that brought the ecstasy of climax but also brought filth. In the next stage, the sphincter relaxes, and feces flow out. It poured out like a downpour.

Count Courtbique was no exception. The filth poured from his anus pooled around the queen’s groin. I quickly stepped back, avoiding the embarrassment of the foul smell on my clothes. The queen sobbed softly.

I folded the silk cloth neatly and tossed it to the queen. “Her Majesty awaits.”

Without hesitation, I turned around. It was obvious who the queen would contact first. Today’s simple task was a project I had planned, called “The Sorrow of Love.” It was a strategy of “killing two birds with one stone” to eliminate the confidant of silence and to show our intentions through the queen, who is not only the sole witness but also Marquess Manon’s daughter.

Count Courtbique’s death would cause considerable repercussions, but I wasn’t worried. There was no witness other than the queen, and the royal dignity was more precious than the truth. Besides, I, who assassinated Count Courtbique, was disguised as a young nobleman wearing a mask.

I leisurely returned to the ballroom. Calling the attendant, I instructed, “Fetch some Bacchus wine for Count Wolfscott, as if his throat is parched.” Bacchus wine symbolized the success of the mission. The refreshed expression on Count Wolfscott’s face as he received the Bacchus wine from the attendant looked satisfying.

After exchanging smiles with Count Wolfscott, I briefly enjoyed the music. A masked soprano was singing. It was “Song to the Moon” from Dvorak’s opera “Rusalka.” It was one of my favorite pieces. I slowly swirled my wine glass and listened intently.

Oh, moon, please stop right there.

Tell me where my beloved is.

Please tell him.

Silver moon in the sky,

Tell him that I’m holding him tight,

And that he must remember that dream, even if only for a moment…

As soon as the song ended, I quickly left the ballroom. It was already past midnight. I didn’t have the patience to endure the boring parties of the nobles until the end.

I drove my car out of the palace. I took off my mask and threw it onto the road. The wind swept the mask away into the distance. I headed straight for 42nd Street. I had decided to pick a man from Snow White and enjoy a night with him. It was a two-hour drive from the palace, but I didn’t mind.

I chuckled as I pulled out a cigarette. Today had a good feeling about it.

The silver moon peeked out from behind the thick clouds. Even in the dull winter, it was delightful. I covered the two-hour distance in an hour and thirty minutes. In the middle of 42nd Street Square, the bronze statue of Perseus, holding the severed head of Medusa, stood guard as usual. As I passed the square, the Red Light District unfolded before me. Prostitutes were engrossed in their solicitation activities, not distinguishing between the road and the sidewalk.

I drove slowly, scanning for potential partners. If I spotted a man I liked, I decided I didn’t need to go all the way to Snow White; I could make my decision right there on the street. It had been about three months since I last visited Snow White. In the meantime, Leopard and I had gained a reputation as “guys who enjoy rough sex,” making it difficult to find partners these days.

Rough sex… I chuckled.

It was nonsense. It was something cowards would say. It was undeniable that we engaged in rough activities, but it wasn’t to the extent of being labeled as “rough sex.” Such a label suited only novices who were inexperienced.

A skilled fighter knew how to adjust their strength according to their opponent. Leopard and I were pros in causing harm and injury to people. Having once been involved in torture and violence, we knew exactly how much the human body could endure, or even exceed. Could we possibly be unable to control our strength during sex? The problem lay with our partners.

When we asked, “Do you mind if we prefer rough sex?” most people usually went along with it. In the initial stages of enjoying ourselves, our partners were also actively responsive. They eagerly begged for more, insisting on pushing boundaries while enjoying themselves. The problem arose afterward. When we intensified our demands as the mood heightened, that’s when our partners subtly changed their attitude.

For instance, two weeks ago, we clearly expressed our desire for fisting from the start and then went to a hotel. After enjoying the initial stages lightly, we decided to get down to business and laid our partner on the bed, tying their arms and legs apart.

“Why… are you tying me up?” asked our partner with a puzzled look on their face.

I answered while applying muscle relaxant between their buttocks, “Sometimes, there can be thrashing during fisting. It’s to prevent any serious injury to the intestine. Just trust us and stay still. It’ll be fine. We’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

Then, Leopard put on a crisp pair of transparent vinyl gloves. Our partner looked at us as if we were about to become Romanian vampire bats.

The end was ridiculous. Instead of fisting, our partner ended up urinating before we even inserted a finger. Flabbergasted, when I asked, “Then why did you agree to come?” our partner burst into tears and replied, “I really didn’t know how to do it.”

It was unbelievable. Normally, we would have ignored it and carried on, but judging by the situation, the author was about to make an even bigger mess. So, we just sent them away.

It was like a comedy show in the middle of the night. What scared our partner wasn’t the fisting, but rather their imagination. By the time we reached the stage of applying the relaxant, their mind was already tangled up with images of their intestines bursting and dying.

I can assert that nothing of the sort ever happened. We, who were well aware of how far to go before tearing, bursting, and bleeding, never made such pathetic mistakes. So, usually, regardless of whether the partner got scared or not, we proceeded with the act. The result was as we had predicted. Not a single partner suffered even the slightest injury. Yet, despite all this, at some point, we became known as “guys who enjoy rough sex” at Snow White. What nonsense.

I grumbled as I turned the steering wheel.

“Red Fox was just fine.”

However, we couldn’t attempt fisting with Red Fox. Their build was too small, so we had to give up. It was quite disappointing.

Red Fox, who used to visit the bar every three days, disappeared after the incident known as “The Day I Was Seduced With Trout.” Not a hair was seen for two weeks. It was as if a momentary illusion had vanished into thin air.

Maybe they died because of an illness.

Laughing, I imagined their decaying body in that dismal house. It was hilarious. That coward who peed himself had an imagination as pathetic as his act. Suddenly feeling annoyed, I turned on the car radio. News of Courtbique’s sudden death had already broken. The cause was cardiac arrest. There was admiration for Manon’s decisive action.

I chuckled and stared at the street. Among the relentless prostitutes and hustlers, I paused.

Haha. Who might this be?

No wonder I had a good feeling about this…

I smirked.

On the dimly lit corner beyond the crowd, a man stood. With wary eyes, he looked around. I recognized him immediately. Jan Mergin, a tattooed aristocrat who had been active as a henchman for the Eckdal gang but had disappeared after the boss’s downfall. Despite being wanted by the police and the Geiger, this rat had managed to evade capture for two years.

Gotcha, you little poodle.

Whether noble or not, whether successful or failing, it seemed to be a night where everyone was dying miserably.

Mergin stuffed his hands deep into his coat pocket and walked along the pavement. The smell of solitude wafted heavily from his staggering footsteps. It seemed like a decent piece of work was about to unfold.

I drove slowly to match his pace. I pulled out a silenced pistol. The glass of my car window was coated black for security. I had no fear of being spotted. Even if the barrel was exposed, there was no worry of being noticed. I aimed at him by lowering the car window to reveal only the muzzle. It wasn’t easy to secure a clear shot through the crowd to Mergin in a straight line. But that was okay. Waiting would inevitably reveal a flaw. I was a patient man when it came to murder. Fifteen minutes later, an opportunity arose. Without hesitation, I fired the gun.

A few seconds later, Mergin fell to the ground, bleeding from the abdomen. Still, I kept my guard up and continued to aim the gun at him. Mergin didn’t even twitch. It was clear he was dead.

Quickly, I called Leopard and said, “Hey, you know what I just did? I sent Jan Mergin to his demise with my own hands.” After that, I instructed my direct subordinate to secretly bring Mergin’s corpse to headquarters.

Haha. Sending two big shots in one night.

Not bad at all.

I rolled down the car window to observe the situation. There were no passersby paying attention to the corpse lying on the pavement. I leisurely pulled out a cigarette and enjoyed the scene. A scrap of newspaper flying by brushed over Mergin’s corpse.

My mood soared. Now all that was left was to find another target. However, the streets were only filled with cheap bodies, as expected of the red-light district. At times like this, I couldn’t help but blame my discerning taste. It seemed like my eyes were shooting up to the sky because of Red Fox.

I threw the cigarette out the car window and headed to Snow White. If I couldn’t find a target there, tonight would be a waste. Snow White was located in a narrow alley off 42nd Street, resembling a labyrinth. As we turned off the main road, a dim and narrow path followed. Sporadic streetlights scattered along the alley diluted the darkness with feeble light, like the faint eyes of a dying old man.

Suddenly, something leaped in front of the car. Even in my unconscious state, I slammed on the brakes. It was a black cat.

In the white road where darkness evaporated under the headlights, the cat glanced at me briefly. Its pumpkin-colored eyes gleamed sharply. Then, the cat gracefully swayed its long tail and silently walked away.

This feels unnecessarily annoying.

I tapped the steering wheel with my index finger. As I followed the disappearing cat into the darkness, I paused.

My intuition must be right, as always…

I chuckled.

In the sunken darkness, there was an old, rundown bookstore. The light from the street lamp faintly painted the shop’s glass surface with a hazy orange hue. The weathered walls were adorned with dried ivy. It was an elegant and quaint bookstore, unsuitable for the red-light district.

And there, Red Fox was sitting at the counter, nodding off. His amber hair sprawled all the way to the dusty floor.

I had found tonight’s target. I parked the car at the corner of the alley and stepped outside.

It was a clear night under the moon.