Killer Queen

Good morning good morning good morning! Rachtheblog here with a story about an assassin, based on Queen’s “Killer Queen.” 

I recommend listening to this song while reading:

Dusk has settled and the moon slowly rises above the horizon. There’s a chill in the air, as the dinner guests arrive at the looming house on the corner of a long, dark street. Despite the extravagance of the newly bought Victorian home, a run-down, almost 20-year old Sedan sits parked in the driveway. The contrast of elegance surprises the guests, but they continue towards the ebony wooden door. 

The guests settle into their seats at the long dining hall table, as the host enters and sits at the head of the table. With long, red hair and piercing blue eyes, Queenie welcomes her guests to her housewarming party. Having just moved from China, Queenie’s list of targets has changed dramatically. 

Marie, sitting on the right side of the table, facing the windows, looks to her left to see a beautiful woman sit down in a throne-sized chair. Her lacy underdress slightly moves past the end of her silky rose gold skirt. She gracefully clasps her hands and lays them on her lap. Queenie introduces herself:

Good evening! I’m Queenie, your new neighbor, and am beyond thrilled to welcome you to my abode.

Marie can’t help but survey the rest of the guests sitting around the table. Two men with dark brown hair, one with it slickly gelled back and the other wearing a black panama hat, sit across from her. Their eyes are focused on the striking woman to the right of them, with their elbows softly resting on the table. The rest of the guests, two young women, holding hands under the table, and an older woman and man with an awkwardly large gap between their chairs, also have their attention on Queenie. Everyone’s drawn to her.

Queenie offers the bottle of Moet et Chandon wine around the table, watching as each guest pours their glass halfway. Perfect.

Marie looks back at Queenie and smells vanilla and lavender, reminding her of her grandmother. Grandma always wore this one fragrance gifted to her from France. Guerlain, was it? Yes, Marie could never forget her grandmother’s pungent smell of Guerlain. 

Queenie lights a cigarette as she heads to the kitchen to grab the first and only course: caviar. 

Stephen, a young man in his last year of culinary school, recognizes the golden caviar that is placed in front of him. This specific caviar is called Almas, and Stephen is in awe of the host’s appreciation for delicacies. 

As the dining room, softly lit by five candles, lights up in conversation and fogs with cigarette smoke, Marie feels as though she’s in a trance. Three sips of wine and one bite of caviar must not be agreeing with each other. 

Queenie must stay swift. She enters the kitchen to retrieve the bundt cakes, her favorite. Perfectly baked, with golden edges, and gorgeously frosted, the vanilla frosting swirling in different patterns on each one. Eight cakes in total. Queenie can enjoy this sweet with the rest of her guests. She does love cake after all. 

Time moves slowly for Stephen, as his conversation with the man, who he still doesn’t know the name of, next to him draws on, from a topic about cars to a topic about women. He notices the old man and older woman sitting diagonally across from him. They refuse to look at each other, making conversation with the people right next to them instead. They are both wearing wedding bands on their left fingers, but the tense energy between them separates any engagement with each other. 

Marie, speaking with the older woman next to her, sees Queenie enter with eight cakes, all of which look extravagantly fashioned to be desired by the full company. Queenie says:

Thank you all for visiting. Before you leave, I welcome you to my own homemade bundt cakes.

Each one is placed in front of each guest, including the host herself. Marie takes the smallest fork on the gold placemat, and digs into the gold cake, her thoughts slowly drifting to utter silence. Black encompasses her and she begins to feel her eyelids heavily flutter closed.

Stephen’s vision goes black as his head drops into the cake right in front of him. His hat drops to the floor.

Queenie kicks the hat under the table. She lights another cigarette and walks around the table, observing her unconscious victims. Seven of them in total, all asleep for at least twelve hours. 

There’s Stephen, a young and upcoming cook with a politician father who threatens the order of the government. His beliefs skewed the system. Stephen had to go first. 

Then there’s the other young man, Tony, who has been hacking databases throughout graduate school, then using them to spread propaganda. His beliefs skewed the system. Tony had to go. 

The two women holding hands — Queenie couldn’t quite recollect their names at the moment but she later remembered they were Delilah and Jan — ran a company together that supported brainwashing ideals. Their beliefs skewed the system. They had to go.

The couple, who couldn’t even breathe the same air as each other, were both working as clerks for a judge. The judge’s beliefs skewed the system. The couple had to go.

And then there was Marie, a beautiful woman with bouncy blonde curls, who is married to a man in China. A man who Queenie met when she was on her past mission, and a man she spent much time with. Marie had to go.

Queenie loaded the revolver and struck each person off the list. 

Freda, an entertainer who recently moved to the United States from the Middle East, jogs down the dark avenue, adjacent from her block. She passes a woman with fiery-red hair, dressed in a rose gold set, a blouse and a midi skirt, promenading to a rusty old car. Freda couldn’t tell what was in the trunk, but it looked like suitcases. She must have just moved in. 

She notices the woman’s car attempting to be jump started. Out of gasoline. 

Freda should go help. Freda wouldn’t be useful though. Freda continues forward. She’s not even gonna try.