Wine and Gun

Herstal seemed to swallow, and after a while, he said gruffly: "After getting to know you, I have done many things that I would never have done at the crime scene before."

"Like what?" Albarino smiled and blinked his eyes, speaking in a casual and ordinary tone, as if he was discussing something unworthy of a meal, but something that could bring a subtle pleasure, "Show me Just a moment."

Herstal sneered, his various sarcastic sneers and expressions were enough to fit a bookshelf into categories, and it was difficult for ordinary people to read his true emotions from these almost indifferent expressions: except perhaps Albarino, As he said, he has made some progress in the subject.

So Albarino knew that the other party actually agreed, and Herstal exerted force on his hand, and Albarino was dragged up some high steps by him. This can never be said to be the reason why Herstal forced him. An adult male as tall as Albarino would never be able to be dragged to such a high position with one hand so smoothly, so he could only Said, Albarino knew exactly what he was going to do—

And quite happy to cooperate.

In this way, Albarino also stepped on the stern of this abstract wooden boat, and the wooden boards made a slight creak under his feet. It was sawed off from the logs that he transported to this church in batches and assembled little by little. But at the time they were just raw material, meaningless—like the blank canvases of bodies he saw—their meanings were given by Herstal Armalite, written on them by the bloodstains, which were Those subtle rhythms that the police couldn't read, a wordless, bizarre singing.

Herstal pushed him on the back of the altar against his shoulder, and he knocked something off the table, and Albarino heard the crunch of some kind of metal object falling to the ground: it might be holy Sir, it is the Eucharist, an object filled with the blood and flesh of Christ in the religious sense, just like this boat full of blood and flesh.

When the back of his head touched the table top of the sacrificial table, Albarino smelled a gradually drifting aroma of wine: apparently the wine originally contained in the silver sacrificial vessel was slowly flowing on the floor of the church . The scene inevitably reminded him of a rainy night last summer, when he was half-dead on the floor of his home, and the Westland pianist smashed a bottle of wine in his presence.

"One of the few collections I've managed to take away from the previous house, the 1996 Chateau de Beaujou," Albarino sighed feigned regret, "what a pity, Herstal, You won't find a better blood of Christ than it."

"Isn't that what you want to see? What did you mean by setting up a scene like this?" Herstal asked calmly. "Broken, destroyed, dead - you want to see me tearing them down."

"And you didn't disappoint me," Albarino replied with a smile, raising his head slightly to receive a kiss on his lips. Herstal pressed him on the top of the altar table and kissed him. The tablecloth was white as snow, not stained with blood. It was the kind of tablecloth that was laid on the altar table at every Christmas mass in the church. The beginning of Christmas in the Catholic liturgical year.

Herstal swallowed whatever he was going to say next. Albarino's lips were warm and soft, just like anyone else's. It was hard to believe what a cold and charming heart was hidden under such a skin. Most of the fabric on Hestal's body has long been soaked with blood, and the deep and shallow bloodstains are stacked together. It is almost impossible to see the original white color of the clothes. Now the blood is more or less rubbed on Albaly. on Noah.

Herstal could read the metaphors, the dark blue suit, the white embroidery jú—it seemed to indicate that the Sunday gardener remembers something too, when one does not give alms to those that are gone When it comes to their own feelings, "memorial" becomes the last thing they can have. Now, there was blood on the suit, and the dark blue suit was almost smeared into black.

Albarino doesn't seem to care about the blood, as he once said, for him, blood is just blood, there is no difference between the blood of saints and the blood of demons. He smiled at Herstal, then slid down with both hands and started unbuttoning the buttons - suit, tie, vest, shirt in Herstal's face; It seems to gradually lift the veneer of human restraint and civilization, and lift the curtain of the gardener's image of water.

The skin he hid under the cloth was unusually white because it was rarely exposed to the sun, and it almost shone under the chandelier in the church, like a falling moon. Herstal looked down at him, humans offered burnt offerings, gods watched from above the lambs on fire--then slowly, slowly, Herstal laid his hand on Albarino's chest , against those red skins, those skins were soft and fresh to the touch, the heart was beating under the flesh and bones, and he was smearing blood on it.

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