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Though the impact of their deaths had never lessened during Kaiji’s long night at the Starside Hotel, it wasn’t until long after the night was over, after the shock and exhilaration had worn off, that Kaiji truly began to contemplate the deaths of the men at the Human Derby. What disturbed him, however, was that his contemplation wasn’t even focused on mourning their lost lives—it was on how they died.
No…it wasn’t that. Pondering how it feels to die is a human curiosity, particularly when it concerned one such as falling from a height. That was considered one of the most peaceful means of dying, wasn’t it?
Was Sahara’s death a peaceful one, despite being a death that lunged at him unexpectedly? Did his body—already consumed by shock—ever register a sense of peace before hitting the pavement? Supposedly, most people die before hitting the ground…did that also include Sahara?
What did his body look like?
That. That was what disturbed him. No matter how many times he thought about the deaths of the participants, his thoughts would somehow circulate to what Sahara’s corpse must look like. It wasn’t mere curiosity either—he wanted to see it. So badly. And not for a sense of closure, either…he just wanted, no, needed to see his corpse.
And somehow, his hand would always trail down to the zipper of his pants at the thought. That’s what disturbed him the most.
Sahara’s face…was it intact? Did it become crushed beyond the point of recognition?
He unzipped his pants.
Did blood ooze from his skull, trickle down to what resembled his lips?
He pulled down his boxers.
What about the rest of his body? It certainly had to be wading in a large puddle of his own blood. The flesh on his broken, battered bare arms was surely stained and rusted in crimson.
His hand shivered and twitched as he stroked himself.
Did his guts also splatter out? If he saw his corpse then, would he be able to see every internal organ of Sahara’s in plain sight?
Tears trickled down his cheeks as he moved his hand up and down his shaft. It was so fucked up. He never really noticed Sahara until he was dead—until he could imagine his body looking like a rag doll that had been torn and shredded to pieces by a dog. A rag doll composed of flesh, blood, and bone.
It was likely still there, its rotting flesh being thoroughly inspected by flies and maggots. No, the bastards of Teiai had probably disposed of it—but was there really any difference?
Fucking hell, he wished he could have seen it. How fucked up do you have to be to envy the position of a maggot?
Kaiji came into his hand and fell to his knees, sobbing, not bothering to clean up after himself. He deserved to wallow in his own filth anyway, after having thoughts like that.
Sahara would probably think he was the sickest bastard alive if he knew. And he’d also be strangely honored to be the owner of the most attractive corpse Kaiji had ever imagined.