Scream Queens Last Scream

Warning: a little darker, contains stalking, guns, and one death. Hired hit woman pov

The air in this *Bel Air mansion* stinks of money and hidden desperation which is just a cocktail of perfume and lies so thick it could choke a lesser soul.

*I want to kick every pretentious jerk in here in their balls.*

I’m Cassie tonight—name’s as fake as the smiles around me but it fits the vibe. Short black hair, brown eyes that see too much, and a pink blazer that screams *"I belong"* while my black Yankees cap and jeans whisper *"I don’t."*

*I’m a hired gun.*

That much I can remember tonight…but don’t expect me to crow about it. It’s dirty work. The kind that stains your hands and your soul, and I’m up to my neck in it…

The party’s a circus of phonies—actors, wannabe moguls, and trust-fund brats playing at being somebody. They’re all pretending, same as me.

I sip my cheap champagne, letting the bubbles burn my throat, and scan the room. Crystal chandeliers glint like the devil’s own jewelry, and the laughter’s loud enough to drown out the truth.

I’m not here for the small talk or the caviar. My eyes are locked on Maryann Hill, a ginger scream queen with *huge* natural *knockout tits* who’s clawed her way to fame and never quite let go.

She’s 40 now, still gorgeous with all the right curves and red lipstick. But there’s a hunger in her eyes that no amount of Botox can hide.

She’s *desperate* to be seen. To be wanted. And tonight she’s got a young stud on her arm to prove it.

He’s some hotshot blonde actor, barely 20-something, playing a rookie detective in that new cop flick everyone’s buzzing about. I’ve seen his work—decent, but his body language is all wrong. Too stiff, like he’s trying to sell you he’s tough instead of just being it.

Right now, he’s drunk, grinning like a shark who thinks he’s about to get lucky.

Maryann’s leading him upstairs, her small hips swaying like she’s auditioning for her own comeback. He’s too sloshed to notice the way her smile doesn’t reach her eyes—or the way I’m watching them both.

Men always fall for women like these. They’ve never listened to the lyrics of *maneater.*

I set my glass down, the clink swallowed by the party’s roar, and slip my hand into my blazer. My fingers brush the *cold steel* of the *silencer* tucked inside a side pocket, a little reminder of the night’s real work.

A guy bumps me and by instinct I *knee* him between the legs before slipping behind a couple laughing about one of those stupid corporate movies that try to hypnotize us everyday.

I smash his left nut into his throat. It feels good on my end—Horrible on his.

“Ah! F-Fuck my balls bitch…!” he crumbles against a wall but I’m already gone.

I’m just another LA dreamer in a black tee and jeans, blending into the crowd of egos and ambition. Nobody notices me tailing them, my steps light, my focus sharp as a blade.

Maryann and her boy toy disappear around the corner of the marble staircase, and I’m right behind, my heart steady as a metronome.

This city’s a liar, and so am I—but tonight, I’m the one holding the truth, and it’s got a trigger.

“—shh be quiet Oliver. Let me show you how to do a *silent scene.*”

The upstairs hallway is all plush carpet and dim gold light, the kind of place that screams wealth but feels like a tomb. Maryann and her boy toy slip into a room at the end of the hall.

I’m a shadow in their wake, my steps silent, my cap pulled low. My hand’s still grazing the gun in my pocket, a cold reminder of why I’m surrounded by drooling idiots.

I’m sort of a movie buff. So much in fact I know Maryann Hill better than she’d ever guess. I do my homework—unlike the other trigger-pullers in this game. If I’m gonna be a monster, I’ll be one with eyes wide open, not some blunt tool swinging blind.

Maryann’s filmography runs through my head like a grainy reel. *A Nutcase’s Red Lips*—her breakout in *’94,* where she played a femme fatale who carved up her lovers with a switchblade and a smile right after *severing* the testicles of her cheating victims.

It did so well that the sequel *Sack Slasher*, the even grittier *’96* slasher flick that doubled the ballbusting budget, cemented her as the scream queen of the decade.

My favorite scene is when she pretends to have broken her neck from a ladder accident in her backyard and when her neighbor comes over to peek at her popped up shirt, she *uppercuts his balls* with brass knuckles she’d taken from a gangster in the beginning of the film.

It’s not supposed to be a comedy but the sound effects of eggs being crushed underneath someone’s fist is peak sound design.

Maryann’s big green eyes, big freckled J cup boobs, and even bigger screams—the kind of dame who could make you believe she was terrified while plotting your end.

I guess I don’t watch movies for fun; I study them like a general studies a battlefield. Knowing your target—her habits, her masks—makes the job cleaner. Maryann’s got a knack for playing women who are more than they seem, and tonight’s no different.

She’s not as drunk as Oliver, that’s for sure. The kid’s stumbling, high as a kite from whatever he was snorting with those musicians downstairs. I saw him, nose-deep in powder, laughing too loud, thinking he’s the next big thing.

Maryann’s playing him like a script, leading him into that room with a sway in her step and a purr in her voice. My client has no patience for her games, though. Maryann’s been poking her nose job where it doesn’t belong—digging into secrets that cost more than her fading fame can cover.

She wants her gone, and I’m the one to make it happen.

I reach the door, the golden handle cool under my fingers. I twist it slow. Deliberate. No sound to betray me.

The hinges don’t squeak—rich people’s houses never do.

I crack the door just enough to see inside. Maryann’s already at work, unzipping Oliver’s jeans, her voice dripping with that awestruck tone she’s perfected.

“*God,* I love your show,” she coos, laying it on thick, making him feel like he’s king of Hollywood instead of some green detective with bad posture.

He’s eating it up. Too wasted to see the performance for what it is. She’s good—better than good. The way she moves, the way she manipulates, it’s like watching one of her movies come to life.

I slip inside, the silencer now in my right hand, low at my side. My breath steady.

Maryann Hill’s the real deal, no question. After this job, I might just watch more of her flicks—call it respect for a woman who plays the game as well as I do.

The room’s already heavy with the scent of Maryann’s perfume and Oliver’s booze-soaked sweat. I’m in the shadows and Maryann’s working Oliver’s long pink cock like a pro.

Her voice is a velvet blade as she leans into his ear.

“I could help you, you know,” she murmurs, her hands busy *gliding, stroking,* keeping him *hooked* by messaging a dangling sack filled with two impressive testicles.

“Y-Yeah?”

She nods, “I’ve always been a fan of screenwriting. I’ve got experience—real experience. I can make you *grow* even bigger overnight…”

Her tone’s desperate, a crack in the scream queen’s armor, begging for a comeback through this kid’s fame. It’s pathetic, the way she’s selling herself, thinking no one’s watching.

I’ve seen the truth strip people bare, and it’s always weaker than they think.

*Disappointing,* really.

My gaze flicks to Oliver, sprawled on the bed, shirt half-open, cock filling both of Maryann’s small tanned hands. Kid’s got the goods, I’ll give him that—tight, sculpted, the kind that gets him screaming fans and magazine covers.

I let myself smile, just a flicker, because yeah, he’s a *little* attractive, all raw energy and dumb confidence.

All idiots with huge nuts are like this. I hate to love them. I get why the cameras love him, even if his body language screams amateur. But that’s where my mind wanders, and I hate it because a professional shouldn’t linger on abs or charm or his *crushable ballbag…*

Then it happens. The door behind me gives a faint squeak as it clicks shut, a sound like a guillotine in the quiet.

*Shit.*

Maryann freezes, both hands still on Oliver’s meat. His dilated, bleary, eyes snap to me, wide and dumb, like a deer caught in headlights. Maryann’s quicker, her gaze sharpening, the actress replaced by something feral.

“Oh! We’re a little busy…” Oliver’s voice fades as he sees my cold gaze.

They’ve memorized me now—black Yankees cap, pink blazer, black tee, and the dull gleam of the silencer in my hand.

A killer. Maybe *someone* even worse…

I raise a finger to my lips, slow, deliberate, my eyes locking onto theirs. The gun’s steady, its weight an old friend, promising a quick end if they don’t play along.

*“Shh,”* I mouth, my voice barely a breath.

The room’s a tightrope now, tension humming like a live wire. Maryann’s calculating, Oliver’s panicking, and me? I'm calm in the storm. Even if my pulse ticks up just a notch.

I’m a professional—distracted, sure, but never sloppy. And this job’s about to get messy if things go south…so of course they do.

Maryann’s eyes narrow, and in a flash, the scream queen’s mask cracks. She *knows.* Those sharp, desperate eyes see the truth in the glint of my silencer, and before I can make another threat, she lets out a scream that could shatter glass—raw, primal, the kind that made her famous in *Sack Slasher.*

My plan—clean, quiet, surgical—goes up in smoke. The room’s a live wire now, and I’m not about to let it burn me.

I lunge forward, all instinct and precision, my boots silent on the hardwood. Maryann’s quick, but I’m quicker. She tries to bolt, but I’m on her in a heartbeat, my arm snaking around her throat in a headlock that chokes off her scream mid-note.

Her voice dies to a gurgle, her nails clawing at my arm, but I’m stone—focused, *unyielding* and *nasty.*

So I bash the butt of my pistol into her left nipple that jiggled as she jolts like I’ve electrocuted her, filling her with titty pain.

“MMMH!” Marryann’s scream dies in her throat as I squeeze harder, gritting my teeth. I’m not proud of this one but the *better half* of me won’t even remember this so what’s the point?

I have to remember. Cassie’s the name tonight, and *I NEVER* get compromised. Not by a washed-up star. Not by anyone.

Oliver, the pretty boy with the abs, tries to play the hero. He lurches up from the bed, eyes wide, still half-drunk and high, his shirt hanging open like some action star wannabe.

I see his wagging dick and loose nuts and I don’t hesitate. My boot slams down hard on his exposed scrotum, pinning his sensitive cum tanks to the mattress without getting a loud crunch back.

Unfortunately.

*Enjoy bruised nuts Olly.*

The air rushes out of him in a pathetic wheeze, his face twisting as he gasps like a fish on a dock. Those muscles don’t help him now that he’s down, clutching his nads, no threat to me or anyone.

Maryann’s still fighting, her body thrashing against mine, but I’ve got her locked tight. The silencer’s still in my grip, pressed against her side, planting a *cool kiss* against her ribs.

“Hi. I’m a big fan. This is from *Mrs. Grim.*”

The party’s noise downstairs—laughter, clinking glasses—covers the chaos up here, but I know my window’s shrinking. One wrong move, and this job’s a mess. My pulse is steady, my eyes scanning the room, calculating.

*I’m a professional, even when the plan’s gone sideways…*

Maryann’s losing steam. Her eyes, wide and wild, lock onto mine, and I see the moment she realizes there’s no outrunning this. I lean in close, my voice a low hiss, cold as the steel pressed harder her ribs.

“They paid extra…” I murmur, my breath brushing her ear. “Said not to ruin that beautiful face for your last close-up.” Her body stiffens, a gasp caught in her throat, but I don’t give her time to process.

My finger squeezes the trigger, the silencer muffling the shot to a soft— *Thwip!*

Maryann’s body jerks, then sags, heavy in my arms. I whisper, soft and deliberate, the killer’s line from *Sack Slasher.*

*“Scream all you want, cutie but no one’s listening. You should have stayed in your deadbeat dad’s balls…”* It’s her own dialogue, twisted back on her, and it feels right, like closing a script.

“And…scene.” I whisper before Maryann’s credits roll for the last time.

She slumps forward, collapsing across Oliver’s chest, her red lipstick smearing on his trembling chest…

Oliver’s still wheezing, now pinned under her weight, his eyes wide with panic and pain. I step back, the silencer still warm in my hand, and steady my breathing—slow, controlled, like I’m centering myself after a long run.

My pulse hums, but I’m ice inside, the job done clean despite the chaos. I lock eyes with him, my brown gaze unyielding under the brim of my Yankees cap. His cock, still thick and long, is now soft on his stomach, useless and terrified.

His mouth kept opening and closing like he’s trying to find words that won’t come.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice flat, the gun still raised.

He freezes immediately, giving me scared doe eyes, knowing he’s one wrong move from joining Maryann. The room’s quiet now, save for the distant pulse of the party below. He may not Recognize me after tonight but even if he did he’d hardly be able to remember the fake name and wig combo.

I’m already planning my exit, but for this moment, I hold his stare, letting him feel the weight of surviving a night he shouldn’t have. But before I leave…

“You’re rich. You have people who can cover up things. Be smart and you won’t end up like her.”

He nods weakly, “I underst—”

“No. You don’t. Not yet.”

With a cruel smirk, I slam the side of the gun and my fist into Oliver’s battered balls, watching his whole body spasm as the silencer smushes into his sack with a wet, sickening *Crunch!*

His eyes roll back, and his mouth opens in a silent scream.

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll turn these into a Jackson Pollock with your own juice. And trust me, nobody’s going to save your *pretty little balls* from the big, bad wolf if you cry for help.”

“Okay! Please! I *need* them…” The words hang in the air as Oliver’s eyes become glassy with shock, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he nods frantically.

“You should have thought of that before letting them hang out like this…you say a *word* about me and I’ll break both of your nuts in my hands drug boy. I’m being *Deadly serious.*”

“Ok! Okayyy!! I-I believe you!”

With that, I release my grinding punch on Oliver’s abused weaknesses and pivot towards the large window, the silencer still in hand. The drapes are velvet, the kind that cost more than my last ten jobs combined, and I pull them aside with a gentle tug.

The LA nightscape stretches out before me, glittering with the lies of a thousand neon signs.

“Also some advice. You’ve got potential,” I say, not turning to look at him. “But maybe stick to the action scenes. You suck at drama—keep that dick in your pants and your balls out of the plot next time, yeah?”

“My precious balls…”

Oliver’s breathing is ragged, his hands still cradling his bruised jewels as I ease the window open and leap out, the cool night air wafts in, carrying the faint scent of the ocean and the distant sound of sirens—the sweet serenade of another city that never sleeps.

*Just like me.*

I’ll never really know what Maryann did to deserve my cold actions but I won’t forget her. I’ll order her best hits when I cash her check in the morning.