It was not a true one. The blood was not thick and full of escaping life. The body did not remain on the ground, finite and still. It was not a real death. Yet it was the finest kill I have ever seen.
I saw it in a movie. Now, I don't discuss movies very oftten. But this act of destruction was so unexpected, so grand, so sweeping, so shrouded in unanticipated grace, oh and by the way, so deserving, that I applaud it ever time I see it, which I do often.
The name of the movie is 'The Brotherhood of the Wolf', ('Le Pacte des Loups'). Any attempt to describe the plot would, I fear, induce a chain of seizures in either speaker of listener, so I will refrain. Suffice it to say, it is an irresponsible combination of lust, violence, fear and elegance. It is a horrible, beautiful painting.
Now – this thrilling kill. It came at the end of the film. A woman, a howling gypsy – earthy and snarling with a feral femininity – is finally on the run, after making a complete annoyance of herself for almost two hours. And it looks like she is going to escape. What a bother!
Until she is stopped by another woman. This woman is the most exclusive, most artistic, most dramatic of ladies. She is a mystic. She is dangerous. She is also an employee of a most inspired brothel – structured like a decadent, naughty poem. She knows the landscape of darkness as well as that of light. She is not to be trifled with.
Oh, and did I mention that this all took place during the 18th century? Wow!
Anyway, both women face each other. The first pulls a dagger from her filthy corset and brandishes it, sneering like a wolf. Suddenly she staggers back, with several slim, red stripes running across her throat. The divine whore stands still, and then slowly folds the dark, lace leaves of her fan. Each rib of the fan is a black stiletto knife, delicately tipped with her opponent's blood.
And that, my friends, was the finest kill I have ever seen.