Kendall was sprawled across her bed, in a cut off 80's inspired sweatshirt and a pair of pink panties.
She read from a piece of paper that looked like it was designed by a serial killer.
Individual letters were cut and pasted to read the following message:
The one who makes it doesn't use it.
The one who buys it doesn't need it.
The one who uses it doesn't know he's using it.
What is it?
A coffin, Kendall thought as she lit a cigarette and crumpled up the piece of paper.
She should have been scared, but the riddle intrigued her.
She undressed and took a long hot shower.
Various cuts and scratches surfaced as she soaped her damaged skin.
The steam from the water clouded the room.
She exited the bathroom, naked.
Hoping Brody was home, so she might give him a private show.
But the condo was empty.
She nearly slipped on a pile of clay in the kitchen.
In fact it was all over the place, and lead to the front door.
As if it had walked out itself.
She glanced out the front window, but there was nothing.
Kendall cleaned up the mess and threw it in the trash.
She slipped a very short, black mini dress on to her wire thin frame and wore her long hair down.
Her make up was always dark, emphasizing the eyes.
The last accessory of the night, her mothers black diamond wedding ring.
Kendall had claimed most of her mothers belongings, after the death.
Her favorite.
Bruce's fully restored yellow 1966 Lamborghini Miura.
When traveling to Hollywood, one must travel in style.
Kendall was beginning to pick up media attention as a socialite.
Since the Kardashian brand had been demolished, she was working on rebuilding the Jenner name.
This meant, cutting all ties with her previous family and life.
The nightlife never impressed Kendall, but it was something she had to do.
She remembered all the appearances Kim, Khloe, and Kourtney, were forced to attend against their will, because it kept them in the spotlight.
So she club hopped.
And mingled with A-listers.
People took pity on her, because of her predecessors.
Kendall had also gained a fashionable following.
Designers wanted her because she was taboo, but she would refuse their offers.
Another trick Kris taught her.
To leave them wanting more.
Kendall was insatiable.
Which worked to her advantage.
Her lust for carnage had faded since mother Kris's death.
But that didn't mean her appetite for pain was gone.
After the photogs got their shots.
And the clubs closed their doors for the night.
Kendall frequented exclusive after hours clubs.
The entrance to her favorite club was down an empty alley.
The Jokes On You.
The name of the club, spray painted across a brick wall next to the entrance.
The front door was a heavy steel door, similar to the front of a meat locker.
Kendall hated walking the alley, because of all the garbage and junkies twitching about.
But three knocks later she was in.
The club was a mix of middle class punks, and rich S&M fetishists.
The walls were painted black.
Black lights illuminated the graffiti, splashed across them from glow in the dark paint.
Electro goth, house music rocked the club as couples danced and fucked across the floor.
Kendall was a regular, and those who knew better stayed away.
But tonight she hoped to draw blood.
The owner, a sleazy Indian man with a British accent, greeted her with a glass of neon pink champagne.
Kendall accepted it while she was escorted to a private booth.
She lit a cigarette while scanning the crowd.
No one had struck her fancy.
A few newbies had spotted her and tried approaching, but bouncers denied them entrance to the booth.
Kendall noticed a young man.
His resemblance to Dave Price was uncanny.
She left her sanctuary and took him by the hand.
Seducing him on the dance floor, she swayed to the music.
Kendall allowed him to touch her, running his hands down her thigh.
She stopped him before he could touch between her legs.
She reached in for a kiss, biting his bottom lip.
The taste of blood exhilarated her.
Kendall licked the wound and lead him down a hallway to a private room.
Whips and screams echoed down the hall, as the couple passed multiple rooms with upside down numbers on the outside.
She stopped at number thirteen.
Before she could enter she spotted a tall, bald man wearing a translucent mask.
Tattooed on his forehead was a giant question mark.
Using green, glow in the dark paint, he spray painted question marks across the hallways walls.
Kendalls prey opened door thirteen, pulling her inside.
She took one more look at the question mark graffiti artist, but he had gone.
Kendall was no longer in the mood.
She exited room thirteen and searched for the man.
Nowhere to be found, she asked the owner if he had seen him.
But she had seemed to be the only one that had.
Kendall left the club, returning to Brody's condo.
Inside, more clay.
Kendall stormed to Brody's room, for answers, but he was gone.
Sister Kylie wasn't in her bed either.
Sweeping up the clay, she splashed some across her dress.
Kendall furiously tossed it in the trash and slipped the dress off.
Standing in her heels, bra and panties she noticed the garbage convulse.
She watched as it rocked back and forth, before tipping over.
The clay slithered across the floor, toward her.
Kendall jumped on the counter, flinging her shoes at it.
In the door way stood a man.
The clay swam to him, attaching itself to his skin.
The man was shrivelled and continuously pulsed.
Daddy's home, he garbled, stepping into the light.
It was Bruce.
She'd recognize her father anywhere.
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