I still don’t say a word, and he begins his chant again. This time he’s whispering faster, like a prayer. But there are no gods in this room that can save him. Not from me or his fate.
Opening my kit, I pull out the syringe, prepping it, and holding it up to the light to ensure I’ve measured the proper dose. Can’t have him dying before I can have a little fun. And still, I say nothing. Speak too much and you can reveal answers, say nothing and they’re almost driven to speak out of fear of the unknown. But I don’t care about his fear, that’s Karl’s and sometimes August’s shit. I want something far greater.
Labored breathing mixes with the dumbass’s ramblings. After the injection, I’ll have silence. At least until I’ve strapped him down.
Before walking over to the whimpering man, I turn the machine on, laying it flat.
I finally say, “You should’ve just talked, but I’m glad you didn’t, or you and I wouldn’t be getting so well acquainted, and that would be a tragedy of epic proportions.” There’s no anger in my voice. While I’m pissed about the lack of answers, wrath won’t serve me here.
I’m at his side by the time I utter my last words, the needle is puncturing the flesh of his neck. The paralytic is only enough to slow movements, but not block pain. I want this fucker to feel it all.
His eyes beseech me for mercy, but that ship sailed and sank like the Titanic.
“None of that. Where’s your chant? How does it go? ‘Our time will come. Our time will come,’” I stutter out, mimicking his pitiful warbles, while I lift and strap his slender frame to the rack.
The Medieval era had many dark things about it. One of my favorites was the stretcher rack. I’ve modernized it, so now I don’t need to be the one cranking the gears to pull at the tendons and ligaments, allowing me to do so much more.
A simple push of a button and the gears turn, pulling his arms up and out while his legs are stretched out. I watch, with glee, as his eyes bulge, screaming the words his mouth can’t utter.
“What, cat got your tongue?” I ask, amused at my dad joke. “No? Not funny? Don’t worry, soon you’ll be making all types of noise. Until then, let’s have a little fun, shall we?”
With my protective gloves on, I set up the ophthalmic speculum, forcing his eyelids to stay open, allowing me to position two dropper valves over each of his crystal blue eyes.
Pushing the button, I crank the gears until I hear the joint separate with a pop, making his bottom lip twitch.
The drug is beginning to wean from his system.
While I wait, I figure I can get a jump on baseball season and work on my swing. I know bamboo isn’t the same as the traditional wooden bat, but tomato…tahmato.
I take my batter’s stance, my body lining up with his and my knees slightly bent. I stand on the balls of my feet.
“Here’s how this is going to work. I’ll get in a few practice swings until I hear you scream. Once that happens, I’ll ask you questions. I’ll drop acid or water in your eyes if you refuse to answer. I like to call it my version of Russian roulette. However, if you choose to answer and don’t lie, you get to be my ball.”
He grunts, and I take that as his consent. One should always have consent before they play.
I pull my arm back, taking aim and landing a nice kidney shot, but he only lets out a little mewl.
“That will not do. I need more from you.”
I swing again. His protests become more pronounced.
“Still not good enough, I need your cries, and I’ll have them,” I state.
Trying something different, I raise the bamboo stick over my head and swing down. A whoosh passes my ear as the stick cracks against his balls-perfection.
“Now we’re ready,” I say. His cries of pain fill my veins with adrenaline. “Who are you working for?” I ask.
Nothing. He says nothing. The corded muscles in my arms flex each time he refuses to answer. It’s better than that stupid mantra, but not good enough.
Pressing the release on the valve, liquid splashes against his exposed iris. I ignore his mumbled protests.
“Relax,” I cajole, “it’s just water. This time, anyway.” Then, I ask him the same question.
He remains silent. Maybe he thinks I’m bluffing.
The next drop fixes that. I watch the acid slide down the tube and pool right at the tip until it forms into a tear-shaped ball. Falling slowly at first, then speeding up, I smile as it sizzles on impact.
A blood-curdling scream bounces off the walls as the acid eats through his blue pupil and lens to the retina.
Standing in his line of sight, I growl, “Playtime is over. Now, answer my fucking questions, or the next thing I do to you will make this feel like a birthday party. Who the fuck are you working for?”
“I don’t know. We were hired and told not to say anything else, but our time will come,” he says between wails.
Too bad for him, I don’t believe a word of what he just said. I drip a larger amount of acid, and his howls are instant. His whole eyeball is gone. The raw flamed socket of his left eye is all that remains.
“Let’s try this again. Who the fuck do you work for?”
This time he’s more forthcoming, “Okay, okay. I was paid through a private account. All communication came from an untraceable number, and the messages would disappear once they were read.”
Fucking hell!
He’s spilling everything, and this time I believe him. Unfortunately, this also means his time is about up. While he tells me what he knows, I’m preparing to give him his last rights.
“I swear that’s all I know. I didn’t even meet the other person until we met at the designated GPS coordinates they sent us. We both followed different ones until we finally met up there. Each location had a recording that left us with instructions.”
I reach for the cage on the cart as the chirping and hissing of the rats cut off his snotty sobs.
“Have you ever heard of rat torture?” I ask, placing the cage on his stomach.
“Please, please, please,” he begs. He should save his pleas for what’s about to come.
Ignoring him, I continue, “It’s when you take rats like these and make them feel trapped in a dangerous situation. And if you know anything about rats, you’d know they’re resilient little shits.”
I move around him, locking the cage in place, before pulling the bottom out, giving the rats nowhere to go. I grab the blowtorch, hang it on a hook right over the cage, and turn it on. The rats sense danger and stir, their squeaks growing frantic.
Shrugging, I say, “So when someone takes a steel cage and heats it, they try to find their way out. You should’ve never touched a selection. That’s where you fucked up first, but where you fucked up royally was coming into this town and thinking you’d ever make it out alive. You should’ve talked earlier then you wouldn’t be here with me. I hope your chant can save you now.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.