torture scene [LA]



torture scene [LA]



My prey awoke with Southern California sunlight blinding him.  He shrugged and coughed.  Red 
spittle dripped from his mouth.  He reached for his mouth finding his hands bound to the strong 
wooden chair under his ass.  His head tilted to the right trying to break the string of spittle that 
shone like a pink stained glass window against the sun-drenched balcony doors.  "Good morning."
  
The bound man was startled and tried to turn his head to see where the voice originated.  I stood 
and walked across the bare concrete floor.  In mid stride I lifted my left foot and extended it 
through the back of his head sending him nose-first into the unforgiving floor.  The man bellowed 
and muttered a muffled plea; his plea muffled by a swelling tongue bleeding from gashes caused 
by loose teeth clamoring in his mouth like change in the leg-less man's coffee-cup.  I pulled him 
perpendicular to the floor by his thick black American hairstyle and examined his face.  His nose 
appeared to be broken again.  I had broken it in at least two places last night.  He was missing five 
teeth.  Mainly incisors and his two front teeth, but a molar or two had been dislodged and were 
hanging tenuously by his fleshy, torn gums.  The black blindfold over his eyes was drenched with 
the dried salt of tears and coagulated blood.  I wondered if one of his eyes might be out of socket, 
but kept my curiosity at bay.  He must never be given an opportunity to see my face.  

"What do you want?  ANYthing PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU!!!!  Do you know who I am?!?!?"  he 
pleaded.  I flicked his nose with my forefinger.  "CHRIST……you're weak."  I was unable to hide 
my contempt for his slobbering propositions. 

… uncontrollable sobbing…

"please….what do you want…" he sniffed desperately trying to stop the blood flow from his 
nostrils.  I stood back in disgust watching the blood and mucus mix with the tears and saliva.  And 
this man wants to be president…..

"I don't know you and you don't know me.  I am here to torture you for 24 hours.  Then I will kill 
you.  Now.  When the twenty-four hours comes about…assuming you survive…you will have a 
choice.  If the pain is your concern I will kill you quickly.  If living the last moments of your 
mortal life, despite the pain, is your pleasure I will give you an hour alone.  Then I will kill you."  
My voice reverberated through the studio.  My, if only Ned knew what I did when I asked to 
borrow his studio for the weekend…

"Do you understand me?"  "Yes," the man gargled—choking on blood and spit, "I unde-th-and."  
The sobbing and the excruciating pain combined to turn this upright citizen of political caliber into 
a simpering fairy weeping at the death of "YMCA's" popularity.  "Excellent.  Sleep if you can, the 
24 hours begin at 8PM.  You have four hours to make amends with your god…goddess…energy 
source…whatever you power hippies pray to these days."  "Sev-th Day Ad-b-ent-isths."  He 
slimed.  "My god man, Seventh Day Adventists…you from the D.C. area?"  "Ye-ttthhh, McLean 
Virgin-yah" he replied.  "I'm going to enjoy killing you.  Rest up, I'll do the same."  With that I 
exited the main room and climbed the ladder into the loft to take a nap.  What you're asking 
yourself is…"WHY DIDN'T HE GAG HIM???????"  There is a porn star, a band, and a man who 
has a dreary sex-life and is obsessed with power tools…especially at 3AM…surrounding this 
warehouse studio.  This is downtown LA…nobody cares…screaming is as soothing as the ring of 
the ice-cream truck to blistered children in Barstow, California.   


51..52..53..54..55..56..57..58..59….

"This man, attacking me, leaps from the shadows.  Pummeling me from the darkness…from 
my left I think…I can't be certain.  I can feel that my jaw is cracked and broken—I can feel the 
bones overlapping under my flesh.  My god if he hits me again…."

I slip from behind him and punch him straight in the ear.  If you've ever been punched here you 
understand.  I moved into position half a foot in front of him.  I told him 24 hours, but more then 
likely I kill someone off in a bout 2 hours.  Centering on his face.  Pulling it toward my roughly 
moving his dropped shattered jaw, I swung back and closed-fisted, drove my hand into the side of 
his face.  I felt the remaining structure of his jaw disintegrate and smash under my fist.  Crimson 
shot from his cheeks as the pieces of his jawbone shredded the skin slicing through…

…e  x  p  o  s  e  d….

There was no cry.  No scream for mercy, only a slow draining sound of blood and mucus and the 
crinkle of shattered bones moving under their torn, fleshy cover.  I repeated this action with my 
right fist—then my left—then my right—then my left— then my right—right—right—left—
right—I have to work on my right, I'm left handed.

"WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME EVERY FIVE SECONDS??????"
Jumpin' jesus on a pogo stick.  No one's ever been conscious enough at this point to make that 
observation.  "My friend you are an amazing human being.  I'm sorry that I have to do these things 
to you.  Since you were brave enough to voice curiosity, I'll tell you.  I did a little boxing in high 
school.  The rhythm helps combat fatigue.  I know I'm swinging every fifteen seconds, and my 
body expects the motion and it becomes fluid, with little or no effort."

"I'll…'ill….iiii….pay youuuu….puh-leeeeeze..´ His accent no longer oozed its southern appeal.  
He no longer sounded like the antiquarian beacon of righteous political clout.  His voice was 
inhuman.  

"You may choose now.  A quick death or an hour of contemplation, and a more painful death…it 
is your choice."  His eyes were swollen shut, his face was raw and exposed completely, his face 
lay shattered, bones moving like the earth's plates trapping nerves and wreaking havoc on the 
central nervous system.  Any man would say kill me now.

"I want an hour."

I was surprised, but respected the man's diligence.  "If at any time you cannot withstand the pain, 
call out and I will end it."

I pushed him sideways.  He landed with a slurping gush on the concrete.  "You have sixty 
minutes."  I pulled up a chair and sat down with a 9mm in my hand.  If he called out, one to the 
temple would take care of it. 


He writhed on the floor back and forth.  I heard him stifling his cries.  He fought valiantly to save 
his meager pride.  Which is why this sort of thing was my pleasure.  I knew I'd enjoy killing him.  
I enjoy watching every last ounce of pride ooze through great crimson orifices in their faces.  
Orifices the size and caliber of my knuckles.  Pride.  Man, what can you say about it?  What do 
YOU have to be proud of…not a goddamned thing.  You are a senseless animal.  Try to act your 
age.  Pride is an antiquated idea, and apparently, to the people I work for, deadly enough to kill 
over.  I'm in the livin' business..no pride for me…weighs down my suitcase.  

58…59…60
Jesus, I really got lost in my thoughts there for a moment.
"Have you taken care of things sir?"
 Muzzled and gurgling in agony…"yessssssssshshhshthttthh…"
I place my right foot on his head like a southern belle lining up the shot in croquet that makes her 
the perfect woman for some cock-sure Georgia farm boy who's parents had the decency to be 
worth 10million$ when he grew up.  Ever play crochet?

I lift a 10-lb sledge hammer back over my shoulder and swing it down…
                                                          
                                                                        …driving it home

Theoretically the force of the surface sends what remains of Mr. Tucker's skull straight through his 
brain rendering his mind clinically …gone///

What you have to wonder about in my line of work is…



What about that four seconds it took me to swing the hammer?
He knew what was happening.
He was fully aware that his death would come in an arc from above his head crushing what 
remained of his skull.
And then the sharpest of all memories— pain.
A split second of agony as the air from the hammer sweeps your face awakening every nerve and 
then every nerve bursts in Technicolor—
lining the wall— 
the legs of the chair —
and dimming the setting sun in the window.

My work here is done.




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