Tyson

“I’m sorry, what?” Here’s the deal, anyone who’s been around me, or has crossed paths with me, understands that I’m not asking a question that I want an answer to when I say it in the miffed tone I just used. I don’t care what Miller has to say about it, there are no excuses whatsoever for his insolence. What I do want, however, is for him to suffer for even thinking he could do such a thing and get away unduly.

What has me seeing red now, is that I overheard Frank talking about this when I was waiting in the dark, the night I took Hemmi and the twins, but with everything that’s happened since, I’d forgotten all about it.

“What are you thinking, Luca?” This time, I do want a response.

“I’m thinking his dipstick is measuring low and needs to be dunked, if you catch my drift,” he supplies, laughing. Marco, Luca, and I share a look, we all silently agree with the idea Luca has.

“Do it,” I order. My poisonous, sneered tone has Miller jerking around, the clacking of his chains, and the whimper he expels feeds me further into wanting this done. As painfully as can be made possible. “One inch at a time.” The whimpers get louder after my last commandment, but it’s the sigh that catches my attention. “What?”

“He’s not… blessed in that department, so pathetic, no wonder he has to force a woman to lay in his bed,” Luca imparts, aiming a bogus pout at Miller. “My man, you’ve got shit for luck, don’t ya? My problem is, if I can only sink one inch at a time, this will be over as soon as it starts. That doesn’t seem like a fair trade, Tyson.”

“We’ll dip it more than once,” Marco suggests, and Luca’s eyes brighten as he snaps his fingers with a nod.

“Good plan. Let’s do that,” Luca gushes, rubbing his hands together like a madman. As soon as Marco gets the green light from Pops’ right-hand man, he rushes over to put on his protective wear, fills one of the empty tubs, and mixes the toxic components.

I leave them to do what they’re gonna do, and redirect my scrutiny to my nemesis who’s now awake, writhing in pain. “Oh, good, you’re up. I’m gonna ask you something, nod your head if the answer is yes, otherwise, shake it if it's no. You need to be honest with me, I won’t be nice anymore if you don’t. Understand?”

My eyes squint when the fucker tries to verbalize his response, the exact opposite of what I told him to do. Having had enough, I use a catfight move and slap him square across the face, leaving behind an imprint of my palm. It’s downright insulting that I had to use such catty language so he’d understand the semantics of what I’m trying to drill into his thick skull. Since he’s such a little bitch, I guess I should’ve expected it to come down to something as prissy as this. Makes me want to double-check to make sure my dick and balls are still attached, and haven’t run off from the humiliation.

“Did I ask you to talk?” When he stares at me with a blank look, I cup my hand around my ear and bend my torso forward. “I didn’t hear you, Frankfuck. Did I ask you to talk?” I ask again.

He shakes his head, and I nod mine.

“Good. Let’s try this again. Do you understand?” He nods his head, looking dejected. Since I’m such a kind man, I place my leather gloves on my hands, and reach out to pat his sulfuric, ulcerate wound. His piercing howl is muffled, but distinguishable. “That’s quite a high pitch you’ve got there, man, I guess from all of your wails that hurt, huh?”

He vigorously nods his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, and piss begins pooling at his feet. Embarrassment coats his cheeks as they turn pink, not my favorite shade of the hue, but it’ll do. My preferred tincture of red to see on someone I’m inflicting pain on is crimson, but I have faith we’ll get there, so I don’t let this drag me down.

“I’d say sorry, but I’m not.” Striding closer to him, I lift up my fingers and pinch my nose. “Damn, you reek. Your piss has a putrid smell, you should watch your diet.”

He bucks as if I slapped him again, which I didn’t, I’m innocent this time. I can’t help it if he’s got delicate emotions, that’s his defect, not mine.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re not a pussy, are you, Frank?” He shakes his head, and instead of wilting like I thought he would, he squares his shoulders the best he can with being shackled to the rafters. “So you do have a backbone, color me impressed. Here I was thinking you were shifty, and made others do your dirty work for you. Now, onto my questions. Don’t forget to be honest here, Frankfuck. Your acid shower will feel like you were submerged in a mud bath compared to what I’ll do to you next. Were you planning on letting Miller take Hemmingway for himself? Were you aware of what he wanted her for? What he had planned to do with her?”

His hesitation and bulging eyes are my answer. I don’t need his head to move to confirm my suspicions, his stiff and petrified mannerisms say all I need to know. Pivoting, I head to the cupboard and pluck the jar of honey. Then I scan the room, trying to remember where we tucked the ant farm. Not locating it right away, I start to get annoyed, and almost stop my perusal to ask Marco where we put it. As soon as my jaw drops to ask, I notice the square enclosure with a sheet draped over it. It’s no bigger than a tank that holds only one fish, but it’s full to the brim with those biting insects. This form of punishment wasn’t one I planned on using until I’d been thrown by this misplaced memory.

Missing Hemmi and the twins, I was considering only taunting him for a few more minutes before rushing this, and ending his wretched life once and for all. The flag has been waived in my face, one that can’t be ignored, and now, I’m going to charge in like a raging bull.

When I have all the materials needed for this phase of his subjugation, I move my ass back over to Fuckface Frank, twist the cap off the honey jar, and dump the contents over his head. After emptying it, I give the vial a death glare since not all the sticky syrup slid out—a colossal disappointment. Infuriated, I throw it to the side using more power than I estimated, sarcastically sniggering when it shatters and the spraying glass adheres with the honey. Pleased with that unplanned shift in my strategy, I watch with rapture as it slides down, coating his skin. Shards get stuck to his lashes, giving them a shimmering effect as if they’ve been sprinkled in crushed diamonds.

Snatching the sheet off the ant farm, I begin phase two, ejecting them from their home by upturning the box directly over his head, watching while they gorge on the honey’s gooey molasses.

“Have you ever stepped in a fire ant mound, Frank? This is another one of those yes or no answers. Follow directions, don’t let me down by having a lapse in your memory.” He visually gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing as he nods his head. “Yeah, haven’t we all. This is going to be just like that, but instead of them crawling up your body, it’s flipped, and they’ll be going down. I always find inspiration for my next interrogation session when I experiment. You don’t mind being my guinea pig, right?” His enthusiastic nod has me sighing. “I’m gonna pretend like I didn’t see that, Frankfuck. After all, you did swear you weren’t a pussy, so I’ll act like you had a brain fart and ignore it. Sound good?” This time, not only does his head shake, but so does his entire body. “Find that backbone you had earlier, Admiral, you’re going to need it.”

My advice goes on deaf ears, he never stops trembling, looking nothing like a decorated soldier in his position should. Our government isn’t training men, they’re not integrating enough pain into their teachings, how will any men captured by insurgents survive warfare encampments? If the man hanging in my chamber of doom is an example of what they consider their finest and bravest, my hopes aren’t high for the future of our servicemen. Giving him the biggest smile I can muster, I lift the enclosure and offload the insects over him.

“If memory serves, you’re allergic to these, aren’t you?” He’s too busy thrashing around to answer, but thankfully, I don’t need him to, I was only making conversation to help pass the time.

And maybe play with his head a little.

A man’s gotta do something to fill in the void of silence when there’s a conversation going on that’s not being reciprocated. I get bored easily, and that’s how I always find myself in a heap of trouble. Mostly with my brothers. Digging through drawers, playing with other’s tools… etcetera. My hands and mind need to stay busy at all times or I manage to get lost in my head, a tumultuous place no one wants to visit unless there’s no other choice, like when the doc makes me when we chat. The exercises she’s given me have helped some, however, I still find myself roaming. Like now. Nipping it in the bud, I yank myself from my wandering and zone in on shit around me.

Rotating my head, I see Luca using his necktie as a rope and my eyes widen, and then blink rapidly from being stunned. Shaking my head, trying to discern if what I just witnessed was true or false, unsure or not if I was daydreaming… which I’m known to do sometimes. Turning again, and finding that nope, it’s not my imagination, what I saw was real— I’m in awe of his ingenuity, and a little jealous that I don’t know how to do that.

“Holy fuck, Luca! One day, you’re going to have to teach me that trick.”

He has Miller’s left arm tied to his right leg, knots I’ve never seen used before make a lasso around his dick. Every time he moves, it tightens around the appendage, and tugs on it. If the cross of Miller’s eyes is any proof, that shit hurts like a motherfucker.

“One day, when we have time, I will,” he acknowledges, without pausing from making sure Miller’s restrained nice and tight, without any wiggle room.

The short time I was observing Luca’s genius tactic, the fire ants have done their job.

“Ah, Frank. You’re swelling up like a pin cushion! You must feel like utter shit. Damn, you should see what you look like from my side. The human body is interesting, isn’t it? There’s always something new to discover. Ouch, those blisters have popped, they’re oozing, and no offense, Admiral, but they stink. Let me help you out with that, I’ll get them sanitized for you.”

Jogging back over to our stockpile of cleaning supplies, I grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol. When I make it back to him, I notice he’s looking lethargic, and has gone limp. That won’t do. He needs to be alert so he can enjoy the rest of the treatment I’ve prescribed, especially for him.

“Wakey-wakey, Admiral.” I douse him with the clear substance. As the liquid hits his opened lacerations, he squeals like a pig. “Ah, there you are! Happy to have you back in the land of the living. Let’s continue working on that cure for your ailment, shall we? You really should start being more careful. Are you accident prone, Frank?”

Turning my back on him, I don’t check to see if he’s grateful for my help, growing tired of our rapport since he hasn’t been very talkative or responsive behind his muzzle, and it’s a crying shame because I enjoy the screams and pleas from my hostages. Not that it should matter if he reacts or not, his answers and responses are inconsequential, and I’d dismiss them anyway.

When the wooden handle of the tomahawk touches my palm, my rigidness from Frank’s dismissiveness deflates a tad—its weight and design is comfortable, and familiar. The metal from the axe gleams at me, as if it’s winking, and welcoming me, giving me permission to follow through with my plans. It’s enthusiastic to join me, happy that I’ve chosen it as my weapon, thrilled to participate. These feelings inflate my ego, and pull me out of the gloomy dumps.

Knowing what I’m about to do is messy, I remove my leather gloves and replace them with plastic ones, and toss an apron over my clothes, slip booties over my feet, and place goggles over my eyes. I feel like a lab scientist, but I didn’t bring an extra set of clothes with me, so I need to make sure I don’t come across to outsiders as if I’ve been at a butcher shop. I have no desire to draw extra attention to myself, and I always do, even if it's unintentional, and I’m just driving down the streets minding my own business. Nosey fuckers.

Brushing my finger against the sharp blade, I twist and face him, then inform him, “We need to cut away the infected skin. This may hurt a little, I don’t have anything to numb you with. Not that I would, but that’s besides the point, I did think of the gesture… for a second. At least that’ll ease my conscience.”

For the next twenty minutes, I painstakingly chop and peel away the festering areas. Finally, I get the screams of agony I’ve been waiting for. As he wails, I start dancing to the music of his weeping squawks.

Gyrating my hips, I’m in the zone, I do a shuffle to the side and notice one of his bones in his shin is exposed. “Well shit, Frank. We’re going to need to do an amputation of that limb, the infection has gone into your bloodstream, and has meshed with your marrow. There’s no saving it, there’s too much damage. That’s okay, though, Franky boy, you won’t need it where you’re going.” A maniacal chuckle escapes as I start severing his joints. Demoniacal bellows greet my ears, growing in velocity as I move on to the next, finally forfeiting and calling it a day when he’s lost too much blood.

* * *

Luca and Marco had just switched positions when I wrapped things up. Dead dog tired, I disrobed from the outer protective gear, washed my hands, then plopped into my chair with a groan, and lit a cigarette while watching them finish shit.

I must’ve nodded off, because I’m shaken awake. “Marco called in his clean up team, they’re going to drop what’s left of the Aarons at the landfill like you wanted. We’ve overstayed our allotted time, we need to get back to the cabin,” Luca insinuates, peering down at his watch. “Julius is going to throw a fit.”

“Pops will be okay, Luca. His timetables are usually more of a suggestion. He knows that it takes longer when I’m either interrupted, or doling out retribution against someone who’s targeted one of us. Don’t stress, I’ve got this.”

“Then by all means, lead the way. I’m more than happy to step back and let you handle Julius’s temper. Can’t wait to see if you wrangle him in, I’ve never been that lucky,” Luca laughs.

“Watch, and learn,” I return, tossing him a wink to raise his hackles. “It’s all in the presentation.”

He snorts, then says, “Sure it is.” He pats me on the back as we walk out of the room, almost as if he’s commiserating with me. It’s not like I’m fixing to walk through the gallows, Pops is reasonable.

When we pull up the driveway of the house, Pops greets us, but he doesn't appear to be happy to see us, no, he’s past livid and has gone into the stage of fury.

What I didn’t account for, which was my bad, is that when Pops is worried, he doesn't listen, and lashes out. And he doesn’t hold back, he manages to make you feel like you’re an inch tall facing off with a giant when he concludes his ranting.

After being properly scolded by him, I turn, only to meet the eyes of a seething woman.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

“I’d say that sums things up nicely,” Luca states, standing next to me as Pops walks back into the house, tugging Hemmi along with him. “I think it’s time for you to kiss a little ass, Tyson.”

“Can you have a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers delivered to me wherever we’re going?” I ask, thinking it couldn’t hurt to try.

“I’ll make it happen,” Luca promises.

“I’d be obliged, Luca.”

“Don’t worry so much, Tyson. One day, you’ll pay me back for this favor when I call on you.”

“Dammit,” I whisper. “I can’t seem to catch a break.”