 |
|||
|
|
TONY
I turn on CNBC when I get back from the kitchen with a fresh six-pack.
Thank God for Sal and his weekend ski trips; as usual, the fridge is piled high with leftovers and most of them are still pretty tasty. I've come up to Breckenridge with his family at least three times a year over the past decade, and I've always enjoyed this little place. Remote, but still equipped with all the comforts of home.
The blindfolded girl groans again and I look sharply at her. "Shut yer face honey," I say, through a portable voice-disguiser that I bought months ago.
"Why are you doing…? What are you doing…?" she says again, for what has to be the fortieth fucking time in two hours.
"I'm saving your life, you stupid bitch, now stifle it! I'm trying to watch my stocks."
Her head rolls to one side, auburn hair tumbling down loosely. Fuckin' gorgeous. The sheepshank knots I've tied in the ropes are only enhancing her hot damsel-in-distress act. I had heard her mother was one sweet dish. But this one…. I shift my legs, trying to ward off a boner.
"Does this… have something to do with my mother?" she asks, causing me to look up again.
"Maybe."
"Is she… here too?"
"Maybe or maybe not, bitch, now SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I scream, throwing the empty can of Bud at her head.
My cell rings. I curse again, throw on my coat and walk out into the 8-degree cold to answer it.
"Tony! Hey, where the hell are you my man?" Vito. I roll my eyes. Daddy's little boy.
"Hey Vito. Oh man, I'm down with the flu."
"There is a major shitstorm goin' on, Boss has been asking about you all morning."
"Oh yeah?" I say, with as much interest as I can pull off.
I listen impatiently as he tells me some story about the boss, Morton's, and desserts flyin' everywhere. I can't help but start to laugh as I picture his Majesty covered with whipped cream, then quickly sober up.
"Yo, hold up." I say. "Ol' Fuck-Face was in Morton's last night?"
"Jesus, was the boss pissed. I'm kinda wondering about what's going to happen to me. He's actin' like it's my fault or somethin'. You gotta tell me what to do, Tony. I'm scared, man."
"Take it easy" I say, but I can feel my pulse start to quicken. "What did Palmer want?" I try to ask casually.
"That's just it, Tony. He thinks we've got the girl. The daughter."
"First I've heard of it" I say, after pausing only two, maybe three seconds.
"So you've called up to Wyoming?"
"Not since day before yesterday."
"Oh man, Tony. You know the Boss told you that you should call every…"
"Cool your goddamn jets, Vito. It's under control."
"It don't sound like it's under control."
"It is. I'm going to call that little fuck Gunter and get a status as soon as I hang up. Dollars to fuckin' doughnuts this whole thing is a big bluff from Palmer to buy time. Make us run around in little circles. I'm surprised I hafta tell ya this…" I start to smile a bit. Maybe Vito's going to be in a career crisis soon, I'm thinking. Oily Don Juan motherfucker.
"Tony, do me a favor. Don't fuck with me. Call the boss. ASAP."
I close the cell phone. Shit, this is comin' down faster than I expected or wanted it to. If I don't call his high-and-mightiness soon, it won't be long before he calls Von Helsing himself. Although a part of me would give just about anything to see the look on that fat prick's face when he hears the report.
I turn back to the cabin. I've gotta ditch this fucking cell phone. Tonight.
As I walk in, Janice is bent over in the chair, as far as her pretty body will allow. I stroll over to her till I'm about 3 feet in front of her, and then I undo my belt. I double it over and give her a medium-hard crack on the face. She gasps, raises her head, as blood runs from the corner of her mouth.
"Who ARE you?" she wails miserably.
I stand there for a few seconds, but I don't get the pleasure out of this that his majesty, Lord Pervert, gets. I reach inside my coat pocket for one of the Cubans that I lifted from the Suite on Friday night.
"You can call me… Mr. G." I say, my voice coming through the speaker of the disguiser, low and threatening. I tear off the end of the cigar with my teeth and spit it into her lap, then roll the stick between two fingers, retrieve a lighter from my pocket, and slowly lift her skirt.
JENNY
To stay alive and, more importantly, to stay sane, I have to tell myself that I did the right thing. I repeat this mantra, over and over, but each time I open my eyes and take in my wretched surroundings --- the rack in the corner, the whipping posts, the cattle prods and pokers that ghoulishly decorate the walls --- it seems to be nothing more than an elaborate lie, a fanciful rationalization.
I am bound to the metal frame of a chair by at least 15 different brown leather straps, including the ones that secure my jaw and forehead. My ass is spread wide.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the table where I lay just minutes before, the sparkling saw blade now motionless, blooming like a twisted flower from the warped wreckage of the bracket that had secured and powered the dildo. After an hour and a half of watching the blade slowly advance, spewing pine shavings like a fountain, and listening to its ear-splitting screech, I had given in, telling them everything. I can smell the awful burnt plastic of the bracket even now.
The Commandant had been called down, and he looked extremely pleased. He had touched the edge of my mouth with his glove, still sticky from cum and reeking of tobacco, and then laughed loudly, and for a long time. He then stood back and applauded me.
"Excellent! A wonderful performance, Fraulein! And a wise choice, as well. In just under ten minutes, that blade would have claimed it's first bite of prime pussy meat! No woman has yet to resist the persuasive powers of my saw." He rubbed his crotch offensively.
"You know, now that we're finished, there's one thing I wish you would do for me, Commandant," I said, in a softly cloying tone.
"Yes?" he approached me, looking more intrigued and delighted than I had yet seen him. He began to fondle one of my breasts, kneading it in the soft black leather, as I pretended to arch my back with pleasure.
"Stop calling me Fraulein, you stupid pig. I'm married."
He instinctively raised his hand to strike me, as his thugs moved forward. Seeing that look on his face, like a fat turd stung in the ass by a bumblebee, I laughed. What more can he do to me? I had thought, giggling with involuntary hysteria. There is nothing left to take, or to give.
Stopping in mid-air, he instead put both hands around my throat and began to slowly throttle me, as all traces of lightness, as well as oxygen, vaporized from my grasp. He leaned close and whispered: "Beg pardon, Frau Palmer. Ah, but you may not have a husband for long. What should be of primary concern to you is not your matrimonial status, but the verification of your story. If it does not prove true, the next sharp object you will encounter will be the one between my legs." He then laughed softly, licking my ear repulsively and loosening his grip, as I panted for breath.
"Major," he ordered, as Enrique secured a black satin cape emblazoned with a Scarlet swastika around the villain's neck and shoulders, "Secure her to the chair to await sentencing."
And here I am. Waiting. Until finally the door to the room opens, and a blindfold is wrapped tightly over my eyes.
MR. G
This morning, even after a half-hour steam shower from three gold-plated Moen showerheads, an hour-long soak in my marble Jacuzzi, followed by a two-hour Shiatsu massage, I am still pissed off. I take it out on my manicurist, threatening to have her boiled slowly in acid if she doesn't do a better job of buffing my pinky finger.
Esteven comes to my rescue, as usual, dismissing the girl with a few words in Spanish. Following the warm shave on my terrace, he knots an ascot around the folds of my newly smoothed neck as he tells me that Vito was finally able to reach Tony at 10:30 AM, and has told him to call me back as soon as possible; also that Palmer is still at the county jail, information that gives me an obscene amount of pleasure. I wonder if my contacts on the force will allow me come by to gloat a bit? The thought of him behind bars, with his wifey securely under my thumb, is almost enough to brighten my mood. With an efficient sweep of the Black satin quilted lapels on my Gold silk dressing gown, Esteven leaves to fetch my breakfast.
As I sit at the breakfast table, Vito lights my cigarette with his head slightly bowed. Since last night, the moron has been unable to meet my gaze, a fact that suits me just fine.
"Boss, again, I apologize for last night…" he begins.
"Will you be quiet?" I snap. "It's far too early in the morning for your lame groveling. If you want to be of use, get me that kraut, Von Helmsley, or whatever he calls himself. I'm not about to contact the maniac directly."
Esteven serves me an appetizer of caviar blintzes and Champagne, and then informs me that Tony is on Line 3. I hit the Speakerphone button. "Yes?" I bark, snapping my fingers impatiently at Vito, and then waving him away brusquely. "Go guard the plants in the foyer, you overpaid slab of meat. You should have scads to discuss, seeing as you all share the same IQ level." I tell him, nastily chuckling. He sulks away as Esteven sees him out.
"Good Morning, boss" Tony's voice pipes from the speaker.
"Well, well. It's about fucking time! Where the hell have you been the last day or so? I'm getting ready to call in your backup. God knows that oaf Vito couldn't protect his own genitalia without written instructions."
"I've been in the crapper all night, Boss. Think I hoisted a few bad oysters."
"Never mind that. Is what Palmer said true?" I say, cutting him off. "Does the Kraut have the girl?"
"Didn't Vito tell you?"
"Tell me what?" I say, feeling that I'm truly starting to lose it.
"She confessed to everything. Guess it was the Kraut's infamous table saw that finally broke her."
"Huh…" I say, taking a bite of the fat-laden blintz and smiling ever so slightly, imagining Jenny Palmer sobbing hysterically while awaiting the approach of that hungry steel blade. "I hope it took some time. I'm eager to see the footage." I say, dabbing a pearl of caviar from my lips with an Italian linen napkin, delightedly.
"A few hours. Anyway, she gave him the full address."
"Why didn't you call after you delivered the message to Palmer?"
"I didn't. Vito did."
"Vito."
"Yeah. You know, boss, I'm starting to question that guy's loyalty. And after what I hear happened last night, I'm getting pretty concerned."
"Tony, drop the Peyton Place bitch biting, and tell me where the fuck Janice Palmer is shacked up!"
"Well, I asked Vito, and…"
" And …?" I prod.
"He said he would tell you. I didn't get it."
"You didn't get it."
"No, I…."
I punch the Speakerphone button, cutting the line dead, and then lean back in my chair and fasten another cigarette in my holder.
I summon Esteven. "Send Vito to the warehouse, and then call Freddie and the boys. It's a fine day for a hike in the mountains, and Vito needs to clear his head. I believe we can assist him in doing so."
I notice his usual deferential smile slip a notch, as he lights my smoke, nods, and clears my plate.
PHIL
After sitting on the floor of one of the drunk tanks in the jail for about 3 hours, I am led up to a sterile detention room and seated behind a table.
Two men enter; one is the commanding officer at the arrest, Captain Bernard McCluskey, who, I know from personal experience, is one mean son of a bitch. It was McCluskey who arrested me on the Solicitation charge shortly after I had returned from New York after G's first attack. The other guy I have never seen before; he's younger, and bears a striking resemblance to David Duchovney, the actor, though he's a bit heavier.
They both sit, and the younger man looks down at a file on the table in front of him, and begins to speak. "Mr. Palmer, My name is Lt. John Margulies, Denver police. Before we formally process you, I'm hoping you can clear some things up for us."
"Look, Lieutenant, I really don't get why I'm here. What are you charging me with? Assault with a Deadly Dessert?"
McCluskey stands up and leans over the table, menacingly shaking a finger in my face. "You just watch your fuckin' mouth, mister! Second Degree Assault is nothing to laugh about. One would think someone with your prior arrest history would be a bit more concerned with his future at this point."
"Oh, give me a break McCluskey" I sigh. "I was cleared of that trumped-up charge over a year ago. It was a frame-up just like this ridiculous thing is. What a surprise that you're behind this one, too."
The burly Irishman lunges out, and Margulies puts his hand on his chest, pushing him down into his seat gently, but firmly. "Captain, need I remind you Mr. Palmer has not been formally charged at this point? I think we can all benefit from talking this through."
McCluskey glares at me, sits down, and grudgingly takes a sip from his Styrofoam coffee cup.
"Mr. Palmer, you told the arresting officer that you confronted Mr. Garrimone, claiming that he kidnapped your wife."
"That's correct." I say, as McCluskey squints his eyes and begins to laugh softly. "I don't think a Kidnapping charge is any funnier than an Assault charge, Captain" I add, leaning over the desk, almost tasting what it would be like to pummel this lard-ass to death.
"Oh, come now, Palmer, be serious." McCluskey says lightly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands. "You've been a resident here long enough to know that Mr. Garrimone is one of the most successful entrepreneurs in Denver, as well as the country. He certainly didn't achieve that position by kidnapping the wives of deadbeat whoremongers. Pray tell, how much is Mr. G 'asking' for a ransom?" He nudges Margulies with an amused wink.
"The Captain is right, Mr. Palmer. Do you have any proof of this supposed abduction?"
I'm beginning to feel like I'm in an episode of some '60s Black-and-White TV show, like The Twilight Zone , or The Prisoner , everything gone insane, and Kafka-esque.
"Well, Lieutenant, unless you count when he specifically told me about her kidnapping, I guess not."
McCluskey's face becomes a static mask of hatred, and Margulies looks genuinely disturbed, for the first time.
"And when did Mr. Garrimone tell you this?" Margulies asks.
"Early Thanksgiving Day, shortly after Midnight. I went to his private suite at the Brown Palace, 1404, and he spent the good part of an hour gloating over the information."
Margulies sighs, picks up a ballpoint pen. "Mr. Palmer, I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Garrimone only arrived in Denver last night." McCluskey's irritating smile widens.
"No… no, that's not right" is all I can stutter out.
"Why don't you tell us why you're really bothering Mr. Garrimone, Palmer?" McCluskey cajoles, faux-good-naturedly. "You're acquainted with Natasha Morretti, are you not?"
"Yes…" I answer slowly, wondering where in the hell he's going with this whopper.
"And you know that Ms. Moretti is employed as a Blackjack dealer for Mr. Garrimone at the Diamond Ranch Casino in Blackhawk, Colorado, where he owns a controlling interest at that resort?"
I'm feeling like a bucket of cold water is being slowly dumped down my drawers. I fight to stay calm. "I… wasn't aware he owned that business, and didn't know Natasha worked there, no."
McCluskey stabs his finger triumphantly in my face, as he raises himself from the Green vinyl chair once more. "Liar! You were at the Diamond Ranch last month and propositioned Ms. Moretti! When she declined your solicitation, you became violent and were physically removed. Perhaps you were jealous of Mr. Garrimone's prior personal relationship with Ms. Moretti."
My breaths are coming in short spurts now, and panic crawls up from my gut. "That… never… happened" I say, overwhelmed.
"That's not what the manager of the Casino, Anthony Pataglia, says, Mr. Palmer," Margulies chimes in. "He claims you've had a fixation on her since you began to frequent the casino four months ago. During that time, you've lost a total of…" --- he consulted his file --- "$85,000."
"Don't you find it coincidental that everyone corroborating this mobster's story is one of his employees?" I'm now almost yelling, infuriated by the increasingly satisfied expression on McCluskey's face. He has the contented look of a man getting everything he wants, faster than he expected.
Margulies scowls. "Mr. Palmer, there is no such evidence proving Mr. Garrimone is anything but the most upstanding of businessmen," he says, looking down, but his tone is far from convincing.
"This is outrageous!" I shout, getting up. "I'm not saying another word until I speak to a lawyer."
"Whine all you want about your poor choices and bad luck, pal," McCluskey smirks, "Ain't nothin' gonna change the facts. Even if we couldn't prove your whereabouts --- which we can --- we could nail you on Premeditated Assault alone. Mr. Garrimone is a respected businessman, and you're just a used-up sack-of-shit john with a record!"
He crisply snaps his fingers as the door opens and two other cops enter the room. As they start to read me my rights, I find I can't stand any longer. McCluskey takes the scene in with a contented, sadistic smile as I collapse on the floor.
"Lieutenant" he declares pretentiously, "I'll take over from here."
Margulies looks tentatively at me as if he expects me to say something, to protest. When I don't, he gets up, and slowly walks out, looking vaguely non-plussed.
As the two cops haul me to my feet, McCluskey grips my shirt with a meaty paw and snarls with a disquieting intensity: "Book this stinking piece of dung and take him to a nice comfy cell. But first…. rough him up a bit. Perhaps he could use a shower…" He chortles, rubbing his hands gleefully together, as I'm led from the room.
JENNY
For a while all I can hear are sounds of things clanking, clicking, locking into place. The light that penetrates the very limits of my vision from around the blindfold begins to vanish, very slowly. Finally, the band of silk is removed and I find myself in a small room, bordered by makeshift walls. It is as if I have moved without actually moving. Major Gunter stands nearby, instructing a soldier who is finishing up work on a support beam for the temporary ceiling. He looks over at me, and his shit-eating grin makes me nauseous.
"Mrs. Palmer" he begins, "why do you persist in playing these stupid games with us?" He fondles his swagger stick playfully.
"Major, I have told you what I know. I have no idea what else you could want that I have not supplied. But, if you ask me, I will cooperate."
He sidles up to me and traces my lips with his warm leather fingers, slowly.
"No, you have not, my pigeon. Your daughter is not at the Vail address, if she ever was. Your weak little ruse has incurred a significant amount of time and expense for us, and we are not happy. You will now give us the correct location."
Before I can say another word, he beckons a guard with his finger, who wheels over what looks to be an IV drip, though the bag is filled with a pale Red fluid. Suddenly, I feel there is something under my chair, and a very cold piece of plastic forces it's way up my ass. I scream in protest, but Gunter just titters, tickled by my horror.
"His Excellency wishes to sample your bodily delights personally, in his private chambers, and it is my duty to prepare you for his sovereign pleasure. You must be 'clean as a whistle,' as they say. Let me explain how my little cleansing procedure works."
He walks to a nearby cart and retrieves a wicked looking metal clamp, which he secures around my head. It is equipped with a device to hold my mouth open, and my tongue in place. He then produces two miniature claw-like devices, which are attached to the bondage gear, and fastens them securely to my eyelids, forcing them to remain open. When he is finished, he wheels the IV drip closer, and unhooks a plastic tube attached to a very small metal cylinder. He attaches the tube to a hook from the IV stand, and bends it into place like one would do with a flexible drinking straw, with the tip of the tube only millimeters from my tongue.
"This bag contains Habanera pepper juice," he croons, gesturing pompously with his swagger stick. "If you didn't know, the juice from this little miracle of nature is 100 times hotter than that of it's more domesticated kin, the Jalapeno pepper. As it hits your wet little tongue, the heat will be so pronounced it may simply evaporate on contact. At any rate, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to hold your head steady, while this torture is inflicted."
He turns a valve on the cylinder and a tiny whirring noise begins. I gape incredibly at it… it's a mini-pump! As I watch the liquid begin to be sucked up from the bag, I babble quickly "Please, please, stop. You don't have to do this…" but I'm sure nothing is intelligible behind the gag.
Gunter laughs amiably, as if understanding completely, and pats my shoulder. "Ah, we are not asking any questions at this point, my dear. That will come later. The Omnipotent One wants to savor your misery to the fullest before he extracts the information slowly from you, using only his substantial manhood!"
The first drop hits my tongue, and it feels like liquid fire. I strain desperately but find I can only move my head a short distance. I just wait, paralyzed by the sight of the pump working it's black magic, pulling the foul liquid forth to form another Red pearl that dangles devilishly at the end of the tube, ready to burst.
Now, liquid begins to shoot up my rectum. Although not as intense as the sensation in my mouth, my ass also feels like it's being filled with fire.
"The same liquid," Gunter gloats, clapping his hands together, ecstatically. "Each time you move your head to avoid drinking in that ghastly fluid, a tension sensor will be tripped, causing the pump below you to inject more fire water into your anus. As with all of my fiendish little inventions, you yourself will determine how you will ultimately suffer. But, lest you start feeling too 'in control,' I will complete your utter misery by fitting the room with these…"
He points to two kettles heaped with Red pepper flakes. "Burning pepper can be extremely agitating to the eyes and nose, and these kettles are equipped with automatic bellows that puff the smoke towards you at an annoyingly precise rate. Corporal…." He gestures to a soldier with a gas mask who approaches, carrying a lit taper.
"Have a happy, thorough, and above all, sl-o-o-w cleansing" Gunter laughs. "Keep any information that comes to mind at the fore of your memory during your herbal 'treatment.' I suspect you will be needing it shortly."
He flourishes his stick majestically and exits the room, laughing like a madman.
|
|
|