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MR. G
"This unexpected turn of events could be highly profitable for both of us, Captain. I am quite pleased," I tell Bernie McCluskey, enjoying the cool, firm feel of one of my many vintage 1915 8" Indian Ivory cigarette holders, through which I'm partaking of an expensive Turkish cigarette. It's a beautiful, unseasonably warm, late Fall day and sunlight floods the open moonroof of my private limousine, as it floats smoothly down I-70, heading west through the Rockies.
"My sincere pleasure, sir. The bail is being set this afternoon," McCluskey announces, and I can hear the pride in his voice over my car phone.
I believe he truly hates Palmer. To me, the man has been, at best, a steady source of miscellaneous income and, at worst, a bothersome insect that had been eating away at the revenues generated by the highly profitable prostitution arm of my Denver crime syndicate. Some might claim my vendetta stems from his affair with Natasha, but they would be wrong. His inordinate suffering was never part of any grand plan, just another amusing side road taken on my journey to complete underground "ownership" of the city, which I'm hoping will be secured shortly following several key "appointments" of trusted associates to top posts in Denver government next Fall. McCluskey, on the other hand, had taken a severe pay downgrade from his superiors following Palmer's inquiries after the disqualified solicitation charges a while back. It is only logical that I now exploit his fabled thirst for revenge.
"How are you enjoying that beautiful luxury car, sir? Running smoothly?"
McCluskey inquires, trying to sound casual. I roll my eyes slightly at his simpering. It's no secret that McCluskey is lusting after the post of Denver Police Commissioner.
"It's fine, very pleasant," I return, quickly. "I'm a bit concerned, however, about the bail amount. It should be high, but not ridiculous. I want him locked up, but I also don't want any red flags raised, either."
"I understand, sir. I've put in the request to Judge Smails. We're asking for
$75,000."
I can't help but cackle. Perfect. Smails is McCluskey's second cousin, and a wicked piece of work. "That should do just fine, Captain. I'm wondering if you could also perhaps place a few feelers out West on the whereabouts of his daughter, Janice Palmer."
"Er… that might be difficult, Mr. G. It could look suspicious, if investigated."
"Why would there be any investigation, Captain?" I say, slightly agitated at his response, watching lazy puffs of smoke rise through my open roof.
"Well… never mind. I have a few men on the payroll that can look into it.
Should I get back to you with the info as soon as I can, sir?"
"No," I tell him, toying with a strand of Tiffany's silky Blonde pubic hair from the other night, that I've stashed in the pocket of my Brioni White linen double-breasted blazer. "Contact Freddy Barnes, he's going to be filling in for Tony as lead Security for a bit."
"Done. Anything else, sir?"
"Yes. Ensure that Palmer is as… heh, heh… uncomfortable as possible during his stay at your local detention center. You will be supervising him personally."
"I was hoping you'd say that, sir. He has already had a rather invasive experience in my showers last night from the welcome committee," he says, laughing softly.
"Well done, Captain" I return coldly, "Keep up the good work and great things will undoubtedly be in store for you next year." I push the END button on the phone, and then buzz Brantley.
"Yes sir?" Brantley's refined English accent comes through the wireless intercom.
"Call Freddy and have him contact the lodge in Wyoming. Have him tell Conrad… Von Helsing" I say, consulting a file on my new HP Pocket PC, "that I will be arriving tonight or perhaps tomorrow." That Kraut better have some answers for me. I want to find that little bitch and finish this as soon as possible.
TONY
This business makes you do crazy things, insane things.
I've been part of it all my life, and as with everything else that goes along with it, you become immune after a while. Ask any made guy and they'll tell you that the first kill is the hardest, and that's true. Up to now, I thought that torture was no different.
I've never done this alone before. I've always been with two or more guys, and I guess that makes it easier. It's especially easy when you're followin' orders, especially if you concentrate on the details. I remind myself that I'm on a one-way street at this point; I've got to complete this job in a certain way or I'll be enterin' retirement as nothin' but a glorified errand boy.
I gag the girl tightly, even though it's not needed in this remote area. I singe the end of the nine-inch Montecristo and take the first puff, blowing the smoke into her face. I find I'm havin' to consciously stop myself from inhaling --- I gave up cigarettes seven years ago after Julie's constant nagging, and though there have been times in the past when I could've really used a hit, I've never given in to the urge. It's been tough. Shit, the boss smokes like a chimney, but it's all this really expensive, strong stuff, and most times the smell just makes me want to puke. So, maybe I've got him to thank for that, if nothin' else.
I sure as fuck didn't think I'd be smokin' this big monster when I swiped it from the boss' walk-in humidor. I'd much rather take the money I can get selling these illicit babies to the occasional yuppie who happens to find his way to the G Spot. They fetch up to $55 a piece and are almost impossible to find, except when ordered in mass quantities, and the boss always has at least 10 boxes aging at a time.
He sure does love shit like this and, even though he usually never gets his hands dirty, the only exception has been when it comes to using cigars or cigarettes. "Nothing is more cost effective and persuasive than a burning ember" he likes to say. He gets a lot of ideas from movies and TV, that's fuckin' obvious, and this little scenario, he told me once, was lifted from "Thunderball," a Bond flick. I bought a copy of the DVD before leavin' town and watched the clip before bed last night. I went to sleep replaying it in my mind and tryin' to remember things he's said in the past when I've watched him carry out this nasty deed in New York, usually on his bed.
I look at Janice Palmer's raised skirt and it pisses me off to find I'm havin' second thoughts about this. The fact that I have a daughter two years younger than her isn't makin' it easier. But it's do or die now, literally.
I pick up the container of ice cubes and shake it teasingly in one of her ears, then remove one, wrap it in a paper towel, and press it against the baby-soft velvet of her hot thigh. She gasps lightly and begins to whimper. I leave it there to slowly chill her flesh, and then pick up the razor and shaving cream.
I put both hands on her silky Pink panties and tear downward, hard. I have to cut the ends, which are made of heavy elastic, with a straight razor. She starts to shake, whispering "No…. no…."
"Hold still, my precious, I don't want to have to hurt you any more than I plan to. You are now my property" I say, sounding very close to the pitch of the boss through the disguiser, but forcing an evil-sounding laugh that even I don't buy. I find my hands are shaking, and stop to pop a Xanax.
I spread a thin layer of cream on her fine dark-maroon cunt hair and begin to carefully shave her, removing selected bits of hair and washing off the cream with a cold cloth. When I'm finished, the hair I've removed has formed the shape of the letter "G." I add the last bit of hair to a pile that accumulates on a napkin resting on a nearby table.
She's crying uncontrollably at this point, and it's starting to unnerve me, since the hardest part is still ahead.
"Little girls who cry and whine will only make things worse for themselves," I warn sternly, imitating the big man's manner and tone. She instantly shuts up, but her bottom lip still trembles under the gag. The fireplace crackles noisily.
I then sit back in my chair and slowly relight the cigar, wondering why in the hell these rancid things cost so much. When there is a substantial ash on the thing, I remove it from my mouth and lean down toward her crotch.
I press the ice sharply against her thigh, and delicately flick the ash from the cigar, exposing the white-hot, pointed, tip. I slowly brush the very end of it against her other thigh, which chokes a high-pitched scream from her mouth.
"My cigar for heat, and the ice for cold, when combined scientifically and slowly… very, very slowly… will give you a good taste of the power I hold over you, my lovely" I recite, as best as I can remember.
I puff heavily on the cigar and then place it fractions of an inch from the melting ice, allowing the intense heat to blend with the frigid cold. As I bring it closer to the flesh, she begins a stifled wail that sounds impossibly loud. I attempt to shut it out and concentrate on giving her an even surface burn, but it's the hardest goddamn thing I've ever done. I have to brace myself against her legs to stop them from shaking, as she starts a series of sharp shrieks. As I pull the cigar away, and brush off the ash, the flesh beneath is quickly turning a mottled purple.
I force myself to do it again and again. After the sixth time, I'm getting a full appreciation for just how twisted the boss' mind is, and though that should help me get through this, it doesn't.
PHIL
Solitary confinement would seem like the best place to be in most prisons, if you'd just arrived there, but I have a sick feeling that, at least in this case, it's worse.
I can still feel them inside me and I grind my teeth together, sobbing, trying to frantically shut it out. After I was led from the questioning room, I had been taken to a vacant locker room, forced to strip, and held facing a wall in the drab gray shower area by two guards. I was raped, while lukewarm, then cold, water pounded my face. I cannot think of one thing I have left to live for. There is little or no chance my family will be alive if I ever get out of here. My mind reels at the thought of what future torments McCluskey and his goons have in store for me. But it's not the first time I've taken it up the ass. And, I think disturbingly, it probably won't be the last. I have no choice but to survive, and it's the last thing I want right now.
I hear the lock on the steel door turn slowly and a young woman guard enters, with an older man.
"The Captain wants to have a word with you, Palmer" she says, expressionlessly.
Saying nothing, I raise myself from the dusty floor of the empty cell and allow myself to be handcuffed. We enter an elevator, and the male guard pushes 9, the top floor. When we arrive, I notice the dark hallways and guess it must be late at night. This is an administrative floor, very old, with lots of decorative woodwork and frosted glass doors. We stop at a pair of double doors at one end of the hall marked DENVER POLICE COMMISSIONER, and this throws me. What now?
We enter a large office suite. As I pass the front reception area, we come to two large, ornately carved doors with elaborate golden handles. Upon entering, I can see a large presidential-looking desk and chair at one end. At the other is a sitting area flanked with large windows, beautifully trimmed in dark wood that also decorates the walls. In the middle of the windows is an expansive wood and marble fireplace set into the corner of the office, topped with a beveled mirror that extends to the 15-foot ceiling. I find I can see a faint image of myself in it, my orange jumpsuit shimmering in the glass, mocking me. The flames from the fireplace periodically brighten the dimly lit room with a ghostly flickering. Before it is McCluskey, sprawled leisurely in a stuffed burgundy colored butterfly-wing leather chair, feet up on a nearby coffee table, sipping something from a large snifter and puffing steadily on a short, fat cigar. He still has his uniform on, but I can see his tie has been removed and thrown on a sofa. He looks completely out of place in this posh room, as an aristocrat would look at a tractor pull. He turns his head only slightly in his chair to acknowledge me, and then returns to contemplating the shooting flames before him.
"Guards, cuff him to that chair," he says, pointing with his stogie at a straight-backed chair near the fireplace. "But first, take him to the window."
I am walked over to one of the side windows and look out at the scattershot array of lights comprising nighttime Denver.
"Take a good look out that window, Palmer," McCluskey says, laughing with bravado. "You'll never see the outside again, at least if I have anything to say about it."
"And what would Commissioner Heath think about you stinking up his office?" I say, unable to contain my disgust for him. He gives me an icy look. "And I don't mean from your cigar" I finish, as the man beside me takes a club from his belt and shakes it quickly in my face.
"Button it, asshole," he warns. "Speak only when the Captain addresses you."
They propel me toward the high-backed chair by the fireplace, and re-cuff me from behind once I'm seated.
"It'll be my office next year. I'm just breaking it in." McCluskey brags. "Like it?" He sweeps his cigar proudly around the room and begins chuckling.
"Yeah, right. In your dreams" I give him, but my stomach erupts in acid at the horrific thought. "How does a low-level bagman like you have a chance in hell of taking Heath's job?" I shoot back, thinking there must be something in that cigar besides tobacco.
"I have friends in high places, let's just say" he smirks, fairly calm though obviously drunk. "Did you really think anything would come of that lame investigation you triggered? IA took one look at the amount of money Mr. G contributed to our retirement fund over the last five years, and dropped the whole thing. Face it Palmer, you're fucked. Or should I say, you were fucked, and you'll continue to be fucked." He began laughing boisterously.
I stare at the floor, silent.
"You can torture me all you want, McCluskey. I'm not telling you a goddamn thing."
"The only thing I want to know, Palmer," he sneers, leaning forward in his chair and lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is was it as good for you as it was for me?" He continues to laugh. "But seriously, I don't need any more statements from you. I have all the evidence I need to prove to the court that you're a serious risk to our little community." He snaps his fingers brusquely at the female guard.
She goes to a table and retrieves a plastic bag marked EVIDENCE, containing Tasha's .22 pearl-handled pistol.
What the hell? I gape at the bag unbelievingly.
"You don't remember us confiscating this from you, do you?" McCluskey continues, smugly. "Just like you didn't remember going to the Diamond Ranch. Oh, Palmer, you poor schmuck, you're in so far over your head. I predict your story won't wash with the judge. But you never know… ol' Jimmy might cut you a break."
"Smails, right?" I ask, pitifully.
He nods his head solemnly. "Yep. He's set your bail at 75 Gs. Of course, you'll have no problem scraping that together, right?" he asks meanly, eyes twinkling with perversity.
I ignore the superfluous question, staring instead at the dark red Oriental rug that gives beneath my aching feet with an opulent lushness.
"Look" I say, deciding that being a smart-ass is not the way to go in this situation. "McCluskey…"
"CAPTAIN McCluskey!" the female guard shouts, belting me viciously in the stomach with her club.
I bend over, almost heaving my guts, as McCluskey leans back in his chair, mouthing a luxurious ring of smoke and raising his eyebrows, with an expectant look on his flushed red face.
" Captain McCluskey," I sigh. "You obviously are close to Garrimone. Please, I know you have a family, so show me just a little bit of humanity and tell me… are my wife and daughter alive? I need to know." I choke back a pathetic sob.
It might just be the light of the room, but I think I see a vague flash of pity --- or maybe just contempt --- cross his hard face. He twists his mouth in distain.
"They're alive… last time I checked."
I break down, unable to hold it anymore.
"My god you are a miserable turd, Palmer" McCluskey marvels, sounding truly disgusted. "If you had the sense god gave a billy-goat, you'd never have gotten yourself into this mess in the first place. Whorin' around, then refusing to give Mr. G what's his on top of it."
"What's his ?" I cry. "He's taken everyone… everything I have!"
McCluskey sighs, and then reaches over to snub out the remains of the cigar into an ashtray. "I don't want to hear your bitching and moaning. You have what you deserve. Mr. G intends for you to have a very unpleasant stay in my prison, and I intend to see that you get it."
"How much is he paying you to set this up?"
He gets up and half-staggers to the couch, picks up his necktie, and begins to knot it while gazing at the reflection of his florid face in the mirror above the fireplace. "Let's just say it's enough to make me the youngest retiring Commish in the history of Denver" he gloats, with a dreamy look of grandeur in his eyes.
"Can I ask… what he's done with them? What he's having done to them?" I implore.
He doesn't look at me, straightens his tie, brushes off his uniform, and dons his Blue Captain's hat. He then strolls casually to the other side of the room, and I know that he means to increase my tension by making me wait. He picks up a riding crop that rests on a nearby counter top, part of some equestrian display of Commissioner Heath's, and perches himself on the front of the expensive desk with one leg dangling, looking as confident as a Nazi General interrogating a prisoner.
"God only knows," he says in an irritating sing-song, pleasantly stroking the crop with one hand, "but one thing is for sure. It will be slow, precise, leisurely, and very creative." He begins to chuckle, then stands and slashes the crop into the air grandiosely. I grind my teeth, knowing that he's just baiting me for another beating from his henchmen. As he is poised to take another swing of the crop, really getting into the spirit of tormenting me, the desk phone rings.
He hesitates a moment before answering: "McCluskey." He listens for a minute, and then says "Moretti?" He tosses the crop on a side chair and stands behind the desk with one hand on his hip. "What the hell does she want?" Silence again. Then, "That's impossible! Give me a minute, I'll be down."
Hope surges through me at hearing Natasha's name; a completely foreign feeling. He slams the phone down and glares at me.
"Get him back to his cell immediately" he shouts. The two guards roughly uncuff me and bring me to my feet.
McCluskey snatches the crop and storms over to me, waving it under my nose threateningly. "Don't get your hopes up, dick-face! You're fucking whore can't get you out of this one. Now that I have your weapon I can turn your Assault charge into Attempted Murder like that !" He hammily snaps his fingers in my face.
Even though I should be terrified, a small seed of relief springs forth, as I watch the large man almost run for the office door.
JENNY
I'm tied to a chair in what the guards refer to as the Imperial Bedroom, a magnificent circular room made of austere marble with plate glass windows easily 40 feet tall that surround me. Even the ceiling is glass. Although I'm restrained, the warm sunlight spilling over me has an almost calming effect.
It seems to have been a long time since the last torture, though who knows? I had passed out several times, only to be awakened by the awful pepper in my nose, mouth, eyes, and ass. It was by far the worst they had put me through, much worse than even the table saw. On that thing, I had felt some semblance of control; that I could end it. This time, I had absolutely none, and I had been prepared for it to go on and on until I died. The Commandant's fiendish laugh had hovered, piped from speakers, like a black phantom over the proceedings. When I hadn't heard his voice for some time (had he gotten bored? fallen asleep?), the machinery around me was abruptly unhooked, and I was slung over the shoulder of the mighty Enrique like a stunned cavewoman. I then traveled upstairs in an elevator and was introduced to a young Japanese woman, whose name I still do not know.
She never smiled once during the entire time I was with her. She wore a beautiful Pink kimono and her lustrous black hair was pinned to her head. When I was presented to her, I was a ragged mess: eyes puffed out and half swollen shut, skin red and blotchy, pain and fatigue radiating from every part of my body.
She had led me into a spacious marble atrium that resembled an old Roman bath, and first asked me to bend over at a railing. I was terrified, but looking around, I could see no threatening soldiers or goons. She patiently explained that she needed to cleanse my insides of the remnants of the pepper juice and apply an internal healing douche. "The pain will leave you," she explained, "but not without this."
She took care to cleanse my insides with her buttery soft fingers. Massaging my clit with warm water, she paused to linger, rubbing in a circular motion with an almost business-like precision. The tension built inside of me, until I released a virtual geyser of cum. Her gentle seduction was the first time I'd experienced pleasure in what seemed like years. She knelt, and finished off the cleansing with her hot, silky tongue.
A warm bath in an immense whirlpool followed, and it was so soothing I fell asleep several times. The woman took care of cleansing every inch of my body with a soothing sea sponge and various expensive botanicals of natural almond, Aloe Vera, and Green Tea extract.
Afterward, I was rubbed with lotion from head to foot, given a complete facial healing and moisturizing treatment, and even a full manicure and pedicure. She presented a full-length mirror and I was surprised by how undamaged I looked, though she would not let me see my back. I couldn't face that at this point, anyway.
The guards had been brought in to retrieve me, but even they were gentler than usual. They brought me to the large bedroom I'm in now, tied me to this chair and allowed the woman to dress me in a overly decorative red silk and lace teddy, complete with garters.
After another hour, maybe more, the Commandant entered the room, looking fit and well rested in a flowing robe of black silk, and a knotted red silk ascot. I had fully expected him, and looked at the floor, wondering what vile tortures he plans to inflict on me now.
Surprisingly, though, he had me untied and seated himself on a large throne chair in front of me, before the massive windows. Made of dark polished wood and upholstered in red velvet, it looked like the throne of a third-world dictator: magnificent lions heads adorning each arm, placed underneath the arm-rests and attached to legs that resembled lion feet, complete with fanciful engraved talons. At the foot of the chair was a large carving of the moon, and at the very top of the 8-foot tall back, a larger carving of the sun, topped with a crown. The whole piece was packed with dense engravings of flowers, vines, and circular motifs.
The fat little man stares down his nose at me with a look of natural, unfettered disdain, and snaps his fingers in my direction, hands pointed downward as if he were summoning his pet pooch.
I sigh inwardly, any hope of resistance sapped. I rise, and then easily collapse on the cold marble, my legs still weak and shaking. I began to crawl toward him, and he smiles slightly, pleased with my easy supplication.
When I arrive at his feet, sheathed in beautiful slippers of black velvet and monogrammed with the letter "G", he snaps his fingers again and says simply "Remove them." I did as asked, and after I slip off the socks, made of impossibly soft cashmere, I find myself staring at his wrinkled, vein-ridden, puffy feet. They emit a musky stench, far from pleasant.
"You will now give me a foot massage," he intones, retrieving his cigarette holder and case from inside the robe. "But first, light my cigarette."
He tosses a heavy gold lighter negligently in my direction and I scramble to catch it, as he watches with an amused, smug expression. I exhale with relief as I finally do, though it pops from my grasp several times. I'm guessing that letting this expensive object hit the hard floor would not be a wise choice for me. I open the thing and reach out to light his smoke, which is not difficult given the length of the holder.
He inhales slowly and blows a few thick smoke rings in my direction, regarding me with imperiousness. "Keep your eyes on your work," he commands, pointing downward. I begin to massage his feet as best as I can, rubbing the sweaty flesh with as much vigor as I can muster.
"My feet are dirty. You will clean them now, with your tongue." I fight to hide my repulsion as I bend down and start suckling his toes. As I do, he begins to lightly chuckle. "You are now starting to realize your place here, Frau Palmer" he grins.
MR. G
We arrive at roughly one hour to sundown at Loser's Bluff, an overlook that's situated behind a piece of prime property that I have purchased just north of Aspen. The estate I plan to build here in two years, once I take my throne as crime chieftain of Denver, will make my current place in Vail look like a housing project. Sitting on 10 acres of prime ski-front property, it will feature such amenities as 3 heated swimming pools, a riding stable, archery range, indoor and outdoor tennis courts, solarium and greenhouse, 18-hole championship golf course, 3 professionally-designed ski slopes, and a main house featuring a grand ballroom, full-size cinema, bowling alley, 4 libraries, 25 terraces, 40 bedrooms, and the largest chamber of pain and pleasure known to man.
Brantley opens the door of the stretch for me and helps me on with a full-length white mink coat, which I raise the collar on and snuggle into against the sub-zero wind-chill of the quickly darkening evening, wearing a pair of expensive Ray-Bans and puffing heavily on a Cohiba for the little heat it provides, if nothing else. Freddy and his men have already been here for quite some time, and their faces are red and gaunt, obviously ready for this to be finished.
Freddy walks over with a confident expression, holding out both hands in a welcoming gesture. He's a kid in comparison to Tony, only a few years into the biz, but very ambitious. Even though he's not paisan, he has worked as a contract hit man for several years, with impeccable references. He's also not afraid or too proud to kiss some ass, and I like that.
"Boss, everything's ready to roll," he says.
"Excellent. Has he been able to shed any light on the reasoning behind the recent failures in his communications with me?"
"He keeps saying Tony's name over and over, boss. And he still claims he don't have the address of the girl."
"That's impossible, Freddy," I say, through clenched teeth that betray my impatience. "I talked to Von Helsing an hour ago. He's fairly sure that his men spoke with Vito, after I asked. They visited the address that was given this morning and found no sign of the girl, though she had just checked out, it seems. Vito obviously has had her taken somewhere, and I want to find out what he's up to."
"Well, boss, if this don't make him talk, I think we can assume he's outlived his usefulness."
"That goes without saying," I return evenly, but I'm too preoccupied with where that little twat could be to register much interest or pleasure in Vito's predicament.
I follow Freddy over to the edge of the bluff, and am faintly amused to see Vito suspended from the thick branch of an Aspen tree overlooking a 3,000+-foot drop into the rocky ravine below.
I can tell that Vito hears me, since his head turns slightly and he begins to mutter "Boss…. Boss…."
I completely ignore him and turn toward Freddy.
"I'm impressed. How in the hell did you get him out on that thing? Very inventive," I marvel, waving my cigar in Vito's direction and patting Freddy on the back with a cashmere-lined black Gucci glove.
"We used that Cat crane that was left by the building crew," he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of the monstrous yellow beast parked just behind us. "Tied a big loop onto his existing ropes and then just lowered him out onto the branch. He's been out there for almost an hour."
"That's a pity," I chortle. "But he still hasn't talked. That's interesting."
"You wanna question him, Boss?"
I glance over at the terrified Vito, and then at the bending branch that holds him, and smirk.
"Nah, I don't have time to mess with that piece of shit. If he knew something, he woulda talked by now. It's Tony who's screwing us."
A look of admiration sweeps into Freddy's face and he gives me a big grin, pointing in my direction and looking at one of his nearby men. "Not the boss for nothing…" he says. "So what should we do with…?" he asks, hooking a thumb toward the cliff.
I smile broadly, removing the cigar from my mouth. "Finish him… slowly. And film it, of course. I wish to enjoy it later. Much too cold out here, my boy." I pat him affectionately on the cheek, and turn to walk back to the car.
Back in the warm leather interior, just before I hear Brantley fire up the limo, I listen with pleasure to the savage roar of the starting chainsaw.
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