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PHIL
No matter how many times I see her, I still can't get over how beautiful Natasha is and tonight is no different. Returning from the bathroom, I give her another once-over. She's wearing a Red strapless dress and matching pumps, her long tanned legs crossed elegantly. We're at the Aztec Bar and Grill, a little all-night Southwestern Tex-Mex type joint on the edge of Arvada, Colorado, a suburb of Denver.
I take a large chug of the Margarita, which sits in front of me, and put my head in my hands, hardly believing I am free from McCluskey's grip, at least momentarily. "I still don't understand how you did it, Tash," is all I can say.
She looks up briefly from the menu that she's scanning on the tiled tabletop, and gives me a mild smile. "Are you forgetting what I did for several years prior to meeting you?"
"No…" I admit grudgingly. "I guess I just didn't know it paid that well."
"Well, let's just say I have a few thousand left to my name, at this point."
"Oh god, I know how you feel" I say, feeling sick. "Um, speaking of which, you're not dealing cards in Blackhawk, are you?"
"Ah… no" she returns, as if I'd made a joke. " That would be a hell of a drive from downtown Denver. Where did you hear that?" she asks, looking puzzled.
"Oh, forget it. Just one more line of bullshit McCluskey tried to lay on me to construct his frame."
"Un-fucking-believable."
"Yeah, isn't it? Again, I'll get you the cash as soon as possible, I promise. I still have a 401(k) I can cash in, and maybe a loan from my in-laws…"
"Let's not talk about that right now," she says, putting her warm hand over mine. "First things first. Let's get some food in your stomach. God, I always knew that pig McCluskey was a sadist, but the stuff you've told me puts it in a brand new light."
I shudder, thinking again of the night in the shower, and my sphincter automatically tightens. "He's a sadist, all right. Really enjoys his work. I just hope we can get this mess straightened out before the hearing…"
"We will…" she says, stroking my hand. "Phil… we will. Look, you took care of me when I was being persecuted by that evil prick, and now I'm going to take care of you. We're going to find Jenny. There won't be any hearing. Trust me."
"I wish I understood how you could be so sure of that."
"Well…. There's something that you need to know."
I look at her expectantly as the waitress arrives with our order: a combination plate for me, and fajitas for Natasha. When the server leaves, she continues.
"I wasn't sure I could tell you this when we talked before, but after I got the call from Margulies, I knew it made sense."
"How… do you know Margulies?"
She sighs, leaning back in the booth and turning her head away from me for a moment. She then looks intently at me.
"Phil, Margulies is a Fed. I've been working as a mole for him over the last year. He's the guy I originally talked to even before we went to New York. He's infiltrated McCluskey's little club, but hasn't wanted to make a move until he was sure he could catch Garrimone, as well. He called me right after they picked you up. Said it looked like a 'classic piece of G-work.'"
"Huh," I say, smiling grimly at the label. "That it is. I guess it explains why I'm here."
"Yeah. Believe me, McCluskey tried to pull every string possible to change the charge against you to Attempted Murder, but Margulies really held his feet to the fire. There were a lot of legal loopholes to satisfy to introduce his new 'evidence' and increase the bail amount, but since I had already put up the 75 grand…"
"Makes sense. So that's obviously not your .22?"
She looks at me wearily.
"Of course" I say, disgustedly. I begin to eat quietly, the burrito digesting as roughly as this new information.
"Listen Phil, I may have an idea where Jenny is, and Margulies knows that. Are you up for a road trip?"
"Now?" I moan, feeling ready to collapse. But, I know she's right. I have to finish this.
"I'm going to try to lead them up to a place where I was taken once by Garrimone's thugs. One of his little hideaways."
"You're sure it's safe?"
"No. But what choice do we have? It's unmarked; off several small mountain roads. There's no way they'd find it on their own."
"Let's go."
"Don't you want to finish up?"
"I'm not hungry. Let's just get this over with."
As we get up to leave, the Tequila seems to be biting back unusually hard and I start to wish I'd eaten more.
MR. G
It's after dark when my limousine pulls up to the front entrance of the Black Lodge. Walking through the glossy burl wood doors (imported from South Africa) and onto the lacquered parquet floor of the entrance hall, I'm touched by how much pride I still have for this place. It had been a large hunting lodge, a floundering commercial vacation retreat just five years ago, coming apart due to years of neglect. I poured almost $3 million into it, including over $1 million to renovate my private quarters at the top of the imposing structure. Sitting on over 40 acres, my palatial wood and glass retreat overlooks an expansive range of pastures and valleys containing a fully stocked wildlife preserve (yes, some endangered), which I primarily use for game-hunting parties. Any resistance I had been met with by top Colorado brass over the past few years has dissolved quickly, as they found that the "city slicker" from NYC was a good ol' boy who liked huntin', fishin' and red meat. These hypocritical hillbillies made a habit of utilizing the place to indulge their illicit bloodlusts both in and around the lodge.
I gaze around the lobby, irritated that there is no one from Von Helsing's staff to greet me. I walk over to a courtesy phone and dial the number of the Kraut's office on the floor just below me. Gunter's faggy little voice answers and, though he tries to act officious, he sounds very surprised to hear from me.
"Mr…. G, so glad you've arrived! The Commandant is expecting you, of course. How was your trip?"
"Fine. Where is he?" I snap, impatiently.
"He's finishing up another round of questioning with Mrs. Palmer, but he should be available short…"
"Are we still on that? My god man, I've never witnessed such a slow interrogation! If I were running this show, that little bitch's psyche would be broken into a million pieces by now."
He pauses, and it delights me in a small way to hear his breath quicken over the phone.
"Ah yes, of course, Mr. G. So sorry. She is proving to be much stronger than we had anticipated…"
"Doubtful. It's far more likely that she's as clueless as you are as to the whereabouts of Janice Palmer," I shoot back. "But, I'll find that out very quickly, I can assure you."
"Please Mr. G, if you would only give me five minutes…."
"Can it, you useless little toad!" I shout. "I'm going up to my suite, and I want your boss, El Presidente, there in under five minutes, capiche ? He's got some explaining to do."
I slam down the phone and summon Brantley to follow me with my overnight bags.
As the golden elevator doors open onto the top floor, I instantly smell cigarette smoke and hear a ringing telephone, and my anger begins to rise. I follow the ringing to the bedroom, where I fling open the large French doors.
Von Helsing cries with surprise as he springs off the bed where Jenny Palmer lays, the front of her body covered with fresh red crop marks. To my horror, my $7500 Brioni robe hangs open on his disgusting, flabby, pasty-white, nude body, the remains of an erection fading quickly.
"Ah, Herr G! A thousand apologies! I didn't know you were coming in so early…"
I stare with outrage at this scene, which looks like a bad outtake from a third-rate porno, as my blood pressure enters the stratosphere.
" What in holy FUCK are you doing in here?" I scream. "Have you forgotten, you incompetent lout, that I never ever gave you permission to use my private chambers, much less to wear my clothes ? Who in the hell do you think is in charge here?"
Von Helsing turns three shades of red and hastily ties the robe close to his form.
"That robe you're wearing was custom made in Italy. There's none like it in the world, and there will never be any like it again! And now you've ruined it with your stinking German seed!"
"I…. I'll… find a way…" he stammers pathetically, eyes wild with panic as he starts to shake.
"You'll find nothing! You'll get your fucking uniform on and go to my office immediately !"
I storm over to the bed, throwing a quick glance at Jenny Palmer who has a dazed, disoriented look on her face. She meets my contemptuous gaze briefly and looks away in fright.
Tearing off my mink and throwing it at Brantley, who looks equally terrified, I head for the Master Bathroom to relieve myself of the Scotch I've imbibed over the last hour in the car, muttering profanities.
TONY
I'm awakened by the sound of a car in the driveway, and of course it's Tash, who else would it be? I don't answer that question precisely because I know the answer to it, and it shakes me the fuck up. I've been lying in bed for 3 hours now, still dressed, unable to sleep, paranoid of every goddamn thing. I swing my feet to the floor, go to the back room to check on Janice (asleep in the chair, or so it seems), then walk out to meet Tasha with my coat wrapped, unbuttoned, around my body.
Sure enough, Phil Fuck-Face is right on the seat next to her, looking like a beached whale: head thrown back, mouth open, and slightly slumped over. I wonder for a minute if he's not dead and I think that it would almost be easier that way.
Tash kills the motor and gets out of the '68 GTO that she's driven ever since I've known her. Fucking hot as usual: red dress, red lipstick, red shoes, red ride.
"Well?" she asks, as I stand there in a coma, "what are you waiting for Tony? Help me with him!" She walks around to the other side of the car and opens the door. Even with the lights fully on in the car, Phil doesn't move a muscle.
"Holy shit, he's out cold. What did ya use?" I ask, actually curious.
"A mixture of Thorazine and Valium," she answers. "On top of an already strong margarita."
"We want him to wake up, right?"
"No duh, Tony. I wanted him out cold for the ride up here."
"Don't get yer panties in a wad, I'm just askin'. Whatsa matter baby, you getting' a case of the guilts at slippin' your ex-beau a mickey?" I start cackling.
"Shut the fuck up, Tony," she says, "Easy for your ass to make jokes, up here in this warm cabin with satellite TV."
"Ah, poor baby," I say, moving close to her and shoving my hand roughly up her dress. She sneers slightly, but doesn't resist as I move my hand quickly to her cunt and begin massaging it quickly.
"Oooh… fuck !" she moans, and her hard-as-hell act falls apart as her nails dig into the back of the old ski parka I've thrown on. We kiss intensely for maybe two minutes, then, as if a switch has been flipped, she's pushing me away. "Later… after."
"OK, I'll remember that."
She gives me a resentful look, genuinely irritated. "I have no idea why I have anything to do with a greasy pig like you."
"Easy, baby," I tease her. "You know what they say: it takes a badass to make a girl's heart beat faster. We've got too much history." I shrug my shoulders, smiling slightly.
"Just take him in," she sighs, as I heft ol' Fuck-Face over my shoulder and start for the cabin.
Once inside, I place Phil in the chair his daughter squirmed in hours before and start to tie him up.
Tash begins to mix a drink for herself. "Vodka. Want one?" she asks.
"I think I'll pass. I hear you make 'em pretty strong," I chuckle.
She says nothing, sinks into one of the leather club chairs by the fireplace.
When I'm satisfied with my knots, I go to join her. "No one really gets you but me, Tash. Might as well get used to it."
She looks at me, and half-frowns, half-smiles. "I suppose you're right. I probably wouldn't have survived all those sessions with Garrimone if you hadn't been there. That little pig always thought it was him that turned me on. Moron's got an ego the size of the Grand Canyon."
"I know what you like, baby," I smile back.
"So how did our little Janice enjoy it?" she asks, still with an edge to her voice.
I smirk. "Not too much, I'm afraid."
She takes a deep swig of the drink. "You did the cigar and ice routine?"
"Just the way his Majesty does it."
"And you left the tools?"
"Uh huh. Cigar, twat hair, razor, everything but his business card." I fall silent for a bit, and I can tell it unnerves her.
"Having second thoughts?"
"No," I lie. "Just trying to get used to the thought of being a marked man."
"Don't think about it. Let's just do this. I've got some other stuff with Garrimone's prints on it that I can plant for our friend Margulies. You've kept your gloves on?"
"Ya suh boss. Just like you."
"OK. It's getting late. We still calling tonight?"
"Yep. Celly's been cloned and ready to go for weeks."
She says nothing, and continues to stare into the fire.
"How long before he wakes up?" I ask, looking over at Phil.
"Two hours. Maybe three."
She finishes the drink and throws the glass into the fireplace, where it explodes with a soft popping noise.
MR. G
I've always liked uniforms. Nothing speaks as strongly of authority or supremacy as a finely made tunic covered with ribbons, braid, and medals. And when you're dealing with this lot, it's not an option. I will under no circumstances be outdressed by a band of paramilitary Krauts paralyzed by past glories, though I must admit it's part of the reason I keep Von Helsing and his goon squad in strudel. Again, the uniforms speak volumes when intimidating unfortunate enemies of my regime.
It takes a good half-hour to don the General's uniform that I have had custom-tailored to match the black SS regalia worn by Von Helsing and company, but I know it will make the Kraut even more nervous to keep him waiting, so I take my time. My uniform has been modified slightly from the traditional pattern. Cut from shiny black satin, it contains over 25 medals and 15 badges collected from various Nazi-philes around the world. I have removed the swastikas, but added a triple-braided lanyard under one arm, a red silk presidential sash that wraps around the waist and over one shoulder, over-sized red satin cuffs with fanciful gold embroidery, and two king-sized epaulettes which rest on my massive shoulders.
Roberto, my Cuban valet at the lodge, dresses me with care, selecting a scarlet red silk French-cuffed shirt and shimmering white silk tie, diamond cufflinks. As I sit on a small dais, he pulls on tall, shiny jackboots that fit over my matching black wool breeches. Roberto is fanatical about detail, but it's completely obvious the little pansy has a thing for me: he practically creams in his servant's uniform as he sheaths my hands lovingly with the white dress deerskin gauntlet gloves, and hands me a gold-laden high-peaked General's visor. After he finally assists me in selecting a particularly long, ostentatious, riding crop, made of black leather and adorned with gold and platinum fittings, he holds the door open for me. I walk slowly to my office, at one end of the floor, my golden engraved spurs making a pleasant jingling sound as my heels click on the marble floor.
Before I enter the office, Roberto gives me a final brushing with his white-gloved hands and says, "Looking magnificent, Sire. I think I should inform you that you did receive a phone call while you were in the restroom. A Captain Mac…" he pauses to look at a piece of paper in his hand.
"McCluskey, yes," I say impatiently. "What did he want?"
"He just said to call as soon as possible. It is urgent."
I roll my eyes, and wave my glove dismissively. "I'm sure it's earth shattering, now if you'll excuse me, Roberto, I have bigger fish to fry…" I force a condescending smile and he bows his head, looking amused and embarrassed at my colloquialism.
As I enter my office, I notice with pleasure that Von Helsing is standing at attention, fully dressed in his uniform, looking obviously uncomfortable. I seat myself and select the biggest cigar I can find in my $5000 Davidoff humidor, a 9-inch Montecristo "A". I purposely take about 3 minutes to cut and light the thing, and then lean back in my chair, blowing lazy smoke rings. After another 5 minutes, I address him.
"Oh, have a seat, Colonel Von Helsing. I completely forgot you were there," I say in as saccharine a tone as I can gather. "Your job performance over the past week has indeed been so slight, I'm afraid it may be necessary to add another dictionary definition to the phrase 'vapor-ware.'"
He still refuses to look at me and seats himself, though I can tell by the way his mouth twists downward that he's puzzled by my little comment. Despite political correctness, it can be fun to torment someone for whom English is a second language.
"I would advise you to look at your betters when they address you, Colonel. It's proper protocol. If nothing else, you Germans should be good for that."
He stares at me coldly, and I have to remind myself that this man is indeed a mass murderer, in a more direct way than even I can claim the title. Despite this, I return his gaze with a small smile, and rock back in my chair.
"So, please… enlighten me. I am indeed curious as to why it has taken 14 men, including yourself, to wrest a simple piece of information from an ordinary housewife."
" General ," he says, saying the word with a slight inflection, as if it were something foreign. "I can assure you we have used every method of humiliation and intimidation. We have experimented with pain infliction direct and subtle, expedient and slow. I can only conclude that she does not have the information we seek."
"Really? How mind-bending." I return, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and rotating my chair slowly around, so that the back is facing him. I puff more clouds into the air. "What are we going to do about this?"
When I hear nothing for almost a minute, I drum my fingers on the arm of the chair, still facing the fireplace that sits behind my desk. "Do you hear that, Colonel?" I pause for a few more seconds, and then raise a finger in the air. "It's the sound of your career being slowly crushed under my boot heel. I'm quite sure that my colleagues in the law enforcement arena would be quite interested to learn your whereabouts. The international agents, especially." I sit and puff quietly.
Finally, a tormented gasp comes from Von Helsing.
"Please… General… I'm an old man…" he whines.
I turn around suddenly and bang the top of the walnut desk with my fist, making him jump slightly.
"You're an old fool, and nothing more!" I shout, shaking my riding crop at him furiously. "If she knew nothing, she would not have broken so quickly. That cheesy table saw routine is out of a comic book! I expect you were also wearing a black cape and twirling a fake mustache!"
Von Helsing is shrinking in the chair every second, looking at the floor, shoulders pathetically slumping.
Taking sincere pleasure in the browbeating, I continue. "Your whole approach is completely wrong. You have at your disposal the most comprehensive set of torture tools, historic and modern, available on the planet! But, concocting a series of tortures is a fine art. It is not a job for a band of thugs. You must start with something small, like starvation, then work your way up to something a bit more intrusive, like sleep deprivation. Then you begin with the mind games, and then and only then progress to more physical forms of torture. You must constantly keep your victim in a state of perpetual fear , always dreading the next torture, sure that it will be WORSE THAN THE LAST! " I'm now towering over him, yelling so loud my voice is threatening to give out. I sit down, shaking with rage, and signal for one of the soldiers guarding my office door. He brings me a shot glass of Bourbon, which I down in one go.
"Idiot!" I say, banging down the glass.
My reverie of disgust is broken by the appearance of Roberto at my door.
"Yes," I say, too exhausted to bite another head off.
"Pardon, Excellency. There is a phone call…"
"I told you, McCluskey can wait."
"Sire, it is a Mr. Tony Pataglia. He says he has what you want, something you will be very interested in. Line 5, Sire."
I look quickly at Von Helsing, and he looks down again. I pick up the receiver and connect the call.
" Yes? Tony?"
"Hi ya Boss." Tony's voice comes through the line cheerfully.
"You're in deep shit, fucko," I say, dropping every pretense of elegance. "Where are you? I'm in no mood for games."
"I'm sure you aren't, Boss," Tony says, almost patronizingly. "I'm gonna make this short, because I have a feeling you'll have this call traced in a matter of minutes."
"Oh, I'm a helluva lot closer to you than a phone line, my boy," I hiss, and I can hear his cool slip a notch. "I'm closing in on your little game very quickly."
The line is silent for a second or five, as I fume.
" WELL? " I shout, irritated that I'm again losing my composure.
"Let's get a few things straight, Vince," he says. My mouth hangs open at his use of my Christian name. "First of all, I'm not your fuckin' boy, so knock that shit off. Next, ol' Phil managed to spring the bail money, but lucky for you, I've got him. Not so lucky, on the other hand, because it will cost you a half mil to get your chubby little fingers on him."
"You... ungrateful insect !" I screech. Von Helsing is staring, now looking completely unnerved. "I have an army at my fingertips! I'll call the other New York families and you'll be dead before sundown. I'll take your family and torture them myself… slowly…." I gasp, feeling small chest pains. I haven't noticed until now, but in my rage, I've completely mangled the cigar, reducing it to unraveled tobacco leaves. I put it out, and then force myself to breathe deeply.
"If you or your half-cocked Nazis come near my family, Vince, I'll go to the cops and back up Palmer's kidnapping story. Simple as that."
I make an effort to control myself, and finally just respond "Fine, you'll get the money, but only after you and no one else delivers Palmer to me personally, understand? I want him here tomorrow by noon. No loose ends."
"No loose ends," Tony repeats back, mimicking me.
I slam the phone down, as my head begins to pound.
JENNY
I'm taken down into the dungeon area again, this time to a small room off to one side of the Playroom. It's an exact replica of a dentist's office, but with no feel-good posters on hygiene or teeth-whitening procedures, and a hideous array of stainless steel objects suspended from the ceiling like a ghastly mobile. Framed photographs of deformed, bloody mouths decorate the walls. On one entire wall, printed as wallpaper, is a large still of Laurence Olivier bending over a terrified Dustin Hoffman, brandishing a nasty-looking dental drill, from the movie "Marathon Man."
Two soldiers strap me into the tightly molded chair with numerous bonds, including over five on my head alone. A large piece of plastic is shoved into my mouth, forcing it open, while another clamp extends my tongue outward. Still completely nude, the front of my body radiates with pain from the savage beating I was given by the Commandant.
The door opens, and the man that had "saved" me from my prior rape struts in. His resemblance to the Commandant is striking. He, too, is fat, bald, and uses a cigarette holder, but his features are somehow harder and swarthier than my previous captor. His uniform bespeaks great importance and I understand immediately that he is the one ultimately behind my imprisonment. He seats himself primly on the small stool to the right of me and grins toothily.
"Ah, Jenny Palmer! How refreshing to finally meet Phil's wife. We go way back, as I'm sure you've heard. Allow me to introduce myself. I am General Garrimone, though you may have heard your husband refer to me as 'Mr. G.'. Almost every organized criminal act in Denver is channeled through me in one way or another. If you participate in any way in these acts, it is a given that I be allowed to wet my beak with a taste of the proceeds. Your hubby made the fatal mistake of tampering with my enterprise and then foolishly shirking payment of his insurance premiums. As a result of his negligence, the protection afforded you and your family by my organization has been revoked."
He paused to casually cross his legs and the harsh light from the fluorescents bounces off his heavy, glossy boots. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he blows the smoke directly into my mouth, causing me to gag. "Wonderfully rich, isn't it? I am a connoisseur of many fine things," he says, beaming proudly.
"As I speak, your husband is being brought to my little pleasure palace. I now only need to obtain your daughter and son to complete payment of your outstanding balance. I know you can help me locate them quickly. My men have assured me that you are ignorant of such information, but they are not as skilled in extracting it as I. If you ever want to use your pretty little mouth or your sweet little cunt again, you will help me. I do not have the patience of the men who have previously dealt with you. I will think nothing of inflicting permanent damage to your body in whatever ways are needed to achieve my goals."
I guess I knew all this stuff, but to hear it spouted in such a nonchalant, gloating manner by this obscene pig of a man was beyond horrific. I began to cry, trying frantically to speak.
The General inhaled the smoke from his cigarette serenely, listening to my pathetic grunting, plainly enjoying my sheer terror.
"Don't try to speak now. I do not wish it. I plan to enjoy myself first, and will give you a chance to speak later. Hopefully you will be conscious when that opportunity arises." He begins to laugh the cruelest, most hideous laugh I have yet heard from a human mouth. "If not, rest assured there will be many other chances."
He waves his cigarette holder in the direction of my pelvis, and a large chromium claw is lowered from the ceiling. It sports very thin, elegant-looking steel pincers, three feet in length. One of the attending thugs attaches the cold metal ends to my clit and then pulls down a cable attached to the back of the claw device. The cable is hooked to a metal loop that protrudes from the strap that secures my jawbone. My eyes dart crazily about, trying to find someone or something to explain this contraption, and what it entails, even though I know deep down that the uniform-clad monster will oblige me shortly.
"A good torture session is like an elongation of great sex, Jenny. The payoff is not in the orgasm, but rather what goes into bringing it about. Shall I tell you what is in store for you? It seems only fair."
I squint my eyes helplessly at him, attempting to implore mercy, but he just laughs delightedly.
"I am going to employ many different methods designed to cause your jaw to move. When it does, a small electrical device at the top of the claw will convert the difference in tension felt by the cable into a scientifically precise measure of movement, which in turn will be fed to the pincers grasping your tender, sweet sex. For you lay people, this means that your clit will be squeezed with a force equal to the movement in your jaw," he concludes condescendingly, sucking smugly on his holder.
I start to wail involuntarily at his diabolical description. But as I do, I can feel the cruel steel close around my flesh, ever so slightly.
The demented dictator begins to chortle devilishly. "See how even the slightest movement causes dire consequences? Imagine what will happen when I start to play with my toys…" A look of supreme evil enters his pudgy face, and he takes another deep hit from the holder. Then, slowly, and with little effort, he brings the ash of his cigarette inches above my tongue and taps with refinement on the lacquered rod held in his poshly protected hands. The ash falls on my tongue, sizzling. A scream rips from my mouth and almost instantly the tension on my aching clit skyrockets.
"While I could enjoy using your mouth as an ashtray most indefinitely, I have other, more creative, ideas," he continues, removing a tray of small metal alligator clips from a nearby utility cart. He carefully applies one to my tongue, allowing the serrated ends to cut villainously into the soft pink flesh.
Another wail of agony, followed by another tightening of the pincers, and an even shriller scream. He repeats the procedure, until I have over ten clips attached to my tongue, then shows me a small mirror, puffing meditatively on his cigarette. My mouth is a mass of blood, and I can feel it start to dribble from my mouth and down my chin. He flicks a longer, hotter ash into my mouth, as if making a free throw, and continues his psychotic hooting.
He then stands and towers over me, looking like a strange, exotic animal, magnificent in his military finery. I can see the saliva on his lips as he selects an industrial power drill fitted with a fine dental bit.
"I noticed you admiring my wallpaper when I walked in. I have only one question for you: is it safe?" He continues his deranged laughter as the piercing squeal of the drill, along with the awful smell of my shredding enamel, envelopes the room.
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