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PHIL
After being given several injections of something, I am now feeling alert, though still fatigued, for the first time in almost a day. I don't know if that's a good thing.
Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that Garrimone had this much power or wealth. It is truly mind-bending. I asked the attending nurses in the medical unit of the compound repeatedly about information regarding Janice or Jenny. They just ignored me, treating me as just another patient with a list of orders from the presiding staff physician to be checked off.
I am waiting in a small room, when a small man with delicate, feminine features, flanked by two large guards, escorts me upstairs.
"Please," I implore him for perhaps the fourth time, "can't you at least tell me what he expects me to do?"
We stop in the middle of the long marble hallway we're currently traveling down and he turns to me, like a parent exercising patience with an unruly child.
"Yes, Mr. Palmer? We have a few minutes before your appointment with the General. What do you wish to know, again?"
"Sir," I begin respectfully, "I only wish to please your superior. But I have no idea what he wants from me. I have nothing left to give him. He has all my money, all my possessions, and now all of my family with the exception of my son. I just don't understand where all this is leading."
"Mr. Palmer, it is not my place to question the motives of a far superior form of being as is General Garrimone. I really have no idea what he plans for you or your family." He takes a deep breath, and looks into my eyes. "However, I may be able to provide some enlightenment on what he expects from most of the guests that visit his throne room."
"His… w-what?" I stutter, not quite believing what I'm hearing.
"His receiving area," he explains, vaguely irritated. "That is where you are going, as I'm sure I've told you before."
I can only stare dumbly, as he continues.
"To be blunt, what he wants is your supplication. He wants you to grovel, to pay tribute. You and your family are now his property. I would encourage you to be respectful and courteous --- do not anger him. It will only make your stay here that much more intolerable."
"I'm sorry, Sir," I say. "I can't do that. This man is a monster. I will not do homage to a monster."
"You will do exactly what we want you to do, Mr. Palmer, is that clear?" he says, his voice steady, not rising in pitch or tone.
I look at the two guards, who move in closer to me, tightening their grip on my arms fiercely.
I choke out a half-sob, half-laugh. "I'll do the best I can."
"It had better be good enough, for your sake. Believe me, it will not be pleasant. The General is far from kind to his enemies, and you are no exception. However, if you persist in showing him disrespect, I can only warn you that whatever he has planned will only worsen in severity."
"What… will he do to my family? I'm only concerned for them. Can you ask him to punish me, alone?"
"Highly doubtful, but I will put in the request. As far as what he will do… I have no idea. All I can tell you, is that it will be, as they say in French, diabolique. " He sighs. "Excuse my English, sometimes it's not so good. I think the word I am looking for is 'from the devil…'"
"'Diabolic'," I tell him, "it's 'diabolic,' and I know what it means," becoming increasingly irritated at his mincing, uncaring manner.
"Good, then you are well-prepared to meet his Excellency. Come along, now," he sings cheerily, waving his swagger stick as the march toward the large golden doors at the end of the hall continues.
Upon reaching the doors, he turns to me a final time. "Oh yes, regarding your son, I regret to inform you that he is now in his Majesty's custody. Sorry for not mentioning this earlier," he says, a slyly sadistic smile creeping onto his lips.
"You… little bastard !" I scream. "What have you done with him?"
As I am held tightly against the two guards, the little prick sidles up to me and says, in almost a whisper, "He's touring his Excellency's playroom. Just being given a look round… for now." He waits patiently, hands folded, taunting me with the ghastly possibility of further elaboration.
I gasp. "You mean his torture room… don't you?"
"That's a somewhat crass way of describing it, but yes, it is for the most part accurate. Keep that in mind. Now, to your hands and knees," he says, pointing at the ground. "And don't look up until instructed to by the Celestial One, lest your family suffer very inhumane deaths," he orders coldly.
Once again completely weak, I fall to the floor, as the doors open slowly. Even though the thought of crawling had initially repulsed me, I am almost relieved now to not have to look up, to not be forced to see the gangster's gleeful face or endure his maddening smile. The marble of the floor is smooth, white, and cool. I lose myself in its cold beauty if only for a minute. Once I get to the carved wood parapet, everything changes.
Smoke from a pungent cigarette wafts into my face and over my lowered body as I stare into a pair of pristinely mirror-polished black jackboots.
"You may gaze upon my royal person, Mr. Palmer," croons G's voice, his silky smooth timbre echoing harshly across the hard surface of the room.
I look up to him slowly, and take in what surely must be the human realization of Satan: well fed, decadently clothed, and supremely self-satisfied. Emitting an evil laugh, he sucks slowly on his cigarette holder and blows a plume toward the heavens, regarding both the rising smoke and me with equal indolence.
"General Garrimone…" I begin, pulling the hated words from my mouth with distaste, "I beg you to spare my family for whatever wrongs I have done to you."
His laugh gains in intensity, as he smugly flicks an ash at my face.
"Mr. Palmer, though your scraping does indeed give me great pleasure, I regret that there is little I wish to do at the moment to relieve your family's impending peril. If you had not persisted in acting out your rage in public, embarrassing my men and me, I could proceed in explaining the rules of the little game you have been brought here to play. Unfortunately for you, your prior insolence to me now dictates that you be taught a final lesson before we proceed to the festivities."
"You can do whatever you wish, General. I understand you are in charge here. I'm only asking… begging… that you make me pay for my supposed transgressions alone. My family has done nothing to harm or dishonor you."
"Perhaps," he concedes, seeming for a minute to consider this notion. "Let's test out your loyalty to your family. Lick my boots."
I grimace, then bow my head and touch my tongue to the leather. I run my tongue hesitatingly over the surface, gagging. When I finish, he raises his foot and instructs me to do the bottoms. Dirt, carpet fluff, and gravel mingle in a rancid cocktail of shoe polish, as he gazes down at me with contempt. After a few minutes, he declares, "That's enough."
I hang my head shamefully as he begins to laugh.
"I've considered your request, and decided to refuse it. Your family will pay for your transgression. You will pay in other ways, Mr. Palmer, but none of the pain I have planned for you is physical."
He grins cruelly and punches a button on his throne-side console, and waves his gloved hand in the air. "Rise from your position of divine supplication, and have a seat. It's show time!"
Lights begin to dim in the room, and a huge display on the opposite wall begins to illuminate the darkening atrium. Crimson-colored clouds float outside in a surreal panorama, in front of a darkening azure sky that hangs suspended behind the glass windows and ceiling, like a carefully designed stage set.
I am secured into a large iron chair with heavy black straps, as the image of two human forms comes into sharp focus on the screen in front of me. Each has black sacks covering their heads, with large holes cut for the mouths. One, a very young girl, is suspended upside down by her spread legs on one side of a gigantic fulcrum. On the other side, an equally young boy hangs by his arms from a steel bar. They are both nude.
"Ah, youth!" Garrimone declares, almost pensively. "What I wouldn't give to have the physical stamina possessed by these fine young specimens, eh, Palmer?" He laughs with a forced staccato brashness. "But, alas, such is the price of success and wealth. We grow older and more comfortable, but lose the vigor we once possessed as young bucks! Still," he concludes with obvious contentment, "I would always choose the cocooned comfort afforded by my wealth over raw, untamed physical strength. That, for the most part, can always be delegated to others."
Whether playing the role of refined despot or crude thug, I realized wearily, G hadn't lost his penchant for long, indulgent orations. I continued to stare at the screen, knowing in the back of my mind that these two people were Janice and Oliver. Yes, in retrospect I think I knew it, but I was too terrified to admit that it might be true at this point. A part of me hoped frantically that the fiend might simply be narrating one of the many pornographic films in his no doubt extensive, private collection.
"Watch the boy on the right, Palmer," Garrimone continues, donning a pretentious gold monocle. "In a matter of minutes, his ass will be lubricated, and one of my personally trained physicians will reach into his rectum and attach an alligator clip to his prostate." He giggles merrily, as my eyes widen with horror. "You can't see it too well here, but…" he pauses and picks up a long, razor-thin wafer, aiming it at the screen. As he lightly taps the surface of the device, producing a sharp beeping tone, the screen separates into two halves, one displaying the previous tableaux, the other a frontal view of the boy. A large, insulated, container of liquid is poised at the tip of his clamped, open mouth.
"Perhaps this is better?" he preens. "All this is pointless if you don't get a good look at what's really going on. I like to call this the Juan Valdez Persuasive Therapy Treatment," he cackles. "Very strong java will be poured down his throat, and very soon his bladder will become quite full. The need to void will become intolerable." He puffs heavily on his cigarette, admiring the cold calculation of his elaborate torture. "As you may have guessed, I am fond of electronics, and the alligator clip that is inside your son's… oops! I let the cock out of the bag, didn't I?" he hoots.
"NO! Please…" I look at him, not comprehending how any human could take pleasure in such unabashed sadism, the weight of this catastrophic truth slowly beginning to crush me.
"As I was saying," the tyrant continues in his blasé manner, "your son has an alligator clip imbedded inside him that also contains a complex sensing mechanism. When he tries to unburden his bladder, to loosen his prostate and permit the flow of urine to his urethra and penis, a charged battery will inject a dose of electricity into his taut, young body, conducted by the metal clip. You see, he is for the most part keeping himself suspended in the air. If he pumps his arms up and down, as if doing a chin-up, he can remain suspended. As you will see…" The smug little dictator aims the remote control again at the screen, and a third panel materializes, running across the right bottom half of the TV, as the screen now displays three distinct, uniquely terrible, images --- the newest one of a pit of rattlesnakes who are dancing randomly under Oliver's bare feet, straining to strike at his toes.
"Your dear sweet boy has substantial motivation for keeping himself aloft," he finishes, blowing several odious smoke rings into the air. "Of course, the surging electricity running through his body after each attempt at urination, will make it particularly difficult for him to achieve his goal. Each time he fails to pull himself up, which he indeed eventually will, the downward weight of his body will propel your beauteous daughter's form, on the other side of the fulcrum, to rise. Of course, the pressure in your son's bladder will not be completely relieved. Indeed, it may become quite painful, perhaps causing a nasty infection…" Again another beep of the remote, and a fourth panel revealing a close up of Janice's exposed vagina appears, turning the giant panel into four separate, but obscenely connected, quadrants.
I unleash an agonized scream of pure insanity, and the General bursts into a spasm of belly laughs, enjoying the specter of my overtaking madness.
"Easy Palmer, I haven't even begun this little torment yet," He hits another console button and instructs a henchman to remove the bags covering my children's faces. "I was going to remove these later, as a final coup-de-grace, but I have spoiled it. Oh well, there is still much pleasure to be had!"
"You sadistic animal !" I shout hopelessly. "God will make you pay for this… someone will…"
"You idiot," he rebukes dully. "In this place, I am god. Now, where was I…? Oh yes." He starts to insert another cigarette into his holder and hits the intercom again. "Bring down the girl's device," he says, as the small prissy officer I had spoken with earlier lights his cigarette, deferentially.
On the new screen panel, a horribly fat dildo wrapped with what looks to be a shining wire, is brought down and positioned above Janice's sex. It is switched on and begins to whirl with great speed, a shimmering silver dervish.
"As she is raised, that dildo, covered with incredibly sharp razor wire, will begin its nasty work on your precious daughter's twat, slowly widening her vaginal cavity with a painful, demonic intensity. As you yourself experienced, Palmer, sexual trauma can have lingeringly cruel, sometimes permanent, physical and mental effects. Providing your children leave here alive, they will have lasting souvenirs of their father's poor choices and selfishness. But don't be too concerned. Although they will experience extreme discomfort and even agonizing pain, this is still a torture, not a deathtrap. I want to see them suffer, and I want you to watch it. I will ensure they get prompt medical attention afterward, providing that you agree to engage me in a gentlemanly bit of competition, of which you will learn shortly."
"You're the most evil cocksucker…" I spew weakly, tears raining down my hot cheeks, my mind spinning at what he could possibly have planned next to top this barbarous set-up.
"Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Palmer, truly you do," he sneers, and then turns to the diminutive officer who fawns expectantly at his side. "Major Gunter, tell the new parlor maid to bring me some refreshment. I wish to enjoy this…"
After only a few minutes, my mouth drops open as my wife Jenny glides into the room, wearing a skimpy, tightly ruffled French maid's uniform and carrying a silver tray supporting a large caviar service and a humongous, iced, Martini glass along with a chilled bottle of Vodka. She stops upon seeing me, then looks over at the screen and drops everything, a terrible scream peeling from her lips.
JENNY
As I'm sitting on the cold floor, surrounded by the remains of the spilled caviar and broken glass, I realize that I have once again fallen into another trap. Staring at the life-like screen, I begin to cry uncontrollably. This had all been barely tolerable when I couldn't see my husband and children, but to now know they are so very close, but rendered unreachable by their various barriers and restraints, is more than I can stand.
Garrimone, that despicable little beast, sits on his expensive, carved monstrosity, cigarette holder clenched, laughing so hard that tears are streaming down his face.
"Thank you Jenny!" he trumpets. "Your information about your son has proven to be very useful to me. I must say I made the right decision with your promotion to helper from slave. Major, have another girl replace the caviar and vodka, please."
Phil shoots me a look that I still have never been able to shake from my memory.
"Phil, it's not what it looks like!" I plead. "I had no choice. He did this to me…" I say, pointing at the bandage wrapped around my jaw.
"Don't listen to her Phil," Garrimone winks cruelly, "you never could trust her, anyway. She sold her own children and made a pretty good profit doing it, too."
"You fucking liar!" I yell at him. "You'll burn in hell for this."
"I doubt it. Major Gunter, escort her to a seat next to her hubby. She's just in time for the show!"
Gunter walks over to me, and takes me by the arm. As he leads me over, he whispers "Remember what we discussed, Jenny. If you put on a good display for his Highness, you may see your children later tonight."
I pull away from him and allow myself to be bound to the chair as Garrimone swaggers over and slowly straddles my legs, all 350 pounds of him, gripping his long riding crop with a presidential air. He takes a large roasted garlic bulb from a nearby hors d'oeuvres tray and pops it into his mouth, smacking loudly. He then forces his slobbering fat lips onto mine, his hot tongue hungrily fishing about, the foul garlic mingling with the taste of rich tobacco, making me gag. "I love garlic, don't you, Jenny?" he inquires with sick pleasure, his elegant glove stroking my cheek mockingly. He truly looks like a pig in heat as he says this.
He then does what I've been dreading the most: he raises himself slightly and unzips his fly, exposing a huge, throbbing cock, at least 8 inches in length.
I stare at it with dreadful fascination, and then look at the unspeakable scene on the screen behind him. An Asian man in a crisp, white doctor's coat is snapping on a rubber glove and inspecting Oliver's privates. I look back into the maniac's face.
"If… I let you… have me," I blurt, "will you let them go?"
His eyes widen in charmed disbelief and he starts to laugh viciously.
"Of course not! If you let me… how amusing! You obviously learned nothing during your little dental exam." He grips his leathered hand around my bandaged jaw and gives it a tight squeeze, forcing a scream from my lips.
"You prick…" is all I can mutter, turning away in tears.
"No, my precious, this is the prick."
I'm sure his cock has grown another two inches as he suddenly plunges it into me, wriggling from side to side, burying it joyfully.
"Leave her alone!" Phil bursts out. "I told you, take me instead. Kill me! Just stop all this…"
"Oh, the fun's just beginning," he retorts gleefully, taking a short fat cigar almost an inch in diameter out of his breast pocket. He bites off the end savagely and spits it into my face, and then takes an outstretched lighter from Gunter's hands and begins to ignite the foul log.
When he has the awful thing going, engulfing us both in stinking whitish-blue clouds, he brings his crop down sharply on my calf. I throw my head back in anguish, as he continues to laugh.
"Giddy up, bitch!" he sings. "Move that little cunt of yours!"
I start to move my pelvis as much as I can underneath the straps, but it's difficult.
"I said ride !" he shouts, smacking me again and digging his spurs harshly into my leg.
He pumps furiously, his slippery, steely rod snaking ever deeper into me with a vile, insatiable hammering.
I choke out a wild scream as I look at the TV and see the "doctor" with his hand buried into Oliver's ass, nearly up to his wrist, my boy's entire body writhing with shock and pain.
"What's happening on that screen, bitch, huh? Tell me, narrate for me." He chomps on the cigar, puffing thickly, and strikes me again.
"I don't know…" I spit out, wonderingly.
"Ask your hubby. He knows," the fiend gloats, looking amused.
I look at Phil, who says nothing, gaping helplessly at the image.
"Come on Phil," Garrimone prods, panting lightly as his excitement climbs.
Phil looks down. "He's got a metal clip on his prostate. He's going to…"
" YES? " the bastard implores, heartlessly.
As Phil explains the situation, my heart nearly collapses and dies. With each sentence he utters, the madman's thrusts get more animated and violent. When Phil begins to describe Janice's fate, the demented animal gives me a final swat from his whip and raises both hands into the air, bellowing a hideous whoop of victory, his cock spraying foul cum with the pressure of a fire hose.
He collapses on top of me; sweat streaming down his flabby face in rivulets. After about a minute, he gets up and carefully tucks away his shrinking member, wheezing hard. He allows Gunter to mop his face delicately with a silk hankie, and then returns to his ridiculously arrayed seat of authority.
As both my husband and I watch our children, the two people we have tried the hardest throughout our lives to support and protect, now being subjected to abject sadism, Garrimone continues to enjoy his cigar, sipping an icy Martini and nibbling daintily on the mound of caviar with a large pearl spoon.
TONY
True to form, that fat faggot McCluskey didn't take nearly as long as I'd feared. Still, it was hands-down the worst thing I've ever been through. Between taking pulls on a longneck and downing handfuls of crushed walnuts, he continued to force his limp dick further down my throat, laughing like the demented psycho that I always knew he was.
Far worse was the pain in my nuts. He had only given that goddamn egg a few small twists, but I felt like my eyes were goin' to pop out of my fuckin' skull.
When he finally blows his pathetic little wad, he backs up and sits on the edge of his desk, watching me closely. It took everything I had to remain still, his shitty cum dripping down my face and onto my chin.
He looks at the two guards, who are standing at attention on both sides of my chair. "Leave him to me, I can handle this piece of shit alone," he brags, acting like he's fucking Superman or some shit.
The two guys don't do it right away, looking instead at each other in a weird way.
"I said get out !" the mick yells, "I've changed my mind. I'm not sharing him. He's much too sweet for that." They turn and slowly walk out of the room, looking back several times.
"Now boy," he says to me, once the door has closed. "Let's see if you're as good as I'd always hoped you were."
He takes a revolver from his shoulder holster and takes off the crap on my head, including the mouthpiece. He bends down carefully to remove the ankle irons.
He then walks behind me and presses his piece to my kidney as he slowly takes my cuffs off.
"Get up," he orders, "nice and easy…"
I do as he says as I hear the gun bein' cocked.
"Now, put your pretty little manicured hands on the desk and spread those legs of yours," he says.
"I always knew you played for the other team, McCluskey," I return, as unemotional as I can make myself in this fucked-up situation.
"Shut up, greaseball!" he raves. I wait for something: a punch, a club, but nothing comes.
I lean my weight forward on the desk as the metal from the gun digs into my side. That motherfuckin' egg is still hangin' off my balls, feelin' like 40 tons of lead. "Why don't you take off your little toy, Bern," I say sarcastically. "It might make me relax a bit."
"Yeah, right, goombah. I don't give a shit about your comfort. Anyhow, that'll come in handy in case you need some motivation to perform."
"You're makin' a big mistake, pig," I say, with as much strength as I can get up.
"No, boy, you're the pig in this little pokey. Now squeal for me!" he yells.
As I hear him take down his shorts, I brace myself hard against the gray metal of the desk and throw my foot back. It connects perfectly, as I feel the softness of his ball sack give easily into the hard flesh of his crotch. God must be smilin' on me as the fat turd staggers back, makin' only pitiful squeaking noises. He falls to the floor and instantly I'm on top of him, grabbing his weapon with ease. I've got both his hands pinned with one arm as I stare into his pain-filled, lumpy red face, eyes barely open. I think for a split second about shoving the gun down his little fairy mouth, then decide quicker is better, and nail him on the head with the butt. His arms flop to his sides and his eyes shut.
I say nothing for about one minute, the silence in the room as icy as a witch's tit in January.
Then I slowly get up, and start to moan.
"Oooh, don't…. you fucker… get the hell off me! You fucking pig…" I recite, as realistically as I can.
I edge toward the door, give it a few beats, and then slowly open it. I clear my throat with a deep hack that's one of McCluskey's trademarks, after years of chain-smokin'.
Both Frick and Frack turn around to face me at almost the same time, and it's one-two, out for the count, as I bash the gun down as hard as I can on the sides of their skulls.
They fall toward me, right in the fuckin' room, and I step out of the way as they hit the floor. I peek my head out in the hall, just a tad, and there's no one in sight. I tell myself there might still be time to bust outta this shithole today and buy a fuckin' lottery ticket.
I haul the two bodies into the room and quickly lock the door. I bend down to start stripping one of the guards, when the pain in my nuts nearly knocks me over. That fuckin' egg. I grind my teeth together and collapse on the floor.
I first try to turn the bottom, but of course it's in the wrong direction, and I have to bite back a scream as I feel the sharp pierce of something metal hit my flesh. I then try the other direction, as hard as I can. No dice. It's solid as a rock. I bend over further, wishin' the fuck I had limbs like a woman, and search the goddamn surface of the thing. Halfway down the side, I find a hole only a bit larger than a pinprick.
I get up, the pain my balls makin' it hard to even walk straight, and go to the desk. I open the drawers, and search through tons of dildos, cattle prods, and floggers. Nothing. On to McCluskey.
Sticking my hands in his pockets, I find his wallet and a key ring, but nothing looks as small as what I need on the thing. I start to search one of the guards and find a Swiss-army knife, weirdly marked with a swastika, and exhale. I open the tools one by one and find a very small metal rod with a few bumps on the end.
I stick it in the hole in the egg and fiddle with it for several seconds, but it doesn't do anything either.
McCluskey stirs slightly, and my blood pressure shoots through the roof.
I take the toothpick from the knife and try it next. Bingo. There's a click and suddenly the oval steel sandwich springs open, like a flower with eight chrome petals. The demented piece of shit has a three-pronged cluster of steel blades that looks like the thing on the base of a blender. I get up slowly and inspect my guys. There's a pretty deep cut, but only a little blood. I get up and walk to the small sink, quickly soaping it down, wincing at the burn. I rinse it quickly with my cupped hands, and turn around.
I'll be a son of a bitch, but McCluskey is standing in front of me, holding his bloodstained head, swaying back and forth in a stupor. He opens his mouth, pointing at me like a drunk, and says, "You'll never get out of…" He falls over again. I club him once more for good measure and return to the guards.
Goddamn, undressing these Nazi fucks is like doin' your taxes. It never ends! Never before have I seen so many useless clothes. I finally finish pulling the tight-as-shit boots off the fuckhead who looks closest to my size, pissed to find I'm wishin' I'd taken advantage of that Jenny Craig pass my wife gave me after the Holidays.
I dress as fast as I can, even though everything's like a size too small. I've got to stomp hard to get my feet to finally go into the boots.
Before I open the door, I look back at all three of them. For some weird fuckin' reason, I hear Mr. G's voice in my head. No loose ends.
I go to one of the cabinets by the sink and find a couple thick wool blankets in the back of about ten bottles of Tobasco, several Fleet enemas, and a big wicked piece of rubber with about 1000 needles stickin' out of it.
I take the blankets out, and walk slowly over to McCluskey, placing them over his face and raising the gun.
JENNY
After the evening is finally over, I walk back to the kitchen still plagued by the nightmare images from the TV. I thank god over and over that I have been blessed with an athletically inclined son. He had managed to keep himself no further than a few inches from that top bar during the entire ordeal. He has to have a iron bladder, but then again, so does his father.
Upon opening the kitchen doors, I am met with a stern look of disapproval from Henri Robespierre, Garrimone's personal chef.
"You stupid woman!" he shouts, waving his arms at me. "Do you know how long I slaved over that caviar presentation, only to have it destroyed by your carelessness? Major Gunter will hear about this! To make up for it, I have given the entire kitchen staff the evening off. You'll be doing their cleanup chores."
He hurls a list at me and stomps off, as I stand there trying to comprehend it. There's enough work on here to keep me up through the night. The playroom is beginning to look better and better. At least I get to sit down some of the time, straps or not.
I go to the supply closet and begin to remove a mop and bucket, and then start cleaning the 2000 square-foot expanse of expensive white-tiled floor.
After maybe fifteen minutes, Gunter throws open the door and begins to pass me without acknowledgement, puffing a cigarette and tracking bits of dirt over the newly scrubbed surface.
"Major," I call out, "when can I see my children? You promised me I would see them tonight."
He walks a few more paces, then stops and sighs dramatically.
"If you recall, Frau Palmer, what I said was that you may see your children tonight. Or you may not. You have earned the latter option with your poor performance."
I stride over to the little prick in anger. "I let that pig fuck me, while my husband watched. That's all we agreed on. I didn't agree to my children's torture."
He regards me with amusement, then removes the half smoked cigarette from his mouth and crushes it out on the just-mopped floor, under his boot heel.
"That was the General's idea, not mine. Do you wish to continue this discussion downstairs?" His eyes glimmer satanically.
I can only open my mouth, forcing nothing out but air.
"A very good choice, Frau Palmer. Now if you will excuse me, I must go to bed. His Excellency has much planned for tomorrow." He begins to walk out the kitchen door.
"What? More torture?" I rasp, visibly shaking.
He smirks. "Nothing so mundane. No, tomorrow you will be serving his Grace as he conducts an amusing little parlor game that should be most engaging to both you and your husband. A game of chance, so to speak."
I can just stand there and cry, not wanting to know anything more.
He throws his head back and a musical little giggle floats from his mouth. "I'd advise you to complete all your chores before sunrise, or there will be severe repercussions. Toodles!" He waves to me and prances out the door.
After working on the floor for another hour, I'm guessing I still have another two to go. I pick up the task list, and scan it for something else to break up the tedium. Item #7 is "VERIFY THIRD SHIFT CB LEADS SET FOR NIGHT". I know that CB stands for cellblock, so I pick up the phone and dial the extension for the floor containing the cells using the laminated directory listing to the side of the kitchen phone. A guard answers on the first ring.
"Gunderson."
"Hi, this is the kitchen. Just asking if there's anything you need tonight before we close."
"OK. A little late, aren't you?"
I check the clock. It's 1:45 AM. I roll my eyes. "Yeah, well, we're short-staffed. Need anything?"
"Yeah, we have one prisoner recovering from a routine of starvation and dehydration. We need the usual tray of carbos and lots of liquids."
"Yes sir. I'm sort of new. Can you be more specific?"
He grumbles and lists a few things, which I write down quickly.
"OK. Will be down shortly."
I hang up, then get the stuff together as best as I can, and head for the service elevator.
When I arrive at the cellblock wing, a man who is most likely Gunderson is there, reading a newspaper at a small desk, a computer in front of him.
He glances up at me only briefly, then walks to the sliding door, and buzzes me in. We walk down the corridor, arriving at Von Helsing's cell. He looks like absolute death. I notice with vague curiosity that he has actually grown a small stubble of hair on his head, implying that he must have shaved his scalp purposely all the time I'd known him. The degree to which he has idolized Garrimone and his shtick is amazing.
Gunderson tells me to leave through the other end of the hall and hurries back to his desk as his phone begins to ring.
I slide the tray gingerly through the horizontal opening at the bottom of the cell bars and watch, almost pityingly, as Von Helsing begins to woof down the dry slices of toast and orange juice.
"Is there… anything else you need, Commandant?"
He looks up at me, snarling at the use of his former title, as if I'd made a bad joke. But his face soon becomes expressionless as he notes my lack of sarcasm.
"No," he says simply. Then, hesitatingly, he adds "Thank you."
I continue to stand there, and he looks up again after a few moments.
"What is it you want, Frau Palmer?" he inquires slowly, curiously.
"The same thing you want, Commandant," I return.
MR. G
Following a fitful night's sleep, I rise and indulge in my usual morning routine of pampering. As I take my breakfast on the Terrazzo-stone terrace, I'm pleased to note that it's another beautifully clear day, almost mid-40s --- amazingly warm for early December. It could not be more custom ordered for the day's events.
After breakfast, I return to my dressing room, where Roberto presents me with several choices for this afternoon's attire. I finally decide on a classic safari jacket: a beautifully smooth, high-thread count beige linen and silk twill mix, with solid gold buttons, ornamental gold bullion decorating the oversize cuffs, and three large pockets accentuated with thin, vertical, gold lamee' piping. Large golden epaulettes, with braid hanging 3 inches, top my shoulders. A white silk ascot adorns my neck gracefully, while flared breeches and riding boots complete the outfit.
Selecting a swagger stick, I exit the dressing area and walk slowly up the circular red-carpeted marble stairway to my gaming room, undoubtedly my favorite spot in the entire Black Lodge compound.
It's an entire floor unto itself, even if it is the smallest living space (1500 square feet) in the complex, not counting the guest bedrooms. I like to describe it as a grown man's version of Disneyland.
At one end is a plush lounge area, done up in classic Edwardian décor: burnished cherry wood covering the walls and ceiling while gold and platinum accents frame the windows and surround the massive limestone and marble fireplace. An array of animal heads and carcasses are scattered around the area, exquisitely stuffed and mounted on expensive wood bases and backboards, trophies of past hunting expeditions. A large teakwood display case, over 14 feet in height, features some of the most rare and sought-after hunting weapons produced over the past two centuries including the cleanly austere 1860 Henry and the big-game ready Marcel Thys 577 Sidelock double rifle (both currently worth $35,000). A large, duplex level, walk-in cigar humidor sits in one corner of the room. The entire area is filled with expensive leather and wood furnishings, mirrors, and antiques.
I walk over to the $50,000 antique Queen Anne pool table and randomly knock a few billiard balls around with my hands; then tap on a console inlaid in the table, one of several control panels that activate the custom-designed $75,000 Bang and Olufsen audio-video system in the room. Several flat-panel Sony televisions flicker on, and I tune them to CNN, before coming to what is truly the room's crowning achievement.
My Madagascar wood poker table sits in a solid glass atrium, which juts out over the rear of the lodge property. Looking out the large, semi-circular plate glass window, it's not hard to imagine that you can see Canada. An immense stretch of prairie can be seen from this overlook, as well as just a sampling of the regional wildlife I have collected: buffalo, elk, bighorn sheep, wild mustangs, moose, and antelope; as well as their counterparts: the mountain lions, bobcats, wolves, fox, and black bear that keep the natural balance of the ecosystem in check within the securely guarded tall walls of my estate. Keeping this massive menagerie tended, controlled, and stocked has proven expensive and financially draining at times, even for me. More labor-intensive is keeping the whole affair concealed from bleeding hearts like the Sierra Club. I currently employ one lawyer and two lobbyists full time to stave them off, legally and otherwise; though they're far more trouble in California than in Wyoming, I've been told.
I seat myself magisterially at the head of the poker table, which can accommodate up to twelve players. I adjust the large, reclining leather chair in which I'm seated with an electric switch, and select a 10-inch custom-rolled Cuban Cohiba cigar from a small humidor set into the base of the table.
At high noon, precisely, the elevator doors open and Phil Palmer and two of my personal bodyguards walk slowly over to the opposite end of the table. While normally, I wouldn't care what Palmer wore, I enforce a strict dress code up here. He's been lent a white shirt and khakis, along with a navy blue blazer and red silk tie. It's simple, but elegant. I've also allowed him to shower and instructed Roberto to give him a hot shave and a facial. He looks so good, in fact, that I almost don't recognize him.
"Phil!" I cry out, as if greeting a long-lost buddy. I rise and go to pump his hand enthusiastically, but he backs away, either in fear or revulsion. I can't tell, and frankly don't care.
"Come on, buddy!" I say, goading playfully, "We're here to have fun! Relax!"
He looks at me, and shakes his head slightly, in what I take to be disgust, and plops down at the opposite end of the table, looking out of sorts in the expensive chair.
I return to my seat, and snap my fingers at one of my men. While he lights my cigar, I rock back, puffing pleasantly, a big shit-eating grin plastered on my face.
"Phil, we're here as gentlemen, to engage in a gentlemen's pastime. Do me the courtesy of at least pretending to have a good time. Order a drink, light a cigar! Nothing but the finest here."
He still says nothing, and his stare becomes rather hateful.
"You're a piece of work, Garrimone," he says, shaking his head again. "You don't have one bit of remorse for what you've done to my family, do you?"
I laugh lightly. "No Phil, I guess I don't. Same as you have no remorse for trying to destroy my Denver enterprises. But, come now, cheer up! Your son proved himself to be a remarkable physical specimen last night. He undoubtedly gets his strength and stamina from his mother's side of the family. I hope he didn't use it all up…" I give him a knowing wink.
He returns a frustrated stare, and then says, "OK, look, let's just stick to the issue at hand. Maybe we can finally clear the air." He seems to be almost pleading with me, and I like that. I lean back and blow a few smoke rings, then wave my cigar, gesturing for him to continue.
"I'm not sure what's behind your crusade to destroy me and my family. Is it that I simply began dating one of your girls; one that you had a personal relationship with?"
"No Phil," I cluck derisively, "it's strictly business, nothing personal. I have very few 'personal' relationships. I know you encouraged Natasha to leave my enterprise. I have it on tape, in fact. Shortly thereafter, several other girls decided they wanted to follow suit --- decisions that proved most unfortunate for them and me. Bottom line is that I lost a hell of a lot of revenue because of you."
"Leaving was the best thing for Natasha. Don't try to tell me otherwise. I saw firsthand what you used to do to her: the humiliations, the beatings, and the torture. And it caused lasting damage. If it didn't, she wouldn't be mixed up with your boy Tony right now."
"Oh that," I lie, waving dismissively with one hand, "Tony's a diversion, nothing serious. But you're wrong about Natasha. You see, Phil old man, she never really stopped working for me. Until very recently, that is." I sit and puff on my cigar, watching the revelation wash over his face in a sick green wave.
"Think about it," I continue, "I have you and your entire family exactly where I want you. She played Tony for a sucker, just like she played you. See Phil, Natasha's my kind of people. Her number one priority is herself. Very simple, very clean."
"Very sick, if you ask me," he says, voice and eyes dead.
"You say tomato…" I laugh, turning my pinky ring slowly on my finger. "Anyway, enough happy horseshit. Should we get down to brass tacks…. the reason you're here today in this marvelous room?" I snap my fingers, and tell the bartender standing nearby to get us a bottle of Johnny Walker Green Label and two glasses filled with ice.
I grin as Jenny approaches from behind Phil, looking tired and strung out, carrying a silver tray, squeezed into a Playboy bunny outfit. She refuses to look at either Phil or me as she pours the Scotch and sets our glasses into the leather coasters inlaid in the table.
"I must say I'm impressed with your wife, Phil," I say, unable to contain my genuine growing admiration for the woman. "She's got incredible strength and endurance. I hope you don't blame her for anything." I reach out and cup Jenny's thigh into my hand, stroking it lightly. To my surprise, she lets me do it, a look of pale nausea clouding her face only briefly.
Phil says nothing, and looks down. "Please, can we just get on with whatever you have planned?" he says.
"If you insist," I sing. "The name of this game is Loser's Bluff. It's a typical five-card stud poker game, but with a few extra rules added to spice things up. Do you play poker, Phil?"
"I have in the past," he says expressionlessly, hesitatingly taking a sip of Scotch with a slightly shaking hand.
"Excellent! Then I don't have to explain the basic rules to you. Here's what I've added…" I motion to the bartender, who comes over to the side of the table. "Sal here will be dealing our cards from the shoe this afternoon."
Sal is a huge lumbering refrigerator of a man, and one of the best card dealers this side of Vegas. He works here at the Lodge exclusively; earning a salary that is almost double what he made out West, including tips. He unwraps a freshly minted deck of cards, and shuffles them surprisingly quickly with his mitten-like hands, dealing us five each from the wood and brass-accented container.
"All usual combinations of winning hands are recognized here: straights, full-houses, kinds, flushes, etc. The key difference in this game is that we're not playing for money."
"Well then, what are we playing for?" Phil asks, and I can tell he's starting to get irritated. I chuckle and relight my cigar, then get up and stroll over to the panoramic view before us.
"Sal," I begin, "show Mr. Palmer the chips we'll be playing with." I stand and stare through the glass, holding my swagger stick behind my back, in a military stance.
"We'll be playing with two different chips, of two colors each," Sal says. I continue to puff thoughtfully on my cigar, as Sal displays them. "There are chips with Oliver's face, and chips with Janice's face. These two people have tremendous stakes in the outcome of General Garrimone's game."
My lips broaden into a playful smile as I listen to Phil's choking disbelief, coming from behind me. I then step back, and gesture to the open expanse of meadow before us with my stick. I unhook a walkie-talkie from my belt, and speak into it. "Bring them in!" I order, as two large black rectangular boxes are transported on the back of a flatbed pickup, into the field. Each box is about 7 feet high, 5 feet wide, and maybe 4 feet deep. The boxes are wheeled out on a ramp from the truck bed and positioned about 30 feet apart, facing the lodge. On cue, a few mountain lions, expressly imported from the Rockies, begin to wander lazily into the open vista. "And now, for the reveal!" I trumpet into my walkie-talkie.
Phil's eyes almost pop out of their sockets as the black tarps covering each box are lifted, revealing his son and daughter, both free from any restraining devices like ropes or handcuffs, yet securely locked in black iron cages.
"You goddamn bastard!" he screams, surging upwards from his chair and making a run for the window. The two bodyguards connect a few economical blows to his stomach and back, and then drag him back to his seat.
"Really Phil, I truly didn't want to have to restrain you for this game. Kind of makes the whole thing seem a bit savage, doesn't it? But one more outburst like that," I warn, "and you'll leave me no choice. Now are you going to behave like a gentleman?"
"If I did, I'd be the only one here," he shoots back.
I ignore him completely, and Sal returns to explaining the rules.
"Both Oliver and Janice have red and green chips assigned to them, giving four types of chips in total. One green chip equals one inch that the cage doors will be raised."
As he says this, I gesture to the glass with my stogie as two pulleys are attached from the flatbed truck to each cage door.
"Conversely, one red chip equals one inch that the cage doors will be lowered. You are required to bet at least two chips: one Oliver chip and one Janice chip. In addition, one chip that you bet must be red, and the other must be green. All of your chips cannot be one color. If you win the hand, orders will be executed that equate to what you bet. Folding, incidentally, is not an option. Calls must be made with an equal number of chips, but do not have to match colors. Let me give you an example. If you have bet a 'red' Oliver and a 'green' Janice, Oliver's cage door would be lowered an inch, while Janice's would be raised an inch. Requiring that both you and the General bet a chip of each color keeps everyone honest, you see."
Phil is now breathing very hard, obviously quite unnerved. He takes a deep gulp of his drink, draining it. I gesture for Jenny, who fills the glass with a shaking hand, crying silently, then takes my glass and turns to the bar to freshen it with more ice.
"What kind of a man are you?" Phil chokes out.
"Simple. A madman!" I say, blowing a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, laughing insanely. "I'm sure that I don't need to explain why keeping those cage doors closed should be of paramount importance to you and your family!" I giggle smugly, rotating in my chair as I point to the roaming lions with my swagger stick.
Phil puts his head in his hands, as tears come to his eyes. I roll mine disgustedly at him and throw a white linen handkerchief across the table from my breast pocket. "Stop blubbering like a baby, Phil. This is no game for an infant. It requires nerves of steel! Finally, one last, but very important rule: I told you that I am a gentleman, and I conform to a very strict, albeit twisted, code of honor!" I grin wickedly. "I absolutely despise bluffing. If you choose to bluff, and you don't get away with it, both your children will have their cage doors raised. However, if you do get away with it, both will have their doors lowered."
"And what happens when you bluff?" he responds hopelessly, drying his eyes.
"Phil, old boy, I never bluff," I say, smiling sweetly while huffing out a perfect smoke ring. "You can bank on that."
Jenny returns with my Scotch and I take it, grandly toasting her as she stares, paralyzed, out the window at her children.
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