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TONY
The first things I notice after I get up the nerve to leave the safety of the interrogation room are those fucking cameras. They're everywhere. I yank down the bill of my plain-looking guard's visor as close to my eyes as I can, then begin to walk toward the end of the hallway with the precise, measured movements of the Nazis.
I reach the large steel door and am about to hit the big red button on the doorframe to open it, when my thoughts return to Tash.
Fuck.
I'm almost positive if I take the time to find her now, I'll never make it outta here. And that pisses me off, because I really don't even know if I'd be havin' these thoughts about my own wife. Yet here I am hung up on a whore that I've known only a fourth of the time that I've been married. But Tash and I have been through some serious life or death shit. It's this that makes me turn around and slowly walk back down the hall.
Each interrogation room has a little plastic pocket next to the door. Some have clipboards, some don't. I check the things, but can't find any names, just prisoner "IDs."
I turn around again and leave. I'm not getting anywhere with this shit, and those goddamn steel interrogation room doors give nothin' away.
I walk down another long hall that runs perpendicular to the interrogation room hallways. As I pass a sign that says DETENTION AREA #3, I find a large double-doored room marked GUARD LOUNGE. Mother of Christ, now I know I've been getting screwed. Even these Nazis get paid time off.
I take a breath and walk into the room. It's brightly lit, and looks kinda like a hospital waiting room. About 9 or 10 guys dressed just like me are watching TV, smoking, or just sitting at big tables, talking. I go to the counter where a bunch of beer bottles are sitting in big, iced bowls. Taking one, I walk over to a table close to a group of four guys havin' what looks to be a pretty intense little meeting. I open my beer and pretend to thumb through a copy of today's Rocky Mountain News .
"So, did you place any bets on it?" one guard asks.
"Nein," another says, with a heavy German accent. "What's the point? Neither of them has a chance of survival."
"I don't know, Hendrick," an older blond man with a slight drawl says, laughing softly. "They were pretty strong last night. I've never seen anyone hold up on that contraption. Kid had what must've been 4 gallons of coffee poured down him. He was gittin rid of it, too, 'lectricity or not."
"Yeah, Carl's right," the fourth guy says. "I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing wound up being played out on the prairie. Can't see that kid giving in too easily."
"Well, his sister's got no chance," Hendrick returns.
"I'll take you up on that Hendrick, my man," Carl says, "if yer in'erested…"
The first guard gets up from his seat. "OK, well, have a good weekend, guys. I'm off."
"Lucky bastard," one of them says.
"Yeah, well, not quite. I still have to do an enema before I punch out. God, those things suck!"
"She good looking?" two of the guys shout, almost at the same time.
" Hell yeah…" the first one comes back.
"She can look like Marilyn Monroe and I still wouldn't do one of those stinking things," Hendrick says. "Those procedures are like an open Biohazard bag. I know several men who've gotten sick giving them. Too many exposed fluids. Those shitty gloves they're giving us now tear too easily. One little open cut…"
"Well, unless you can find me another gig paying $35 an hour cash, be my guest."
"I'll do it," I say, and all four of them turn to stare at me. It's just a hunch… a very slight one. Garrimone always had a jones for giving Tash these things after she had pissed him off.
"Who the hell are you?" Hendrick asks.
"I just started last week," I rise and walk over to him, pumping his hand. "Name is Morricone."
The kraut's mouth turns up on one side. "Welcome aboard," he says cold-as-fuck.
"Huh," the first guard says. "Well, if you don't mind, I could stand getting out of here a little early today. My kid has a big game in Cheyenne."
"No problem," I say, smiling slightly.
"Ah, Corporal Morricone ," Hendrick says, pronouncing the name with an exaggerated pseudo-Italian accent, "are you sure you have the stomach for performing one of these operations on your own people? But then again, you have always had good work ethics." He eyes me like a dog turd on the sidewalk in July as my heart quickens.
I just stand there, smiling wider. "I need the hours," I give him, through clenched teeth, wanting to kill this sauerkraut smellin' motherfucker on the spot.
"OK, well, let's get to work then," Carl says, rising and pulling his pants up over a big beer belly. "Name's Pickering," he says, extending his hand and giving me a big, gold-toothed, grin.
I smile back and shake his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sir," I say, noting the Captains bars on his shoulders.
We leave the lounge and I follow him through another exit door, leaving the wing of interrogation units. After only a few steps, we come to a very large set of steel doors marked INTERROGATION CENTER. For chrissake. Of course, we have to make it as fancy as possible.
I've never been to this section of the compound before, and now I can see why. It's by far the sickest thing I've seen and, believe me, that's sayin' a lot. The room is like a gymnasium, tools and equipment everywhere. High-pitched squeals are coming from one corner, as I see a girl I don't recognize being stretched slowly on what looks to be a modern version of a torture rack. Even though it makes my stomach turn, I can't help but stare. It's nothing but a chrome table, but it's slowly separating into distinct pieces, carrying the girl's arms and legs away from her body in four different directions.
Pickering notices me staring and looks over as well.
"The RC9000. A beauty, ain't it? No manual intervention required. You jes set the dials and press a button." He looks on admiringly, and then frowns. "Of course, some of the other guys are sayin' it's jes the beginnin' of a new wave of machines that will drum us out of our jobs," he says, sighing. "But, there are always procedures like the one we're doin' now that demand skill and technique." He jerks his thumb forward and I follow him to the other side of the room.
"How long ya worked here, Morricone?" he asks, as he strides ahead quickly.
"Oh… about 3 days, Sir," I answer.
"Ah, a newbie! Ever done work like this before? I imagine you have. The General don't hire civilians, usually."
"Yes, Sir. I've had some military training and some CIA background."
"A spook?" he asks, smiling slightly. "That's impressive. What happened? Your pension run dry?"
"No, Sir. Just picking up some extra bucks."
"It is good for that," he admits. "I've worked here more than five years, and enjoy it for the most part. It's up to us to do our parts for this country in whatever way we can."
"Our… country," I repeat, wondering what in holy fuck that's supposed to mean.
"Garrimone is doin' a great thing here. These traitors and insurgents will gang up and wreck this country if we let 'em. Nice to know we've still got leaders with iron fists who'll support that."
"Yeah, I agree." I say. "Huh. I didn't know the General actually was an officer of one of the government branches," I say, knowin' I'm treading on something large, thin, and very dangerous.
"Well… he ain't exactly. He's more of a subcontractor. Only thing I hate is these stupid uniforms," he says, nervously changing the subject. "Seems kinda un-American to me, but it's supposedly for the sake of puttin' up a front, so I guess that's OK. Goddamn things itch like hell, though."
Thank christ we finally stop in front of a room labeled EXAM ROOM #11. Pickering unlocks the door, and we step inside.
It's all I can do to stop a sharp intake of breath as I look straight into Tash's upside down face. She's strapped to a long padded table that's tilted downward at a 45-degree angle. Her head is inches from the floor. She's got a ball gag in her mouth and begins whimpering when she recognizes me. I burn a look into her eyes that I'm hopin' to holy fuck she gets. As Pickering starts to walk to the counter, I give her a wink. She stares back, quickly returns it, and then gets quiet.
"Now, Miss… Moretti," Pickering starts, checking a pile of papers. "Looks like you've been consortin' with a real bad crowd. We have evidence suggestin' you head a little group of supposed 'activists' who're plannin' an obstructive little demonstration at the provin' grounds for Nordec BioChem next month. Is that true?"
He walks over to the foot of the table and pulls over a large plastic jug outfitted with a long plastic hose, attached to a swiveling metal pole set into the left side of the floor. He then picks up a glass bottle, unscrews the top of the jug, and starts to fill it with a clear liquid.
Tasha squirms under the straps, and her whining begins again.
"Loose the gag, Corporal," Pickering orders.
I reach down and undo the ball gag, something I've done a hundred times, but never with these kinda feelings jumpin' around inside.
"I'm… not… I don't know… what you mean," she cries out.
"What's a purty little thing like you doin' stuff like that for?" Pickering asks, raising his black-gloved hands in wonderment. "I don't get why you people can't leave well enough alone. Don't ya got jobs? Seems to me that if ya spent near the energy you put into crap like this inta yerselves, things would be better for all of us."
He takes a large packet of something that looks powdered, fingers it briefly, then rips it open and pours it into the jug. He stirs it quickly with a wooden stick, and then seals the top.
"Not talkin', huh?" he asks. "Well, that's OK. This here little potion will help you to think about jes what yer doin' and how it effects all of us. Maybe you've got some insider info that'll help us break up your lil' group before you do permanent damage to this great economy. An economy that comp'nies like Nordec are tryin' to stim'ilate. Gag her, Corporal," he finishes.
I exhale briefly and with a pained look on my face, reattach the ball.
I see Pickering staring at me intently, givin' me a strange look. He then jerks his thumb at the door, and walks toward me, leading me out.
Once the door is closed, he leans up against it and eyes me learily.
"This too much for ya, Corporal? I thought you were a pro at this."
"Sir, yes Sir. It's not that, Sir. I'm just not feelin' too well. Fuckin' Mexican food for lunch."
"Ah," he says, looking relieved. "South a tha' border and no return ticket," he grins. He pats my back. "You'll be OK. Why don't you finish her off?"
"Yes Sir," I try to say with as much energy as I can bring.
We walk back inside and he takes me to the foot of the table.
"Spread 'er legs and attach her feet to the stirrups," he directs.
I do it, as he brings the flexible rubber tip that protrudes from the end of the jug hose closer to Tasha's asshole, and then shoves it in roughly. He then approaches a smaller plastic bottle, attached to an equally small hose, mounted on another swiveling stand to Tasha's right and opens the top. He passes me a tiny glass bottle of yellowish, thick liquid.
"Pour that in there for me and then attach the output to the input on this jug hose," he instructs, pointing at a small intake valve mounted on the side of the larger hose.
He then walks back to Tasha, gives her a pat on the cheek, and then smiles.
"Ever had an enema, little girl?" he asks, gently.
She looks at him and nods.
"Well, you ain't never had one like this before!" He throws his head back and cackles loudly. "That big ol' jug there contains yer typical enema mix: lots a saline and a mighty strong laxative --- magnes'um citrate, I think it is --- about 4 times the strength used in a regular dose of the stuff for someone with rocks in 'is gut."
He slowly lets his hands wander down Tasha's nude body, and then starts to squeeze one of her nipples. "Hot damn, them are some mighty bodacious ta-tas, as some of my pals in Texas like to say!" he laughs, looking at me with pure ecstasy on his deranged fuckin' face. I force out a chuckle and grin stiffly. "Maybe the Corporal can work on these later…" he says and, giving me a big wink, reaches down to suckle the swollen nipple with his teeth.
I've got the smaller bottle filled and the tiny hose attached, and I watch as the shitty goo begins to dribble like molasses, making it's way toward the larger jug hose.
Pickering gets up and gives her a kiss on the cheek, then pats it.
"As I was sayin', this ain't no ord'nery enema. Reg'lar ones go in purty fast and you're puttin' 'em out purty fast. What the Corporal there added is somethin' that will slow this whole thing down for ya. Really let ya think about what you wanna do with yer life. Ya see… that ther' is liquid cement." He starts up this deep, rumbling, sicko laugh as Tash suddenly begins to strain tightly at her bonds.
I can only stare at the yellow shit, wishin' to god I had stalled him or something.
"As that ther' enema fills you up, you're going to have a huge urge to take a dump in about 5 minutes, maybe sooner. But since you're not in exac'ly a great position to do that," he pauses, laughing a harsh, hoarse laugh, "it's gonna be mighty hard. 'Course that there laxative might help you out a bit. But chances are it's only gonna increase the pain, since your insides will be slowly turnin' into a plaster cast!"
He walks over to me and slaps my back. I'm tryin' to look amused, laughing in a low voice, but I'm tearing myself up inside looking at Tasha's wild, panicked eyes.
"Yeah, you'll get plenty of time to think about yer place in our little society, sweetheart. But don't think too long… in about 10 or 15 minutes, your bowels 'r' gonna be so rock hard, they'll have to take a chisel to ya! Corporal, there are some pictures of operations we've had to perform jes like that on people who were more than a mite stubborn. Show 'em to her."
He walks to the foot of the table and turns the valve on the large jug, starting the flow of liquid, smiling evilly at Tasha.
I walk to the counter and pick up a series of glossy, truly fucked-up still pictures, and show them to Tasha, as Pickering takes a seat and lights a shitty little cigarillo with a plastic tip attached. I turn her head toward the pictures more than a few times, as her groans begin to increase in volume. Pickering just sits there like King Shit, cluckin' like some wacko rooster in a hen house. After I don't know how many minutes pass, he crushes out the putrid little weed and gets up. "I'm gonna go take a dump, myself. Man, it'll feel good, too!" He laughs again, and starts to amble out the door.
As he reaches for the knob, I take two giant steps toward him and club him on the head with my gun butt. Expecting him to go down, it takes me completely off guard as he does a little shuffle with his feet, then instantly pins me to the wall of the room, right behind Tasha's head. Her eyes are like saucers. I knee the fuckhead in the groin, and he lands right on top of Tasha, his fat pig of a body breaking the table support, sending all the attached shit tumblin' down. I straddle him and start beating the living crap out of his forehead. In a few seconds, his eyes get wide as I realize I'm not getting the goddamn piece out of his skull again for one more blow.
I'm over to Tasha, rippin' the tubes out of her as fast as I can. I throw a hospital gown at her, then snatch Pickering's weapon.
She looks ready to pass out. I steady her, and then give her a big hug. She breaks away and then runs over to a big metal bowl sitting on the counter, throws it to the floor, squats, and relieves herself.
She returns and collapses into my arms. "Oh god, it hurts!" she moans. She starts to shake, and I lightly slap her face.
"Honey, listen to me. You gotta knock that shit off. We're getting' outta here, but you gotta be calm, and do everything I say."
She pants, nodding her head crazily.
"Everything OK in there?"
We both turn towards the direction of a knock on the door.
"Yeah," I say, "Just some problems with the equipment."
Then nothing but silence, for a few minutes.
"Tony," Tasha says, voice shaking. "We can't just run outta here. This thing is way too fuckin' big. Even if we do, we're gonna be fingered as part of it. A guy like Garrimone can do anything ."
"Yeah, I'm startin' to get that idea," I say, grimly.
PHIL
As Sal finishes distributing the chips, I realize that my children's lives are now stacked on the table in front of me in four neat, colored, piles of twenty-five chips each.
I'm sitting with two kings, two fours, and a three. Not great, but those kings give me some confidence. I take another pull of the smooth whiskey, and swipe my dampening hair to the side.
"So, let me get this straight, General," I say, trying to sound as pleasant as I can, "I've never heard of a poker game without a bluff before. Seems to me that you have to do something remotely deceptive in order to win."
Garrimone pompously puffs on his cigar stub, grinning slightly. "How astute of you, Phil! I can tell this is going to be fun, already. It isn't that I don't want you to bluff; I just view it as a rather pedestrian tactic. However, you don't have the advantages that men such as I have. It's true that if you always play by the straight and narrow, you may never accomplish anything. But if you're willing to risk it all sometimes, you just might beat the system. Kinda like life, isn't it?" He laughs brashly, and reaches out to grab Jenny's ass with his jeweled fingers, causing her to jump. "We'll play ten hands; you know how my hands like to play! Or, until I clean you out, of course."
"Can you please not do that?" I ask, quietly.
He looks at me with mock innocence, a raised hand to his chest of fancy ribbons.
"So sorry, Phil. It's just another bad habit of mine." He retracts his slimy tentacle from my wife, and smiles half-sheepishly. "I know all about you," he brags, leaning back and adjusting his chair. "You're quite a good card player. At least that's what they tell me at the Diamond Ranch."
My eyes narrow, and I give him a fierce look. Although I played cards fanatically when I was younger, I hadn't had any luck in Blackhawk at Garrimone's place. Although, if I'd known he was the owner, I would have stopped going there a long time before my bank account ran dry.
"I don't know if I'd look at it that way," I tell him soberly.
"A good card player should be almost unshakable. You never know what distractions could be lurking around the corner." He chuckles, and then snuffs out the remains of his smoke in a large, exotic-looking frosted glass ashtray. "Sure I can't interest you in one of those?" he cajoles. "I doubt you'll ever get to sample such a refined, gentlemanly luxury again."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask, my anger beginning to rise.
He raises his thick eyebrows and looks at his cards pleasantly. "Oh, nothing," he chortles. "Sal, shall we begin?"
Sal places both of his hands on the polished wooden table rim and says, "Gentlemen --- your Excellency, Mr. Palmer --- good luck, and may the best man win."
I roll my eyes and study my hand.
"Bets are now open," Sal says, "General Garrimone will open as per house rules."
Garrimone removes a long black cigarette holder from his breast pocket along with a cigarette case, and then takes his time fixing a cigarette to the end.
"I'm going to open with 3 green Olivers and 1 red Janice," he says, tossing the chips into the kitty.
"I'll call with 3 red Olivers and 1 green Janice," I return, shuddering at the use of my children's names as game pieces.
The General smiles tightly. "A pity you can't save both of your children, isn't it?" he laughs. "Can I ask how you'll determine the unfortunate recipient of the green chips? Some subtly cloaked favoritism, perhaps?"
"Just keep your mind on your own game," I return snidely.
He grins. "Touchy, touchy! Just hoping to lighten the mood a bit," he sings, lighting his cigarette with a diamond-encrusted lighter. "I'll raise you 4 green Olivers and 5 red Janices." He leans back, puffing with contentment on the razor-thin rod.
"We both have an equal amount of capital here, right? Does the house have any 'reserve funding'?" I ask caustically.
Garrimone's smile gets wider as he continues to silently smoke, but he shakes his head no.
"I'll call with 5 green Olivers and 4 red Janices," I concede. "Two pair, kings and fours."
"Hmmm," he returns, his smile spreading upwards, "I've got three sevens."
I lay down my cards.
The General does the same, and I let out a stream of hot breath. Could this really be the one thing the cocksucker doesn't lie about?
He collects his winnings leisurely, spreading them out before Sal.
"Not a good start for you, Mr. Palmer," Sal notes. "Your son will have his door raised nine inches." He looks at Garrimone, as the gangster picks up his swagger stick and paces toward the window.
He picks up a remote control and aims it at the glass, as I suddenly notice there is a small black bubble that appears to be embedded in the window. Suddenly, all three of the TV screens in the room --- including a very large display just to the right of the window --- change their programming from CNN to a close-up of the two cages. He aims the remote at the TV closest to us and raises the volume. Oliver is wearing nothing but a loincloth, rubbing his arms with his hands, shivering noticeably. Janice has a G-string on, and nothing else. She, too, is quaking violently.
"Hello, Oliver," Garrimone says, with a taunting musical lilt, laughing wickedly into his walkie-talkie. "It appears your father has lost the first of undoubtedly many hands. I'm sure my men have explained the consequences of his loss to you. Now, you will experience it! Boys…?"
Oliver's cage door slides slowly upwards, stopping at what looks to be nine inches. He tries in vain to stop the movement by gripping the bars and pulling down, but the thick wire propels them upward relentlessly.
"You sick fucker!" my son shouts, as a mountain lion suddenly appears in the foreground, to the left side of his cage. It sits, regarding the foreign object with eager interest, its tongue flicking lightly around furry jaws that remind me of a bear-trap.
The brutal mobster playfully fingers the sumptuous folds of silk that coddle his neck, then draws on his holder, allowing several large, lazy smoke rings to escape his lips. He then returns to his seat, now facing the window. He continues to stare up at the bubble, his fingers steepled expectantly. I think it's strange how he's acting almost as if he were onstage, but then notice the large Jumbotron monitor set up to one side of the flatbed truck, and gasp at his fiendishness. It's not enough for him to force me to watch this travesty. He wants to ensure that they see him , as well.
"Let me talk to my father!" Oliver demands.
"So sorry, but he's busy at the moment," the tyrant retorts. "Shall I have him give you a call later, providing that you're able to still receive it?"
The lion walks a few steps toward the cage and reaches his paw under the door, grabbing at my son's feet, then begins to circle the portable prison cell menacingly. Oliver spins around, wild-eyed, trying to remain out of the cat's immediate reach.
"Elegant creatures, aren't they?" Garrimone laughs to my son. "They seem to be rather slow at first glance, but they can move with lightning speed when the need arises." He continues to smoke and chuckle, drinking in the panic that is slowly overtaking Oliver with a twisted, inhuman pleasure.
"Come on, let's finish this!" I shout at Garrimone.
"In a minute, Palmer," the General purrs. "Poker should be a slow, relaxing pastime. You don't want to rob me of any due enjoyment afforded by my win, do you?"
"How can you take pleasure in this?" I find myself pointlessly wondering.
"Well, being a sadist surely helps!" he giggles, turning back to face me, gesturing to the bottle of Scotch. "Shall we continue?" Sal fills his glass and he takes another large pull as ten more cards are dealt from the shoe.
This next hand is substantially better. I have 3 queens, a six, and an eight.
"General, I've changed my mind. I'll take one of those cigars of yours," I say.
His eyebrows rise in surprise. "Mr. Palmer, so glad you're finally getting into the leisurely spirit of the game. Indeed, nothing relaxes like a good smoke." He removes one of the long sticks from his drawer and hands it to Sal, who places it on a small, oblong, velvet pillow that rests on a wooden tray, presenting it to me. I take it, and notice it obviously needs cutting. Sal takes it from me, neatly circumcising the end with a large, golden pair of cigar scissors. I put it to my lips as he lights it. As I puff, my hands begin to tremble slightly, and I inadvertently inhale on the thing, choking.
"I'll open with 7 green Janices and 1 red Oliver," Garrimone smirks.
Fucking bastard! Our chips won't last more than a half-hour at this rate.
"Call with 7 red Janices and 1 green Oliver," I say.
"How original. I'll raise 2 more green Janices and 2 red Olivers," he volleys.
"Call with the same," I say, then "Full house."
He leans back in his chair, staring at me intently, then glances over at the monitor, where the lion is again trying to reach under the bars. One of the henchmen, sitting high in a plexiglass-guarded stand on the bed of the truck, raises a long steel cylinder and proceeds to pump a reddish-brown fluid at the cages, wetting down my son and his sister. I find my hands shaking, as I listen to their pitiful screams.
"Eyes on the game, Palmer," Garrimone commands. "We have plenty of time to indulge in the onscreen hijinks. I think you're bluffing. It's obvious you're not a smoker, by the way," he concludes with an irritating titter. "Straight to the jack," he trumps, laying his cards down crisply.
As I throw mine down, his laughing escalates in intensity and volume.
Sal regards me with a contemptuous stare. "You're aware that since you were caught trying to bluff his Excellency that all the chips have turned green?"
I grit my teeth and nod slightly, as the dictator blows smoke from his freshly lit cigarette mockingly towards me.
"Each of your children will have their doors raised a foot," Sal says, as unemotional as if he were figuring an exchange rate.
"This is insane!" I say slamming my hands down, attempting to get up.
Garrimone nods and his thugs again descend on me, shoving me back into the chair.
He puffs heavily and grins, as the diabolic order is executed onscreen. "Quite a bad proposition for that cute little girl out there, but for your Ollie… over a foot! I'm afraid my lustrous pet kitties will soon find something to pique their interest even further."
"What the hell was that shit?"
"Pardon?"
"You know what I'm talking about. That shit your goons sprayed on them."
"Oh… that !" Garrimone laughs. "That was the blood of a newly killed antelope. I don't want my lovely felines getting bored."
A savage roar comes from the monitor as a lion makes a frenzied rush for Oliver's cage, squirming partially inside.
"Please," I shout, "the game is yours! Just DON'T DO THIS !"
Garrimone is shaking, holder clenched, laughter animating every flabby part of his corpulent body. He pounds his fist on the table with glee as Janice's cage door rises, and the other lion begins to do the same thing.
"Relax, Palmer," Garrimone says, with stoic apathy. "My gorgeous kits will be restrained from entering the cages completely, until the doors have been opened at least three feet. I wouldn't want them to be wounded by that heavy iron. Did I mention that I paid over $150,000 for each of my babies, including the cost of specifically training them to desire your children's scents? You see, I made good use of all the sweat that they shed the previous night in my playroom." He clucks savagely and lights another cigarette.
"Please…!" Jenny howls, attempting to approach the fat man. Sal roughly grabs her arm and flicks open a four-inch stiletto, which he props neatly at the base of her throat.
"Jenny, calm down!" I cry, desperate.
"I think your wife needs to be restrained, for her own good and the rest of your family's," Garrimone says firmly. "Place her in front of the monitor," he instructs, waving his holder like a scepter, a little king callously ordering the torment of a captured enemy. Jenny is bound to a chair inches in front of the screen.
I'm now drenched with sweat, and my head is throbbing. I take a pull off the cigar, hoping to calm my nerves, but it doesn't do anything for me. I throw it into the ashtray and stare at the General.
He turns away indifferently and faces the window, leaning back in his chair and eyeing my children with the coldness of a scientist inspecting the results of a perverted biology experiment, puffing smugly, happily flaunting the posh comfort and luxurious warmth of his impenetrable glass perch.
"Let's make this next hand a tad more interesting," the villain says, piping into the walkie-talkie. "Serve up my pets' appetizers!"
Two humongous, bloody steaks are lowered into the cages by two poles from the back of the truck. The cats go wild. Out the window, I can see the henchmen straining violently to keep them from completely disappearing under the raised bars. The beast in Oliver's cage is almost squarely in the center of the cell, forcing him to grip the top of the cage bars and raise his feet to avoid the madly swiping, razor-sharp claws. While I'm proud that he has the strength for this, I have no idea what will happen if his sister's prison door is raised the same amount. I won't let that happen…. I can't.
"Daddy?" Janice moans, frantically.
I strain forward in my seat, about to answer, as the fat prick neatly cuts me off. "Papa can't help you, my precious," he answers, silkily. "Unless he decides to start playing to win, rather than to just keep up." He turns and winks at me, a deep laugh dribbling from his lips. "But by that time, who knows if there will be anything left of you to save?" He makes a low, satisfied, grunting noise and begins to idly smooth his already immaculate fingernails with a silver nail file.
Janice collapses, sobbing, and then immediately springs up as a lion makes a quick lunge for her, just outside the bars.
Finally, following several unbearable minutes of pleas from my daughter, Garrimone turns around, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes with a black and gold silk handkerchief.
When the next hand is dealt, I get a mixed bag: an ace, three, nine, king, and a two.
Garrimone opens with 2 green Janices and 1 red Oliver.
I raise him 9 red Olivers and 1 green Janice, feeling the chips almost slip out of my sweaty hands as I place them on the table.
"Well, well! How very bold of you!" the General bellows heartily. "Grand moves require grand returns. I will raise you 10 red Olivers and 5 green Janices!"
"I'll call with 12 red Janices and 3 green Olivers," I give him, going for broke. "I have four fives."
He looks at Sal expectantly, as if for some sort of tip, but his face is stony.
"I don't have shit, high four," he says, tossing down a hand that's as fractured as mine.
"Neither do I," I say, with a little smile. "Except for this ace."
I place the hand on the table, and the color drains from Garrimone's face.
"Hand to Mr. Palmer," Sal says coolly. "Your successful bluff yields 20 inches down for Janice's door, and 23 inches down for Oliver. Both cage doors will be shut."
Garrimone curses and gets up. "You may have won this round, Palmer, with your common trickery," he says, "but we still have seven hands to play! I'm going to relieve myself," he mutters.
As he gets up, Garrimone staggers slightly and Major Gunter approaches from behind me, to assist him.
"I'm fine! Don't hover!" the dictator snaps.
I collapse into the back of the plush chair and try to breathe deeply, but the scene on the monitor continues to unnerve me. Even though both cage doors are down for now, both my children still appear to be on the verge of insanity, eyes darting madly about at the circling animals.
"Please," I say to Sal, "can't you turn those things off?"
Sal raises his eyebrows in a gesture of apathy, and retrieves the remote. He selects CNBC from the satellite TV onscreen guide.
I pick up my cigar and roll it nervously between my fingers. Sal offers a light, and I decide to fire it back up, if for no other reason than to have something to occupy my hands.
Garrimone returns with a preoccupied scowl on his face, and orders another hand. He doesn't even notice that the monitor broadcast has changed.
Several near stalemates follow, along with a fresh deck of cards after round five. Each time Garrimone wins, I almost immediately reverse his entire mandate with either a well-played bluff or sheer dumb luck.
I can tell by how he's only half-smoking his cigarettes, that he's becoming increasingly frustrated, his carefully devised torture reduced to a useless cycle of nullification.
As round ten begins, he orders another Scotch, fires up another mammoth cigar, and pops two small pills into his mouth from a small gold box.
My final hand is simply too good to be true. I have to fight against everything to remain calm.
As we place our bets, Garrimone seems to be very happy. The turd couldn't wear a poker face if he had to. It's by far the biggest pot of the game, and could easily prove to be life or death for my children, especially if I decide to bluff him.
"Two pair," I say, looking beaten, after my call.
Garrimone's face lights up like the Manhattan skyline as he begins to laugh boisterously. "Full house, Palmer," he declares triumphantly, slowly displaying his cards.
"Oops, sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Royal Flush to the ace," I say, and I can't help but grin widely as I place the cards on the rich green felt nap of the table.
Garrimone stares down at them in shock, slowly removing the chewed end of the cigar from his mouth. His eyes dart to my face, and a look of insane fury twists his doughy features into a tight croissant of rage. He returns to staring at my cards, as if they possessed the secrets of the pyramids. Then, he violently slams his hand into a pile of chips sitting just to the left of the shoe, spraying them on the lush red carpet. Standing up, he straightens his jacket and shouts, "Boys, hold him for me!"
The two big goons near me each take one of my arms, hauling me to my feet. The petty little tyrant strides over, chomping on his stogie. He reaches back and belts me in the stomach, completely knocking the wind out of me.
"You sniveling little card shark!" he shrieks. "You pathetic common turd! How dare you come into this bastion of gentlemanly refinement and attempt your cheesy little swindle?"
I gasp for breath, and then look up at him as he draws his fist back again.
"You gave me the rules, General. I'm just playing by them," I return, a look of pleasure flooding my face, despite the searing pain. "Screw being a gentleman! Try acting like a man for once and tell your apes here to let me go. We can settle this ourselves."
He exhales, and a look of vague embarrassment --- revealing the weak, posturing coward behind the arrogant, gloating mask --- crosses his face, if only for a second. He then notices a noisy commercial on the monitor and stabs his swagger stick at Sal. "Who told you to change that goddamn thing? Turn it back!"
Sal obeys him.
As the outside scene appears once more on the screens, Garrimone drops his swagger stick to the floor.
"What in the holy name of FUCK …?" he screams, throwing both arms in the air and rushing to the window.
Both bodyguards and I look through the glass. Each cage door is now open wide and the lions are nowhere in sight.
"Where are they?" Garrimone shouts into his walkie-talkie. "Those doors were almost closed just a few minutes ago!"
Dead silence chills the room, as my stomach begins to flip-flop.
I slump back into the chair, head in my hands. "You deranged little shit! What did you expect would happen when you were planning this perverted contest?" I yell at him.
He puts a hand on the poker table, as if to steady himself, eyes darting wildly from the monitor to the field and back again.
"This… wasn't planned…" he stammers out.
I continue to stare out the window, as a look of decisiveness replaces his confusion.
"I'll finish this off myself!" he says, addressing the entire room with disgust as he angrily strides past me. "Seems to be the only way anything ever gets done correctly around here, doesn't it?"
I blanch as I stand and watch him stalk toward the rifle case at the other end of the room. He opens the large glass door casually and runs his polished fingertips down the gleaming wooden handles of his horrific collection of artillery. He selects a monstrous gun, fitted with two massive, galvanized steel barrels, and then brings it to his shoulder, scanning the room with an expensive-looking scope. My bowels loosen and warmth fills my drawers as he aims the hideous thing directly at my head, takes a beat, then grins and pulls the trigger.
Both Jenny and I cry out in terror as the two men stop me from collapsing completely. The gun just clicks, impotent.
Garrimone grins toothily and begins a wild laugh, holding his plump belly. He sets the butt of the rifle on the floor, posing with it obscenely. The wretched thing is almost as tall as he is.
"You… could kill an elephant with that," I say, weakly.
"Yes!" he rejoins merrily, "The Marcel Thys is designed for exactly such purposes… that, and for killing other large mammals." He continues to snicker, as Gunter scurries over and ceremoniously presents a large leather case to him. He opens it and begins to remove shells that resemble thermo-nuclear missiles.
"Look," I cry, desperation flooding my face, "I don't understand. I won the game! You fucking welsher!"
"Mr. Palmer," he says, the familiar smugness returning to his deep voice as he continues to carefully load his weapon, "I told you that I never bluff, and I don't. I didn't say anything about welshing!"
He closes the double-barrels into place with a sickeningly crisp snap, and then loads the gun.
"I do apologize, but I'm an extremely poor loser," he says, with a lightly effeminate giggle. He dons a pith helmet that hangs from a hook on the wall nearest the case.
"No, listen to me," I implore, "I'll do anything you ask…"
He smirks disdainfully, ignoring my plea. "Gunter, fire up the stretch Hummer. I want to be as comfy as possible for my little hunting expedition. It could take some time," he says, grinning vindictively, "but I'm sure the investment will be worthwhile."
He strides toward the open elevator door, with Gunter following closely.
Before the doors close, he glowers hatefully at me and says, "Don't worry your pretty head, Palmer. Your children will be returned here from the taxidermy mid-week. You can visit them, providing that you live, as they'll be standing at either side of my fireplace. In the meantime," he says to his men, "make sure he has a front-row seat for this week's special edition of Wild Kingdom ! When I return, I'll escort both him and his wife to the playroom, where they will encounter a fate almost as deliciously unpleasant. I plan to preside over the proceedings personally, as I'm sure there will be many gruesome details to impart about the hunt."
He begins to laugh jovially, as the golden doors slowly close in front of his bulbous body.
TONY
Getting out of that psycho ward was a hell of a lot easier than either of us thought. A guy wearing a uniform and training a gun on a girl in a prisoner's outfit seems to have an all-access pass around here. My only worry was avoiding that faggot Gunter, but again luck seems to be on my side.
When we make it outside, I lead Tash to a small parking area. The only guards appear to be sitting inside a shack several feet in front of us, and neither of them gives us a look. I open the door to the orange Hummer that had previously ambushed us, and Tash gets into the passenger side.
"You're sure you wanna do this?" I ask her. "I could probably crash that gate and then blow away the guys near the road pretty easy. If we go through with this, we're up against a lot more goons."
"I don't see another way out, Tony. Not in the long run. Can I use your cell phone?"
I'm not thinking real clearly, still wonderin' how to get round the complex, my memory not too good at this point. I give the phone to her and she dials a number.
As I put the Hummer into gear and begin to drive around to the rear of the building, she asks me a few details about how to get to this place from the main road. I give them to her, she repeats the instructions into the phone, and then hangs up.
"Who was that?" I ask her.
"Margulies," she says.
I sigh. "You sure that was a good idea?"
"Last ditch insurance," she shrugs. "It'll take 'em at least two hours to get up here, anyway."
I pull up to a gravel area in front of two mammoth gates and introduce myself to the guard. Goddamn fucker asks for ID, so I shoot the security camera, and then him.
I step out and go to the shack to retrieve his shotgun. I stare at what looks to be a PA system, and then get an idea. Before leaving the compound, I had asked for my personal effects and Tasha's, still posing as Morricone. I'm not about to leave my shit around here for the cops to find, and I'm glad I made that choice, with them now on the way.
I take out my voice disguiser and hit the combination I'd programmed the Garrimone filter into.
Putting it to my lips and activating the PA, I say, "Boys, I have some other ideas for fun. I'm coming out to meet you and I've got another tasty morsel for our fine, furry, friends."
Silence, then the response comes back: "Sir, yes, General Sir. Awaiting your arrival."
I go back and put the Hummer in four-wheel-drive and haul ass onto the grassy, sloped terrain of the field. I can plainly see the two cages and the truck, but my mouth dries out when I spot the fuckin' lions. I've only heard about this "game" of Garrimone's a few times, but seeing it in reality is pretty over-the-top.
As I approach the truck, the four guards perched on top of the bed all turn and look at me, roughly at the same time. I bring the ATV to a screeching stop and then get out, hauling Tasha along with me.
"What… who are you?" one says.
"The General wants to put this girl in the cage with the other one," I tell him, waving my hand at the blacked-out rear windows of the Hummer.
He picks up his walkie-talkie and that's when I shoot him, and another guard who stands to his side, in the chests with the rifle. The other two grab their weapons and begin to fire wildly as I dive behind the Hummer. They're not about to come down on the ground, and for good reason: the two lions suddenly rush at me and I scramble back inside the passenger-side of the car. I spring on top of Tash as the bullets begin to rain on the doors and windows with little thuds. Thank christ the boss gets these fuckers bullet-proofed or I wouldn't be telling you this, so I guess you could say he saved our lives in a weird, fucked-up way.
It's silent for a minute or two, and Tasha and I are still on the floor of the front seats. I inch my eyes above the window, and then check out the truck. The two guys are loading up again. I take a deep breath, and fling open the door, running the fifty yards to the truck like a fuckin' marathon sprinter, lions close behind.
I scale the side of the truck, and I can hear my back twist painfully. I knock one guy out with my rifle butt, and then shoot the other in the stomach. I finish them both off, and shout to Natasha. She rolls down the driver's window.
"Drive around so your passenger door is even with those cages!" I tell her.
She looks deranged, but lucid, as she throws the ATV in gear. A lion is scrambling wildly after one of the driver's side wheels.
"Open the side door locks, and when I tell you, open the door!" I shout.
When she's in position, I raise the cage doors. The boy and the girl both dart for the Hummer. The mountain lions rampage for the pieces of meat that sit in both cells and begin to devour them, as I jump from the truck and fly towards the rear door of the ATV.
As we drive away, I pause for a second to check out the Jumbotron. There's nothing but the back of a chair on the screen.
MR. G
My first thought is that I'm just waking up in my suite. A crisp wind blows coolly around me, and I can hear faint rustling noises and the sounds of birds chirping.
"Major," I say automatically, "bring me my breakfast…"
Upon opening my eyes however, I find I am seated in the open-air rear cockpit of my white $185,000 stretch Hummer, the Marcel resting in my lap, it's sheer heft giving me a massive hard-on.
I look toward the front of the vehicle, where I see Gunter poised in the driver's seat.
"Major! What's going on?" I say a bit louder, then reach up to toggle the intercom. It crackles with dead air.
"MAJOR!" I say, now almost screaming.
He still doesn't respond. I rise and duck-waddle up the 12 feet of the rear cabin toward the front of the vehicle.
As I tap Gunter's shoulder, his head rolls to one side. The right side of his face is an entire mass of blood and there is a large rip in his throat. The front white leather seat is a red-splotched gory mess.
I stare through the smoked glass panels of the limousine at the spacious terrain surrounding me, and then at the rear seat, completely open, with the windows rolled down halfway. It cost me almost $45,000 over list to get this partial convertible option added and, even though I've got a corpse on my hands, I reflect on how handy it is to have such easy access while hunting.
I return to the rear and slowly open the door, not finding any signs of life nearby. I take the Marcel and walk to the front of the Hummer, open the door, and roughly push Gunter's dead body out of the way. I seat myself with distaste on the bloodied seat, realizing with irritation that another pair of silk jodhpurs will be completely ruined, and turn the ignition key.
There is a sharp screech from the engine, as if the transmission is still in gear, which I then notice it is.
I curse as my eyes fall on the gas gauge, needle pointing significantly below E.
I get out of the front seat, brush a few buzzing flies from my face, and return to the rear seat, trying to remain calm.
I take a swig of the remains of a Scotch that must have been poured earlier, but it's now nothing but faintly peaty-tasting warm water.
I start to sweat. Fumbling in my jacket pocket, I locate my cigarette case. I take out a Nat Sherman Classic and attach it quickly to the holder that I retrieve from the other pocket.
I stare at the tip of the flame rising elegantly from my new S.E. Dupont lighter --- a limited edition costing over $26,500, imbedded with 18 Kt. diamonds and 24 Kt. gold --- and take comfort in it's clean design and precise function, then touch the end to my cigarette and inhale deeply on the holder with a shaking hand. I fish out a bottle of Nitroglycerin that I keep in the center console of the armrest, and pop a few as I feel the pain in my chest begin to increase slightly. I sit with my head tilted back in the cool leather seat, drawing from the holder like a thirsty man at an oasis, watching as the smoke tapers off into the clear blue sky.
It's only a matter of time before they find me. I reach for the decanter of Scotch and pour a double.
As time passes, my eyes begin to close.
I turn to the right, as something very large collides with the Hummer.
PHIL
I'm trying in vain to wiggle free from my ropes as Sal shouts frantically into a telephone, waving his hands.
"You're trying to tell me that we've got four men down, and Pataglia on the loose as well? Oh great, her too! That's just wonderful!" He's behind the large mirrored bar, drumming his fingers nervously on the countertop. "I've tried calling out there. There ain't no answer! How many more times I gotta tell you: get someone out there, pronto. I'm not gonna be responsible for anything happenin' to Garrimone. He's only got fuckin' Gunter out there to protect him. Yeah… I know!" He slams down the phone and stares at me.
"What's going on?" I say, softly.
"A lotta shit!" he shoots back, walking over to me and inspecting my ropes. "You can forget about getting out of here, Palmer," he says, noting the play in the bonds. "Best thing you can do for yourself now is say some Hail Marys, 'cause when the boss gets back, you're gonna need 'em." He stares into my eyes, and I don't see any pleasure there --- just fear --- as he tightens the ropes.
"Please, Sal. You seem like a good person. You don't want to be pulled down with him…"
"Shut yer fuckin' trap. Nobody's goin' down, 'cept you and your wifey over there." He jerks a thumb at Jenny, who is still tied to the chair, staring at the vacant landscape on the monitor.
Suddenly, an opulent stretch Hummer crawls into view outside, a fully stocked gun rack on the back deck. I can see what looks to be Gunter exit the front and run around to the rear of the limousine, which has an open compartment in the back. I can't see much more, but I notice a pith helmet and can only assume it's Garrimone.
Gunter makes several wild motions with his hands in the General's direction, and then quickly runs back to the front of the car. As he does, one of the lions advances from the left, faster than I'd ever seen any animal run. Before he can even open the driver's door all the way, the thing springs toward him, sailing through the air, knocking him into the car. I look away, unable to watch. When I finally look back, his boots are sprawled out from the door.
I turn my head as a noise comes from the stairs. Tony and Natasha appear. Tony's got a Nazi uniform on with no hat, and his face is drenched in sweat. Tasha has a ripped, dirty maroon jumpsuit on.
"Drop all of your weapons!" Tony orders, waving a rifle around the room. The two goons by the poker table stand motionless, while Sal slowly puts his hands up.
"Listen, Pataglia… just drop the gun and we can work out a deal, OK? I'm sure the General will set you up for life, at this point," Sal pleads.
"Shut the fuck up, Grimbosi!" Tony yells. "I'm not negotiating anything with that deranged fuckhead. I'd never get out of here alive!"
Sal says nothing, then, fast as lightning, pulls a small piece from behind the bar. Tony unloads the shotgun, flinging Sal's large frame back into the shelves of bottles, cracking the large mirror behind him.
He trains it on the two goons. "Anyone else?" he demands.
The two men sit down at the table, and throw their weapons toward Tony. Tasha grabs them.
"Please…" I say to Tony, "untie us."
He looks expressionlessly at Jenny and me, and then motions to Tasha. She walks over to the bar, a horrified look fixed to her ragged face as she scans the countertop. She picks up Sal's switchblade, then walks to Jenny, and cuts her ropes. Finally, she does the same for me.
Suddenly there is another flash of color outside, and I see the lion again. It sails into the back of the limo and stops suddenly, feet still dangling out the frame of the passenger window.
Tony, Tasha, Jenny, and I stare at the grisly tableaux, unable to move.
"Holy shit," Tony mutters. "Look, I'm goin' back out there. I want to get what's left of that fat fuck."
"Tony, why?" Tash screams. "Let that bastard rot! You'll be killed by that thing!"
"Look, sweetheart," he says, cupping her face in his hands, "I'm a criminal. I don't get along too well with the cops. I need a bargaining chip."
I look at him, and swallow.
"If you won't kill us, you can pretend to use me."
He looks at me with amazement.
"No, Phil. You been through enough. Let me do this my way."
He starts for the stairs, then turns and looks at the goons. "Folks, look out the window, OK?"
As we do, we hear two gunshots, and the sound of his footsteps. When we finally look back, the two men are splayed out on the poker table, blood pooling on the green surface.
Jenny begins crying with horror and sheer exhaustion.
"I don't… want that monster up here again…" she stammers. "I just want my children! Where are they? Do you know?" she looks imploringly at Tash.
"They're safe, Mrs. Palmer," she says gently, reaching out to touch her hand. Jenny pulls away and continues to stare out the window.
"Where are they? You're not going to hold them as 'chips' are you?"
"No… no…" Tasha says. "They're in the back of the Hummer that we drove. They're with Tony. Trust me, that thing is ironclad. It's the only safe place for them right now."
She continues to cry. "Thank God," is all she says.
The orange ATV glides into view out the window, rolling toward its bloated, white brethren.
"No!" Jenny cries.
"Take it easy, Mrs. Palmer. He knows what he's doing," Tash says, trying to reassure her.
Tony exits the vehicle quickly and goes to the back of the limo. He stands for a second, obviously knocked for a loop at the undoubtedly gory display. Then, looking around the field, he pulls Garrimone's beached khaki and red-colored form towards the orange Hummer's passenger door.
He props the gang boss' body against the door, and scans the area with his rifle, then quickly opens it and shoves the mass of flesh inside. He pulls himself over Garrimone and slides into the driver's seat, taking off again.
"That guy is amazing," I say, just hanging my head. "If I had one ounce of his strength, none of this would have ever happened."
Jenny says nothing, biting her lip.
"Goddammit, Phil! Knock it off. You did what you could in your situation," Tash says.
Jenny reaches over and gives my hand a little squeeze.
"She's right, honey. You played well. It's not your fault that you were playing with a psychopath."
The first wave of anything resembling relief begins to wash over me.
JENNY
I feel a mixture of shock and relief, as Tony appears in the elevator, supporting Garrimone with one arm.
I tremble as I notice the mobster's eyes fluttering in a daze. Tony leads him to the leather chair directly behind us and starts to tie him up with elaborate knots.
"How did you get him up here?" Phil says, asking the question on all of our minds.
Tony grimaces. "Wasn't easy. It's a goddamn madhouse down there," he says, pointing at the floor. "At least 50 guys have just up and split. The last time I saw anything that close to complete chaos, I was grocery shopping at a Walmart."
Phil grins faintly and Tony chuckles at his own joke.
"I remember going shopping," I say, looking at Tony, feeling a little bit of anger rise at his apparent nonchalance.
He looks at me and sighs.
"Look, can we hash this out later, Jenny?"
I just shake my head and look away.
"That fat prick had us all dancing on strings at one time or another. I'm sure he made you do things you aren't real proud of, neither."
"Point taken," I say, flatly.
A burst of coughing emanates from Garrimone, and he comes to life in his chair, like a mangled marionette. There's a spreading red stain on his stomach, and the arms of his fancy coat have been torn and spattered with specks of dirt and blood. The once intimidating ribbons, medals, and braid decorating his chest now hang in tatters.
He takes a look at all of us, then at where he is, and begins to writhe violently. "Doctor! Get me Dr. Woo! My personal physician! I need a doctor!" He's wheezing hoarsely. "My chest! My stomach!" he moans.
Tony rolls his eyes, then goes to the poker table and finds the gold pillbox. He opens it, and takes two tablets out.
"Choke on these," he tells Garrimone, holding them in front of his face.
"What are those?" Phil asks.
"Nitroglycerin," I answer slowly, "the product of his decadent lifestyle. His heart's bad." They all look at me, surprised that I'd know this. I sigh. "You'd better not give him those, Tony. He's had more than someone even his size should take." I smile slightly. "I've been dissolving those things in his drinks all day."
"My, my, aren't you Mata-fuckin'-Hari!" Tony marvels.
I shrug. "I talked to Von Helsing, and he clued me in on that, plus where I could find the pills. He keeps them stashed all over the place."
"And that explains why he was just sitting there when Gunter was…" Phil meanders, looking impressed. "Obviously, he had passed out."
"That was the idea," I say. "I just wish the effect had kicked in a little sooner than it did."
"You did good," Tony smiles.
Garrimone coughs again, and his once irritatingly smooth, molasses-encrusted voice now sputters out, course and choked with phlegm.
"As s-sovereign ruler, I command you to untie me THIS INSTANT !" he thunders, degenerating into pathetic grunts and wheezing noises. "None of you are going to get out of here alive! What I have planned for you is so abominable that people haven't even imagined it yet! You'll all pay for this! You and your children…."
I walk slowly over to this pathetic heap, this fallen tyrant, and stand over him.
"You'll never see my children again," I say, spitting into his grimy face.
"Oh, that's where you're wrong!" he hisses, a foul smile twisting his fat lips into a contorted rictus of hatred. "I have well compensated enforcers on my payroll everywhere! No matter where you hide them, they'll be found! I'll have them brought to me on a platter, tied up like neat little Christmas presents. They'll be killed slowly… SLOW-LY…. The ways in which I'll make them suffer …" I slap his face with as much force as I can muster, but it's not satisfying. It's like hitting a pile of wet clay. His head drops and wretched sobs begin to come from his mouth.
"You're through, Garrimone," Phil says, calmly. "You don't have any goons to bully with anymore. You don't have anyone. It's over."
"NO! It's not… over…" he cries, desperately. "Palmer! Let's play another hand! This time, you can play for your freedom…" he raves. "I'll put up five million, if you win! No, ten million! Think of what you can buy with that…" he babbles, a look of utter madness overtaking him.
"Shut the fuck up, Garrimone," Tony sighs. "The only game you'll be playin' is hide-the-salam in Attica."
The beaten tyrant starts to scream at Tony, saying nothing, his voice one long howl of insanity. Finally, he stops, his eyes bulging wide as he convulses. His head drops down and we all stare at him for a minute, expecting the requisite villain resurrection. But that only happens in movies, I guess.
"He still alive?" Phil asks, after a few seconds.
Tony checks his pulse.
"Sure doesn't look like it…" he says, as he lets the dictator's plump, delicate hand go limp.
"Take me to my children," I say to Tony.
EPILOGUE: PHIL
It's been five years since that terrible winter.
After the Feds stormed Garrimone's Black Lodge, they obviously had plenty to ask us. Fortunately, Margulies' testimony, added to all the testimonies of the many victims still shackled in the dictator's prisons at the time of the bust, as well from a few desperate henchmen, corroborated our stories seamlessly. Over 24 men were arrested that day: the ones who had been too stupid, too slow, or too greedy to bolt for the door as Tony dragged in the spent body of the crime lord. Over thirty more have since been arrested and prosecuted on various crimes against humanity.
Tony managed to cop a plea-bargain, with help from Jenny and I, and last I heard, had entered a witness protection program with Tasha, who wasn't charged with anything. Every now and then she sends me a postcard from somewhere new.
Even though Jenny and I are still apart (she remarried just a year ago following our divorce, to a mild-mannered dentist, of all things), we still see each other as we attend family counseling together a few times a month. Oliver and Janice are both still having occasional problems, mostly anger at us for placing them in that wretched situation. I can't say I blame them. Janice still has nightmares about the lions.
All of Garrimone's properties and personal effects were sold at several prominent auction houses to reimburse his victims and their families, and I was surprised by how fast the shit went. I can't say that I would want anything that son-of-a-bitch owned, no matter how valuable it was, but then again, what do I know? I'm just a working class schlub, right?
The Black Lodge is now an outpost for the Sierra Club, and helps to preserve the safety and health of many wild animals in their natural habitat.
For a while, there were many inquiries from the press, and several task forces were launched to probe connections from Garrimone's operations to branches of the US government, but they were all stopped short by legal red tape or simply dropped. I guess it's not surprising, but it's kind of sad. The number of industries that are slowly paving over the plains and prairies in recent years out here makes me wonder if the powers-that-be are merely waiting for the right figurehead to mount Garrimone's barbarous, now-vacant, throne.
Crime in the area has noticeably dropped off, but I'd read articles recently that claimed the connections to New York had not been completely broken. In one article, a man named Antonio Ricci had been named as a key figure in several busts, but was brushed off by the media as a "lower-level thug."
I caught a glimpse of him just today, in fact, getting out of a gleaming, black, stretch limousine in downtown, a bodyguard by his side.
If I ever see him use a cigarette holder, though, I'm moving.
THE END
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