JENNY

I come slowly into consciousness and realize I am hanging by my arms in a small room, facing cinder block walls. The pain in my ankles is immediate and I realize that my toes are just barely touching the floor. When I look up, I notice the ropes that suspend me are a light Brown rubber similar to that found in hospitals. With little effort, I can swing my fatigued body from side to side, but I can't turn around.

After what seems like hours, but is probably only minutes, I hear a door open slowly behind me.

"Hello…" I say tentatively, after there is only silence for several awkward moments. Slowly, deliberately, footsteps begin to approach on the fine gravel floor. I can tell from the dense crunching noise, that they are coming from a pair of leather boots.

"Guten Morgan, Fraulien," the husky, masculine, voice intones, in a thick, theatrical German accent. "You appear to be relatively rested as opposed to when I last saw you." R's rolling like a freight train.

"When you last…" I blurt, instantly confused. "I don't…. who are you?"

"Ah ha ha," he laughs, actually saying "ha ha." "A little joke. We are not amused." It isn't a stretch to believe this guy had no sense of humor.

"I have no idea who you are" I spit out, with just a touch of anger spilling into my tone.

"Let us again take up the matter of where your daughter is located."

I freeze. Janice… what do they want with my Janice?

A few more footsteps, and he stands by my side. I think I smelled him before I saw him, an overpowering musk of old tunic, stale cigarette smoke, and expensive whiskey. He was older than I'd imagined; a corpulent, full-faced man of diminutive stature; large, flabby jowls; thin lips, and a generally unhealthy pallor. His bald scalp shines in the light of the room, polished to an unearthly gleam, wisps of white hair circling the perimeter of his skull. An immaculate Black SS officer's uniform has been tailored around his enormous belly and bulbous, bulging ass; matching flared breeches making his already large hips appear larger than any part of his ungainly physique.

His hideous face twists into an unpleasant smile as he leans slightly against a wall, inspecting me. He casually produces a gold cigarette case, a gold lighter, and matching black and gold cigarette holder, easily a foot long in length, from his breast pocket. Patiently, slowly, he inserts a cigarette in the gold-tipped rod and lights it, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke directly towards me.

"I don't have a clue," I say, turning away from the obnoxious smoke and his fierce stare, which is burning a hole in me through an elegant, gold-framed monocle.

He jabs me in the shoulder with a short, menacing, Black riding crop, gaining my attention immediately.

"Oh, I think you do Froil-lein" he mispronounces theatrically, sighing heavily. "You have just not been properly motivated." He abruptly stands, clicks his heels and snaps the riding crop to the side of his thick, glossy, knee-high boots. A uniformed henchman appears quickly, and exchanges the crop for a monstrous, coiled bullwhip, placing it reverentially in the Commandant's Black, gauntlet-gloved, hands.

He pauses for a moment, slowly stroking my cheek. The smell of fine leather intoxicates and chills me at the same time. He lets loose an evil, deeply melodic laugh, then stares past me, absently pulling on the cigarette holder.

"Major Enrique!" he thunders, jowls inflating like hot air balloons. "Prepare her!"

The gloved thug tears what's left of my clothes off as I hang, shivering.

"I…. I'll never let you hurt my daughter…" is all I can manage.

He stares, obviously unimpressed, and says in a business-like, almost apathetic, tone "We shall see."

He takes several paces back from me, and an almost inhuman force follows a heavy rush of air. It feels like 100 stones are being thrown at me, all at once. And after the stones, come the knives, a searing arc of agony that cuts into my back. Again, and again, it comes. I find myself counting the blows, almost as a distraction, but nothing can block out the torment. When he has laid an even ten, he walks over to me.

His breath is short, and it is obvious that this out-of-shape, self-important prick is not used to performing his own dirty work. He lights a fresh cigarette and walks behind me to inspect his handiwork.

The pain in my back is quickly becoming even more intense, and I feel his leathered hands trace each welt, which are becoming raised and inflamed. Smoke drifts past my head.

"Such a simple question," he gloats, obviously happy with the results of his efforts, "seeking an equally simple answer." He returns to face me, holder jauntily set into the corner of his mouth. "You have far more control than you realize, Fraulein. Tell me what we wish to know, and you will be freed. Refuse… and we will continue."

"Fuck you, you filthy Nazi pig!" I scream instinctively, instantly regretting my response.

He chuckles, seeming almost pleased with my answer, and returns to his position to deal another ten cuts. When he is finished, he again faces me.

"Far worse than before, wasn't it?" he asks superciliously, tittering lewdly. He's right, I think grimly, wincing at the discomfort. He continues, obviously savoring his position of authority over me. "As my finely oiled kangaroo-hide whip slashes into your previously pristine flesh, the pain increases, doesn't it?"

I don't say anything, but tiny tears begin to sting my eyes. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of eye contact or an answer.

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and returns again to the gruesome specter of my wounds, like a depraved connoisseur admiring a piece of fine art.

"You're bleeding," he continues. "We can't have that."

I gasp slightly, shuddering at my growing ability to read his sadistic thoughts. A large cloud of cigarette smoke wafts from behind, and then an interminable period of silence follows. His cigarette holder is so long, it juts over my shoulder. When it disappears, I almost shit myself.

Again, unnerving silence follows. Then, I can feel the heat at my back. Almost instantly it is withdrawn.

"Oh… not yet" he purrs, almost effeminately. More smoke. "I wouldn't want to waste one of these fine cigarettes, and besides, the pain is far more substantial when the ash is close to the filter." He starts to laugh again, a demented cacophony that rings throughout the room.

Then the real pain begins.

PHIL

Jenny never made it home for Thanksgiving that year.

It was the night before the holiday and she had left to go grocery shopping at a Super Target in a large mall about ten miles from home. When it was three hours past when she said she'd be back, and after no answer on her cell, my mind began to race.

I had a sick feeling. It was him. He's done something. I just knew it.

"I was thinking…. If you'd pay 25 grand to save your whore, you'd surely pay at least twice that to keep your wife and daughter safe" the chubby bald man who called himself Mr G. had said, smugly clucking to himself and puffing lazily on a $30 Cuban cigar.

I had to control myself from throttling the little tyrant. We were in a public place, after all.

"What's the point, you slimeball?" I said, drawing the ire of the gangster's two big goons, who sat on either side of him in the plush leather Red banquette of the G Spot, his wittily named downtown gentlemen's club. "Like last time, I'll pay you, and you're going to keep wanting more. No…fuck this. This stops now."

Mr. G merely stared with his dull eyes, ignoring the thugs who were chomping at the bit for a piece of my hide and fingering the lapel of his expensive three-piece suit. He puffed steadily, contemplatively, on the fat cigar and absently began to toy with one of his two diamond pinky rings.

"Oh, it will stop…for now" he smirked. "But insurance is like that…. You never seem to have it when you need it the most." He removed the cigar from his mouth and put it out with a bit more force than he seemed to want to display.

The gangster wheezed as he stood up abruptly and the goon named Tony placed a Camel colored cashmere topcoat over his shoulders like a cape and handed him a chestnut Brown fedora.

"Have a safe holiday season," the fat man sang with sarcastic benevolence, the faint remnants of a twisted smile playing on his lips.

That had been 6 weeks ago. Things seemed to have turned a corner. The harassing phone calls --- the dead lines that woke us at 3 AM --- stopped. The Lincoln Navigator that sometimes lurked around our block was nowhere in sight. Shit, I had even been able to sleep for up to 6-7 hours at night without waking up in cold sweats, imagining the smell of smoke or a cry in the dark.

I sat down and tried to think calmly. Options…think! The cops were not on the list, at least not at this point. The biggest sword that G held over my head was my involvement with his "girls." It had been some misbegotten sense of "honor" that had lured me into his web. Natasha. I had loved her. But now she was gone, as quickly as a couple hundred thousand in home equity that had taken me over 20 years to accumulate. I had nothing, and was tens of thousands more in debt. How seriously would the cops take a guy who had been formally charged with solicitation? Not too seriously. Anyhow, they aren't going to do anything for 48 hours on a Missing Persons…. And by that time, god only knows what G and his thugs will do.

But if I did nothing it might be worse.

I picked up the phone and dialed 91, then paused, and quickly hung up.

I headed over to the Super Target, but found no trace of Jenny's car. I went to the G Spot.

TONY

I see old Phil, that pathetic middle-aged fuck, walk in about quarter to twelve. He walks over to Tommy, who's tending the bar tonight and, after talkin' with him for a few seconds, heads over in my direction.

Even though I've been expecting to see him following the execution of the big boss' latest scheme, it still pisses me off. I'm wrapping biz up with a few of the regular girls and a couple horny johns, and frankly, I'm too busy for this shit. It's Michelob time, motherfucker.

I know the boss is waiting for Phil fuck-face to come around to grovel… he flew in special from New York just for the occasion. But I also know it's way fuckin' late, and the big man is probably just beginning to get nasty with this new girl I fixed him up with, or passed out from snarfing half a bottle of Louis.

Two things I've learned from working for Mr. G in the past four years: he don't like to be disturbed, and he don't like surprises.

"Is your boss in town?" Fuck-face asks, interrupting me rudely as I'm counting out $3500 in small bills (not a bad night's pay for the boss).

"He might be. What can I do ya for, fuck-face? Need to borrow some money? Broke again? Too bad… the boss is having a good run lately. I have this feeling it's gonna get even better." I can't hide a shit-eating grin, though I know I'm pushin' it. Phil's not looking too good.

"Cut the shit, Tony. My wife's been gone for over four hours tonight, and it's got your boss' name all over it."

"Ho! Hold up, ass-wipe! You can't just come into my place of business, accusing me of somethin' like kidnapping. It's not my fuckin' problem if you can't keep a leash on your coos. Is her car gone?"

"You know fucking well it's gone" the asshole shoots back.

"Well then, ya can't prove nuthin', can ya?" I say. "She coulda just run out on ya. Got tired of eatin' all those boloney sandwiches." I know I'm stickin' the knife in at this point, but I can't resist. He's such an easy mark.

"Just let me talk to him" he says, looking so pathetic I almost feel sorry for the turd.

"All right. Wait outside. I'll see what I can do. No promises!"

Fuck face. I'm gonna wind up missing MY goddam turkey dinner tomorrow over this shit, just you wait and see.

I finish tallying the receipts as quick as I can, then dial Steve, who's over playing valet to his Highness in the Presidential Suite at the Brown.

JENNY

I wasn't the least bit suspicious when it happened, but why would I be? You'd think if you were in danger, your own husband would do something to warn you, right? Especially if the danger involved your child?

I was loading my groceries when a large Black SUV pulled up behind my car, with one of those mobile flasher bubbles fixed to one side of the top. In retrospect, it looked a bit too plush to be a security car.

A guy in a plain gray guard outfit leaned his head out the window and said something like "Excuse me, ma'am, we need your help. We're trying to find a man who's wandering about lost in the parking lot."

I told him I hadn't seen anyone around like that.

"If you could look at a few pictures, it would really help us out," he says, briefly holding up a large black binder. He tries to fit it through the window to give me a look but it's too long or too wide or something. "Could you come 'round to the passenger side?" he asks.

I hesitate, but I'm late getting home as it is…. The turkey requires a good 4-5 hours to prep and bake, and I'm running out of time.

I walk around to the other side of the vehicle and open the door. He holds the book out to me, and then drops it squarely in the foot well of the passenger seat. Instinctively, I step into the car to retrieve it, and that's when the arm from behind me clamps down on my right breast, fixing me to the seat.

The locks drop down and instantly we're speeding off. I grab for the door handle, but a rag with something horribly strong is clamped over my face. Chloroform. I can still smell it.

When I wake up, I'm on the stone floor of an 8 X 8 foot cage.

MR. G

I am a businessman, first and foremost. Let's clear that up right away.

I am sure there are those who call me a monster; an inhuman sadistic megalomaniac bent on using any method to achieve my goals of endless power and wealth. I would respond by saying that I do only what is needed to achieve my goals. And if in that process, I happen to extract a bit of unholy delight in the suffering of a few innocent bystanders, in the lording of my power over their weakness, then that is an added perk. Who's to say one cannot or should not be afforded a few side benefits from a path of personal destiny that I deem to have been mine from birth?

But I digress.

At 1 AM on Thanksgiving Day, I was about to retire to my four-poster splendor in the Presidential Suite of the Brown Palace hotel in Denver when my faithful valet Esteven alerted me to the arrival of Mr. Palmer at the door of my suite. Ordinarily, I would have sent him away, but his appearance afforded me a chance to accomplish what I had intended much sooner than I had planned. I instructed my henchmen to make a quick sweep of both the hotel and the surrounding streets for any trace of the authorities, while my bodyguards, Tony and Vito, performed their usual frisk of Palmer for any wires or weapons. When satisfied, I granted him entry and directed Esteven to escort him to my private office to await my arrival.

While I ideally should have been suited up for the occasion, I chose instead to retain my current state of dress: a luxurious set of Brioni Royal Blue silk pajamas, Blue cashmere socks, Black velvet slippers by Polo, embroidered with my monogram, a Navy and Silver checked silk smoking jacket by Sulka and double-ply Silver silk ascot from Carrott and Gibbs. Matching Pocket Square, of course.

I seated myself grandiloquently in the large, high-backed, Presidential Executive La-Z-Boy leather desk chair with Mahogany trim that I had custom ordered for the suite. One must be comfortable while working, especially when those you are addressing are so very uncomfortable!

I watched poor Phillip squirm in the hard, low-backed, armless vinyl chair over the considerable expanse of my hand-rubbed Cherry desk, glowering with obvious satisfaction.

"You look happy," he spits out, giving me a look one would usually reserve for the devil himself.

I say nothing, smile slightly, and take out a 10-inch Cobalt Blue Bakelite cigarette holder and a silver cigarette case from my inner breast pocket.

PHIL

The minute he took out that goddamn cigarette holder I knew I was screwed.

"You evil little bastard. You obviously want to gloat, so go ahead and get it over with," I said. I really didn't give a shit at this point if I was beaten to a pulp.

G paused as he allowed his liveried assistant to light his cigarette, and then rocked back in the ridiculously ornate chair while inhaling.

"Ah, yes. The moment when an opponent is truly beaten is always an event to be savored," he stated as if he were orating on some profound philosophical truth.

"So you admit you have her?"

" Have her?" he queried, mockingly quizzical. "I wouldn't say I've had her… yet" he slyly finished, raising his bushy eyebrows mischievously and huffing out a couple of leisurely smoke rings.

It took every ounce of restraint to keep my hands to my sides. It was one thing to be intimidated and condescended to by this rich goon, but to actually witness his obvious pleasure at my family's peril was intolerable.

"Look here, Palmer, I was going to feign innocence but who are we fooling? You know I have your wife. And I have you." He made a slight reach across the desk to delicately tap the ash from his cigarette into a mammoth crystal ashtray. "You have, quite simply, no one to ask for help. The police are securely in my silk-lined pocket along with half the money that keeps this little cow town floating, in one manner or another. You know what I want from you, and can probably ascertain your fate if you do not cooperate. For your lovely wife, I have other plans." He steepled his fingers together and a look of malevolent anticipation crept into his eyes, causing them to gleam inhumanly in the dim light of the wood-paneled office.

"Well, Mr. Big Shot, can I ask a question?"

The canyon-like crevice in his brow grew deeper in response to my smart-ass remark, and ape-man Tony cracked his knuckles. I know it was supposed to make me quake with fear, but it sounded so contrived I almost laughed. I enjoyed catching this midget off-guard, since he prided himself on his supposed god-like omniscience.

"If you've got all this money and power," I ventured, "why go to all this trouble for fifty grand?"

"A fair question," he stated flatly, removing the spent butt from his holder and crushing it out. He tried to heighten himself as much as he possibly could in that Barcalounger of an office chair, but failed miserably. "You do know that you robbed me of one of my best girls?" he said, trying to sound threatening but only managing to sound annoyed.

"Natasha? Yeah… I'm aware of it." My turn to smile.

"And if you knew me at all you'd know that no one takes what is mine without paying dearly for it."

"You may own 'half this town' but you don't own the people in it" I replied, surprising myself with my courage (or stupidity). "Natasha is a very intelligent woman who knew when she was getting the short end of the deal. She walked away from your organization without any help from me."

"Well…" he continued, fingering his cigarette case idly (the thing had MR. G inscribed on the face in Roman script. Please.). "Since she was seeing you, I guess you could say she was getting the short end of it." He began to snicker, and his hateful smugness returned full force as his henchmen randily joined in with him. "At any rate, you're wrong as usual. As long as there are poor saps like you, with no assets and over-extended credit, there will always be ownership." He fixed another cigarette slowly into the holder. "And I own you ." He puffed his cigarette alight, showily.

"You don't think I'd get fifty grand together for you, if I could?" I said, my desperation finally showing through. He had hit a raw nerve with his comment about my solvency. This bloodsucker had put me in this position, and now he was criticizing me for it!

"You'll find it," he stated simply "or your wife will be the one who pays. In blood, tears, and confessions."

"Confessions?" I choked out, incredulously. "To what?"

"To where you've stashed your daughter, dick-wipe!" he thundered, suddenly losing his world-weary sophisticate act and revealing his crass upbringing. "She's not at that fucking college anymore, and I want to know where she is. I need a backup in case you're stubborn."

"You fucker…." I spat out, feeling the tears coming to my eyes along with the requisite shame. "You were watching her. I knew it."

"Oh yes" he smiled. "And your wife, too. She's far, far away. Somewhere you will never find her. And every day that my payment is not received, your beloved Jenny's discomfort will escalate. Now if she tells me where dear Janice is located, her sentence will be dramatically reduced…" He puffed thoughtfully on his holder, obscuring his fat face with smoke for a brief instant.

"I'll go to the police with this. You'll never get away…" I trailed off weakly.

"Oh, I will. I am." He sneered, caressing his silken lapels confidently with one manicured hand and waving the other dismissively. "You're pathetic. Throw him out."

JENNY

When I was a little girl, I would watch spy films and old serials that prominently featured a young heroine being tormented by the caped, mustache-twirling villain. In those pictures, the heroine has endless amounts of energy and spunk. She stands up to her tormentor and challenges him; she won't be beaten.

In real life, it is a bit more complicated.

I'm sure I could get through this if I knew it were going to end, but it goes on and on. I have no idea what day it is anymore. In lieu of days, I have as markers only the endless torture sessions. I believe I have slept maybe 2 hours since I arrived.

The sweat drizzling down my face wakes me this time. It's not normally this hot down here. I am in my usual position in the cage: arms manacled above my head and legs spread widely apart and secured by manacles clamped to the sides of the bars. A thick Lycra collar secures my head to another manacle that is attached to the bars behind me. It is then that I become aware of where the heat originates. Looking down, I can see what looks to be a small barbecue kettle loaded with white-hot briquettes. Two long pokers protrude from the sides, long enough to extend through the cage bars.

One of the two guards assigned to me looks up finally from the Car and Driver magazine he is thumbing through and stares at the kettle. He sighs disgustedly, gets up and walks toward the cage, agitating one of the pokers impatiently. I can't help but moan as the heat increases exponentially, sparks and black soot rising in a brief explosion. He then returns to his post and begins to chat amiably with the other guard about mortgage interest rates.

Suddenly, a loud clanking noise is heard from the back of the room, and a man even shorter than the Commandant enters. As he approaches, I recognize him as Gunter --- the Commandant's personal toady. Unlike the other two men in the room, Gunter carries a swagger stick and wears a more elaborate uniform: Gold accents on his collar and cuffs, a few medals, and a lanyard that hangs beneath the gold braided bars on his shoulders. He always seems to have a smile fixed to his disturbingly young, handsome face. The two guards suddenly snap to attention, staring straight ahead at nothing.

Gunter clasps his leathered hands together and leans toward me eagerly. "How are we?" he asks cheerfully, seeming, as he always did, to be genuinely interested in what I had to say.

I exhale loudly, blowing wet wisps of hair from my face. "Hot" is all I can manage.

He laughs delightedly. "Wonderful! That is the way his Excellency wishes you to feel! I am always happy to please him."

He glances over his shoulder for seeming approval at an expensive-looking Sony camera, attached to the wall in the corner of the room. It whirrs briefly, and the large, telescoping lens elongates.

"The Celestial One is watching, of course," he explains needlessly, turning back to face me. I imagine for a moment what the horny, fat prick is doing, and am depressed to realize that it's probably most accurate. I imagine him lounging in a plush chair with his drink and cigarette holder, no doubt, working the remote control with one hand and jacking off with the other.

"I imagine you are getting quite thirsty," Gunter states, tapping his elegant stick slowly into the palm of his hand. "Wouldn't you like some refreshment?"

I say nothing, shake my head, and stare down at the mini-inferno below me and then immediately avert my gaze.

" No? " he asks, appearing shocked. "My dear Fraulein, if I were in your shoes, I would reconsider your answer. In a matter of minutes, the rest of your lovely form could be roasting as surely as your pretty pussy is right now."

He sets the stick down on a small stool nearby and claps his hands. One of the guards opens the cell door for him. Within seconds, the little man is almost face-height with my pubic hair. He removes one of his gloves slowly, and then begins to finger me lightly, staring up at me in a trance. He extracts his finger and then, with a demonic gleam in his eyes, places it delicately into his mouth, slurping hungrily.

"Ah, yes! Exquisite! Just the right temperature," he beams, wriggling his glove back on. "The vagina is a magnificent orifice, don't you agree? All this heat, and there is still a plethora of juice to be had." He turns toward the guards and jerks his head, motioning them into the cage. One is carrying a small rubber bucket containing crystallized cubes, and one is carrying two step stools. Gunter nods soberly, and the two men place the stools on either side of me and climb the steps. I attempt to twist my head from side to side, but can only make small movements due to the strap.

"Don't do that!" the little man says sternly. "Hold you head still or we will hold it for you." He straightens his uniform prissily and folds his hands. "Now" he says, in a more conversational tone, "I will ask you again, where is Janice Palmer?"

I sob, choking, and manage to shake my head only slightly.

Gunter's swarthy face darkens, and he nods his head. One of the guards holds my nose while the other begins to shovel the cubes into my mouth. Immediately, I realize it is rock salt. I clamp my eyes shut, anticipating the misery and wondering how long it will last. When my mouth is packed to capacity, it is secured with thick duct tape.

"Nasty, aren't they?" Gunter grins. "A word of advice: just allow them to melt and don't swallow them…. It will take a while. They are edible, but we don't wish for you to choke and die. If that happens, I can assure you, your daughter will suffer a lingering, cruel death when we find her. And we will find her, with or without your assistance. Of course," he admits almost ruefully, "we will find her much more quickly with your help."

He steps out of the cage, followed by his henchmen, who stoke the coals one last time before exiting. "I now bid you abschied ," he states grandly, then halts at his unintentional use of his native language, "er… farewell… to ponder the answer to his Eminence's question. I doubt it is far away." When the cage door is locked, he gives me a final perverted grin, retrieves his stick, turns on his boot heel, and stalks out of the room.

As the rancid salt engulfs my every sense, the camera silently swivels in the wall bracket.

TONY

What did I tell you?

It's now 7:30 in the fucking PM, and Julie and the kids are at home sitting in front of a full spread. Aunts, uncles, and cousins…. everyone is there: watching the game, shooting the shit, relaxing, everything is warm and cozy. Right? Oh yeah, I forgot. Everyone except yours truly. I'm driving out to fucking Boulder , tailing Mr. Fuck-Face, who don't pay his bills.

I asked his Holiness why he couldn't send Vito, who don't got no family except his girlfriend. "Vito isn't as adept at following as you, Tony," he says. Adept. I'll show him fucking adept.

I'm in a Silver Town Car, that I'm pretty sure ol' Phil has never seen before, and we're coming to where Route 36 runs through town. It looks like old schmuko is set to go to the college, which doesn't make any sense at all. Some other guy was supposedly keeping tabs on this Janice broad (not a bad looking piece of ass for a 19-year-old, by the way) when suddenly she was "dis-enrolled" or some shit from all her classes. No trace at her dorm. Nothing. Now that I think of it, I don't know what happened to that guy. Don't wanna know.

I follow Phil for a few blocks into town and he pulls up next to an ordinary looking ranch house. I stop about 500 feet back and pull out some binoculars and a map to hide behind. I watch for a few minutes as he rings the bell and talks to some babe in a White sweater. As I hoped, he enters the house. After about a minute, I get out and casually stroll towards his car. Unlocked. Stupid fucker. I quickly attach a bug under his steering column and return to my car.

Once he drives off, it doesn't take long before the speaker on the seat beside me belts out some static and ol' Fuck-Face's whiney voice comes through.

"Oliver…. It's your Dad. Pick up. It's an emergency…. Oliver? I just talked to Sabrina; she said Janice left their house last week on some ski trip. Do you know anything about this?"

Silence follows for a few beats. I can see him holding the cell phone to his ear, and I'm thinkin' I'm probably followin' too close. I drop back a few cars. Interesting. I find I'm laughing to myself. He don't know where she is either. Stupid son-of-a-bitch. I'd be at a goddamn bank right now getting the cash together if it was me, not out chasin' the ghost of this chick.

I call Steve. Boss is gonna wanna know this ASAP. I also tell him I'm calling some contacts in Vail, Aspen, and Breckenridge to start searching up there.

Steve says the big man is at some wine tasting or cheese tasting deal in Cherry Creek tonight, but I should arrange to meet him in the back of his limo at 10:30 sharp at the restaurant.

Well, it's McDonaldsland tonight, motherfucker. Now who do you think deserves a fucking break today?

MR. G

With the remnants of a particularly ripe Stilton Blue cheese lingering on my palate and the after effects of a fantastic bottle of Chateau Margaux taking any remaining edge off, I settle into the comfy Italian leather of my $110,000 custom-built 6-passenger Black stretch limousine. After an unbelievable 9-course gastronomic orgy at the Barolo Grill, I find myself feeling a bit bloated and reach down to undo another button on my silk Brioni tuxedo vest and then fish a Havana out of my breast pocket.

Brantley, my private chauffeur, exits the front of the car and opens the rear door as Tony steps in.

"Hi boss" Tony mumbles.

"Tony, my good man, what morsels of information do you have for me about this Palmer bitch?" I say, realizing I'm probably slurring my words. I chomp on the cigar and face him. He's looking tired, poor guy. I wait for him to give me a light, which he finally does. He then heaves a great sigh, as if he was doing the job of a rocket scientist, and faces the front of the car.

"As ordered, boss, I tailed his car and put the bug in. He went over to some girl's house and was in there for about ten minutes."

"Some girl….? So Phillip hasn't improved his stamina I see? Heh, heh. Oh, well, can't begrudge a man some fun. She good looking? Maybe we should pay her a visit sometime, Get the address?" I can't help but laugh. Everything seems funny after 3 bottles of $500 wine.

I take a long drag from the stogie and blow a thick cloud of smoke into the wood and leather rear compartment of my land yacht, as I sometimes call it.

"Ah, no, boss" Tony says, smiling wanly. "I think she's some friend of Janice's. The friend told Phil that Janice went on a ski trip."

"Pour me some Brandy, Tony," I say, thinking of some of our contacts in the mountains.

Tony hesitates, sighs again, and then retrieves a Waterford crystal decanter and a matching snifter the size of a fishbowl from the side of the car.

"I've called our contacts in that region" he says, pouring the beautiful, fragrant liquid. I take the snifter and inhale deeply.

"Good. Good."

"I also am thinking, that given the background of the family… you know… Phil and his wife are kinda on the skids, kids stuck in the middle, all that crap you know…. Jenny might have been told about that trip. Probably was told, if the kid's as straight an arrow as I've heard she is."

I consider this, and smile, resting my head on the seat back and puffing languorously, enjoying the leathery flavor of the Pre-Castro Davidoff.

"I would agree with that. Call our contacts and feed them the information. Let's see if they can get specifics." I sigh contentedly, feeling very good. "Thanks, Tony. Good work. Oh, I'll need you at the suite at 7:30 tomorrow morning to help with my bags. Esteven has to take his wife to the doctor, and I don't trust the bellmen at the Brown with my Gucci bags. Damn peasants scuffed up the last ones I brought here."

Tony sits for a while and says nothing.

"Well, good night" I say. Then, into the intercom: "Brantley?"

"Don't you have something for me, Mr. G?" Tony says, looking at me expectantly.

"Oh yes, I've got some free tickets to the Ice Capades if you want them." I open my Alligator-skin wallet and hand them to him. "I got them as a comp from the owner of Coors Amphitheater."

He looks at them like they were dipped in shit, which highly annoys me, as Brantley holds the door open. Whatever.

I switch on one of the two flat-panel TVs ensconced in the side wall of the car, select the DVD I received by courier late this afternoon, and begin to watch the bimbo with the salt in her mouth, laughing uproariously when she vomits on herself.

PHIL

I can't sleep, predictably.

It's been almost two days now with Jenny gone, and I find that even though we rarely talked anymore, I still miss her company. And that surprises me.

Getting out of bed at 11 PM, I dress quickly and drive into downtown Denver, entertaining myself with lively fantasies of breaking into Mr. G's suite with the Marines and force-feeding him that fucking cigarette holder. But he's probably gone by now. Maybe I'll get a handgun.

This thought causes me to think of Natasha, quite out of the blue. Well, maybe not so out of the blue. It was her handgun that started the domino effect of the events in motion. The trigger effect, ha ha.

And suddenly, I find myself driving towards the Red Light, a bar on the West side of town where I had heard she was waitressing. Sandy, one of the very few "freelancers" working the streets of Denver, had been a friend of Tasha's. After an aborted attempt at a trick with her, she had pitied me enough to disclose her whereabouts. She knew I was no threat, even though at the time I was furious with Tasha.

I pulled into the parking lot, entered the bar, and seated myself at a small booth in the way back. The Red Light was a traditional neighborhood bar, save the sleazy name, and the owner, Rory O'Bell, was a boisterous old Irishman. When Tasha and I had been "dating" we had spent many nights closing the place.

"Mr. Palmer! How in hell are ya?" Rory asked, strolling up to the table, still wearing a grease-stained apron from manning the fryers.

I wince a little at the formality, since the only times I've been called that in the past few days have been when my family or my life was being threatened. I smile weakly, trying to act cordial.

"Why are you hidin' back here? Did you know Tasha's workin' for me now?"

"Yeah, that's… great Rory. I'm sure she really appreciates it."

"Hell, I appreciate it, Phil. That girl's one damn fine waitress. Want me to snag her for ya?"

"Yeah, would you?" I said, and then immediately began to look for an exit. What the hell was I doing? I braced myself for a slap in the face, a thrown drink, maybe even a punch in the mouth.

"Hey! How are you?"

And there she was. Tasha. Gorgeous, shoulder-length hair pinned up in an efficient bun, the creamy skin on her face just as flawless as ever. That's one thing G and his monsters had not taken from her. That and her pride, something I no longer had the luxury of.

"Come give me a hug!" she's now shouting, pulling me to my feet. I feel the sudden urge to collapse into her arms and release everything, all of it, but I can't. I embrace her warmly but still in a gingerly, friendly way.

"I'm so glad you came to see me, Phil. I really am. How are you?"

"I'm… good. How are you ?" I say, completely unconvincing.

"I'm great. Just great. This job's the best. It doesn't exactly pay as much as, well, you know…"

"Yeah, I know."

"But I can come in here and know I'm going to walk out at the end of the night in one piece, so that means a lot. Stopped drinking too."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Wow, so a couple shooters for old time's sake is out of the question, I guess."

"Well, for me, yeah. But I'll get you a few if you want."

"No…. no… I'm fucked up already."

"You look pretty sober to me. I bit too sober, in my opinion."

I sighed, and stared at the table. "Tash, I need to talk to you."

"OK" she says, sitting across from me. "So talk."

"You got the time?"

As she nods, the reasons I felt like I could chuck everything and spend the rest of my life with this girl come pouring back, something I had tried for the past year to shut out, but to no avail.

"Tash, our old friend Mr. G is making trouble for me again."

Instantly all the lightness drained from her face. " More trouble? Are you serious? You told me that was finished last year." She stares at me, confused.

"After the thing last year, one of his goons threatened to hurt you badly. Seems just the fact that you were still in Denver was enough to piss him off. He wanted $10,000 to leave you alone. I gave it to him."

"You… what? Phil! That was a bonehead thing to do!"

"Tasha, what the fuck was I supposed to do, huh? You told the guy everything about my financial situation, so he knew I had some liquid assets. Maybe you two were trying to set me up, maybe not. I still don't know. Combine that with his vengeful nature and what did you expect would happen after we pulled that little number on him?" I had not intended for the conversation to go in this direction. An argument, at this point, I did not need.

"You know, no one's holding a gun to your head now, Phil. If you think so little of me, then why are you here?"

"I….. I'm here because, I…"

"Yeah?"

"I need your help. You worked for this maniac for 5 years, and you know him about as well as anyone can know a true psychopath. You were one of his best girls. I need that insight right now. And…. I'm still in love with you."

"Oh for Christ's sake!" She stood up. "I've gotta go."

"Tasha, don't…."

"I can't do this Phil! Don't you understand? I can go out of the house now without looking around like some sort of paranoiac headcase. I can watch someone light a cigarette and smell the smoke without having a panic attack. I can have sex…. Yeah, sex with someone I care about and not feel the urge to run away afterwards. I'm almost normal ….."

"No!" I shouted, too loud even for Saturday night at the Red Light. I exhaled deeply. "Look, nothing's ever gonna be 'normal' as long as that maniac is ruining innocent lives. The 10 grand wasn't a fraction of it, baby. I've paid this fuckhead a quarter million in the past year. All my savings… gone. All my equity… gone. I had to take a loan out to keep Janice at U of C this year."

I found myself out of breath and once again on the verge of tears.

Tasha's face suddenly crumpled, tears rolling, as she slumped back down in the booth. "No…. no…. you didn't."

"I did."

"How…. H-how could you think that I set you up? Why would I do that? Why…?"

"To get him to leave you alone?" I said, even though it sounded absurd in the context of her genuinely horrified reaction.

"Listen to me, Phil. Listen good. I got that son of a bitch to leave me alone by threatening to take all the info I had compiled against him to the Feds. I doubt if I would have done it, because I'd be dead now if I had. But it was enough to ward him off. And he obviously found someone else to exploit in the meantime, and you were making a hell of a lot more for him than I ever was."

I looked at her and shrugged. She was right. It made sense. And I had to trust her; I had to trust someone.

"It gets worse."

"How… is that possible?" she asked.

"He's going to destroy me and my family" was all I could say.

JENNY

I came to on the cell floor, lying in my own vomit, suffering from a pounding headache and massive dehydration. I tried to shut everything out and concentrate on the cool stone floor beneath me. When that failed, I tried that old trick of focusing on one thing, to block all the others out. It was then I noticed the shot glass filled with water. It was sitting in the corner of the cell, obviously having been placed there while I was unconscious. I crawled over to it after looking back at the guards, who were half asleep. As I made a reach for it, the thing came to life, shooting up in the air and zooming across the cage. Wires, and not a real shot glass either.

"You bastards!" I screamed and the guards began to laugh, one holding a fishing rod that was attached to the trick glass.

"Come now, where is your sense of humor, Fraulein?" the Commandant cruelly taunted, backslapping the two soldiers heartily and stepping forward toward the cage.

Although I had thought I was near collapse, I managed to make a delirious rush at the bars of the cage, causing more wild hoots from the men.

"You cruel sack of garbage!" I screamed. "I told you I don't know anything… nothing! Why won't you believe me? "

The fat man placed his monocle over his left eye, and sighed mock-wearily. "Because you are lying. And now we have proof."

"Proof?" I sputtered.

"We have received word from our… ah… operatives that your daughter is on a ski trip. The precise details are not known at this time, but investigations have been launched. Your husband is obviously ignorant of the same details. But I have a hunch that you are not."

He paused to attach a cigarette to his holder and to light it.

I looked at the floor.

"Yes," he continued, "that is what I thought." He blew acrid smoke toward me. "With your husband on the trail as well, it seems that stronger methods of persuasion are now in order for you, my darling. You're going on a little field trip. Major, show her to my playroom."

Enrique stepped from the shadows and, along with his two guards, unlocked the cell door and quickly overcame me, shackling my hands and feet. A blindfold was placed over my eyes. We walked for maybe three minutes from the room, and then I found myself borne aloft by gloved hands and placed roughly on a cold table. Leather cuffs that creaked sumptuously were placed over my wrists and ankles, and a large band was secured tightly around my torso, legs splayed wide. A threadbare blanket covered the bottom half of my body.

Then the blindfold was removed. The two lackeys stood at the foot of the table, regarding me ominously, while the Commandant himself relaxed in an overstuffed leather chair, to one side of me, enjoying a cigarette.

"Major, I think champagne is in order, if I'm not being too premature" the bastard gloated. Enrique presented a bottle of Dom, and then uncorked it ceremoniously, filling a crystal champagne flute for the villain. My mouth, with what little moisture was left, began to water at the sight of the liquid.

"Oh yes, you're still thirsty, aren't you?" he jeered, giggling, while tossing the icy contents onto my belly where it pooled and fizzed derisively at me. "Major, refill my glass, please. What's that saying you Americans have? Champagne everywhere but not enough to drink?" He smirked hatefully.

"Just get on with it, you fat pig!" I gasped.

Anger flashed momentarily in his steely Grey eyes, and he said evenly "Very well."

With a nod to his henchmen, the blanket was removed. I found myself staring into the teeth of a very sharp table saw.

PHIL

As I'm driving away from the Red Light, my thoughts are foggy, shrouded in Tasha's perfume, guilt and frustration over Jenny, and the vague and unsettling feeling that I am being watched. While taking mostly backstreets and local roads, I find it strange that one car has maintained a steady pace behind my Toyota without passing, even though I am driving a good 10 miles under the speed limit.

When I am about to turn into my driveway, I notice the trailing car's headlights suddenly switch off as it rolls to a stop near the curb. Squinting hard in the rear-view, I can tell it's a late-model Lincoln in the faint glow of streetlights, one of G's favorite makes… I'm positive the fucker buys them wholesale. I instantly stomp on the gas and peel around the corner, speeding down the side street doing 75. After taking every conceivable turn, I make a loop and come out on the freeway again. I stop at a Motel 6 roughly 15 miles from home, unfollowed, as an absurd thrill of temporary victory surges through me.

I bought some Sominex earlier in the day, and it's still in the car, unopened. I sit in the lot, eyes darting around for any sign of life, and then swallow two tabs with the remains of a warm can of Diet Coke. I leave a message on the machine at home for Oliver, although I am not sure if he would make it home tonight. Twenty-year-old boys keep odd hours, I'm learning

I request a room that is out-of-the-way, in a mostly vacant building near the back of the complex near a small, dark grove of firs. To be extra safe, I park my car in a restaurant lot next door to the motel.

I strip out of my sweat-stained clothing and crawl, trembling, into the institutional white sheets, feeling very scared, and very alone.

I wasn't asleep for long when I began to have the nightmare, which has stayed with me since the events actually happened, almost 2 years ago. Irritatingly, there is never any element of fantasy or whimsy in it. It is like watching a movie over and over. It never changes. I was sure I would have it tonight, in light of recent events and especially my meeting with Tash. I had been hoping the pills would block it out, but it didn't

In the nightmare, I am tied to a chair in a baroquely furnished bedroom in Mr. G's Park Avenue penthouse; the room easily twice as large as my entire house. Natasha is tied in an X to a massively ornate walnut bed, gagged with an extremely ugly (though realistic-looking) rubber dildo, which is strapped around her head. Tony and Vito stand passively on either side of my chair, wearing Black double-breasted Italian suits. Vito smoothes his fingernails with his small, silver nail file.

Mr. G waddles into the room magisterially in a full-length Red silk dressing gown, the kind you'd see Cary Grant sport as he sauntered around sipping a martini at cocktail hour in a '40s period film, a White silk scarf tied snugly around his pudgy neck. In his hands he carries Tasha's .22. He stands over me, grinning smugly.

"You know, Mr. Palmer, if one wishes to play with firearms, it is advisable that one actually knows how to load them." He opens the chamber and displays a haphazard mix of filled and empty chambers, something I had not bothered to check before taking the thing from Tasha's apartment earlier in the day. I have always hated guns.

This was a last ditch attempt --- our last ditch attempt --- to free her from the ranks of G's "top" girls. Being among the elite was a mixed blessing for girls like Tasha. On one hand, it earned her almost three times per night of any other call girl in Denver. But it also earned her pride of place as one of the bastard's personal "playthings." As Tasha's relationship with her boss grew, he no longer was satisfied with unlimited access. He had begun to make his physical attacks on her longer and more vicious. Every time I saw her, the bruises and scars on her lovely body became more pronounced. She told me many times that one day she feared she would not return from these weekend "trysts" in New York, where the crime lord kept an extensive collection of torture toys at his exclusive lair in the city.

Tasha had finally convinced me to come here to attempt this half-baked emancipation. "He won't expect it" she had said "not on his home turf." Back then, I had no clear idea of how well protected, or how powerful, Tasha's "pimp" really was. Incredibly naïve, I thought I could rush in like Charles Bronson and show the thug that I was no one to fool with. Instead, his goons had apprehended us both, earlier that day, only hours after we arrived in Manhattan. Tony and Vito had confiscated my weapon with the ease of a parent removing a rattle from an infant's hands.

I now watched as the gangster teased the length of her body with a lit cigarette, which was secured fastidiously in his now trademark holder.

"So this is your Sir Galahad, eh?" he chuckled, "I'm not impressed." He yanks the dildo from her mouth as Tasha gasps for breath.

"He may not have your power and money, but he's twice the man you'll ever be" she rasps. " He knows how to treat a woman." I find myself wincing, wishing frantically for her to shut up.

"Is that so?" he says, amused, eyeing me with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. "Why don't you demonstrate your prowess, Mr. Palmer? Perhaps you could show me a thing or two?" He seats himself in a gold-gilded chair that looks like a mini-throne, and sweeps his holder casually in my direction. "Tony, Vito… get him ready."

I am untied, at gunpoint, forced to strip, and fitted with a tight leather jockstrap, minus the codpiece. I am alarmed to find that the tension in the thing is coaxing an erection from me, even though I am far from aroused, in my heightened state of stress. The hoods lead me over to the bed and order me to mount Natasha. As I do, she seems to come to delirious life, moaning with a degree of pleasure I had not previously witnessed. I'll be damned, but she seems to like this shit. It was the start of my flirtation with mild bondage, though I never had the luxury of being able to explore it further with her again after that night.

After I had given her two or three hesitant strokes, I suddenly felt two steely arms grip me from behind and then a rubber finger shoved a greasy wad of something up my ass. An extremely large stick entered my body, and a jolt of electricity crackled through me, lighting me up like a Christmas tree. Before I could scream, I was gagged with a dildo identical to the one Natasha had sported. I collapsed on top of her, completely spent from the searing pain that had ripped up my rectum, igniting my prostate into spasms.

The little fat man hooted wildly with laughter, holding his silken belly and clenching the holder in his pearly teeth. "Now, now, Mr. Palmer. You'll have to do better than that ! Why, you can barely keep yourself stiff for 5 seconds!"

I raised myself up and looked at him pathetically. "Please" I begged, trying to speak clearly through the mouthful of rubber, "Don't…."

I heard the click of the .22 I had carried, as it was pressed to my temple.

"Again, Palmer. And be assured this time that Tony and Vito have properly loaded your quaint little water pistol."

As I fucked Natasha, the electric prod was applied at sporadic intervals. I didn't exactly get used to it, but I managed to finally come after what were probably a few hours. Natasha couldn't manage to look at me, choosing instead to fix her gaze on a crystal lamp, which sat on a nearby bedside table.

The sadist finally completed my humiliation by tying me up and forcing me to watch while he slowly singed Tasha's breasts with his cigarette, taking petite puffs while allowing the red-hot cherry tip to linger cruelly on her blackening nipples.

For months following the attack, I had trouble maintaining a steady stream when I attempted to take a piss, unable to relax, imagining the invading phantom phallus. Urologists, blissfully unaware of my prior trauma, told me there was nothing wrong with me, and that the symptoms would pass in time. They did. Unlike poor Natasha, my ego had been the only thing permanently scarred.

I wake up screaming, as I usually do. I can't tell if it's my imagination or not that a large shape appears to loom near the edge of the cheaply curtained plate glass window in the motel room.

When I get up to peer tentatively out the window, still nude, I find nothing. When I finally get back to sleep, I thankfully black out into a welcome nothingness.

JENNY

"So, you plan to… kill me," I stammered.

Any hope I had once had of escaping from this terrible place vanishes as I stare at the gleaming circular blade, set into what looks to be an inlaid sheet of pinewood at the opposite end of the polished chromium table.

A fit of belly laughs pours from the Commandant's ugly mouth. "Ah, no, no, no, dear Fraulien. That is not the intention at all. This is no mere $600 table saw from Sears! What you are beholding with your big, beautiful eyes is a highly sophisticated torture instrument." He blew a perfect smoke ring and regarded it for a few moments as it drifted toward the ceiling, before elaborating. "A landmark of German engineering; precise in every means of form and function. Major, lower the apparatus."

Major Enrique walked over to a series of dials and switches that were set into the wall, and turned one of the knobs. An electric hoist in the ceiling lowered a device that appeared to be an inverted "V", like a very large compass that is used for drawing. When it had been lowered into the space just below my crotch, the guard locked it into place with an extendible cable that also hung from the ceiling. He then attached one prong of the "V" to the mount of the blade wheel and fastened the other prong to a dildo mounted inside of an extending bracket made of heavy plastic. The tip of the dildo was only a few inches from my exposed pussy.

The Commandant watched the escalating fear seep slowly into my eyes, with morbid fascination. He then continued his obsequious lecture.

"That dildo has a self-contained power source in the side of the bracket. When I give the order, it will be switched on and it will begin to enter you. Now here's where the fun really begins." He was obviously having a hard time containing his glee. "I doubt you have much juice left in your pussy, due to all the heat you've been exposed to, coupled with your dehydration. This is going to create quite a bit of friction and resistance for the dildo… at least at first" he chuckled. "The saw is attached via the apparatus to the dildo, as you can plainly see, and the decreased movement of the dildo, due to the friction, will pull the blade at an exceptionally slow pace towards you, munching away on that flimsy piece of wood in the process. As you become, how shall we say, more lubricated , the tension will be eased, prompting the apparatus to allow the saw to advance at a faster rate."

My mind is now reeling at all of this information, and I can feel panic begin to overtake me. I force a deep breath, and my hatred for this petty dictator begins to erupt, against all of my better judgment. "You think that piece of rubber is going to suddenly create a geyser inside of me? It will take more than that, you pompous fool! I'll be thinking about very old disgusting men, like yourself."

He gives me a tight, small smile, and reaches into the pocket of his flared breeches, and produces a small case, about the size of a compact. He opens it and drops two small black devices into his gloved hand.

"See these?" he gloated, "They're what I like to call 'helping hands'. The Chinese first came up with the idea of using Ben Wa balls --- metal balls to enhance and stimulate orgasms in their female consorts. These updated models, however, are even more impossible to resist as they vibrate ever so minutely… right on your G-spot." He began to laugh maniacally.

"As I said, you mean to kill me. You… monster!" I blurt, trying extremely hard to remain calm and stone-faced.

"Oh no, that's not correct" he rebukes, wagging the burning cigarette dangerously close to my face. "I told you that this is a sophisticated and unique table saw. Unique in that it travels forward at only a fraction of a millimeter. And sophisticated so that, even at top speed, it would take 5 minutes to travel the equivalent of an inch."

I glance nervously at the blade and guess it is about 2 feet from my vagina, counting the length of the dildo. I shudder and turn away, which gives the fiend a tremendous charge of pleasure.

"Yes, you guessed it" he purrs, in his over-bearing self-satisfied manner. "Having your privates sawed apart is not exactly a quick way to die. It could provide hours of pleasure for my men, not to mention for our associates and me. I have used this device only four other times… and not once has a victim expired, so I wouldn't get your hopes up, Fraulein. However, in most cases, when the mutilation begins, you can bid any future use of your organ goodbye." He covers his mouth daintily with his glove, trying to contain his bubbling mirth, though unsuccessfully. "Oh yes, and need I tell you how much we can fetch on the snuff market for a recording of this little adventure?"

He then reaches out and jerks my head to face him. "Of course, your uncomfortable ordeal can be ended at any time by telling us exactly where your daughter is taking her impromptu vacation."

"Rot in hell, you Nazi scumbag" I say, but the words do not give me any pleasure, and him any offense.

The Commandant cavalierly tosses the two black devices to Enrique, who fondles them obscenely with a wicked grin on his face. The fat man then rises, and, clicking his heels officiously, gestures to me with his riding crop. "Enjoy your ordeal, my lovely. And while you are doing so, think of me enjoying myself, as I will surely be thinking of you." He points to a camera mounted on the wall facing me and, laughing insanely, struts off.

TONY

It's 3:30 AM when I'm finally wrappin' things up, and going home is completely out of the question. I figure it's gonna take me a half hour to drive back to the fuckin' suburbs, then wake up Julie (who'll bitch me out), then sleep for barely two hours, only to get up to haul his Grace's luggage down to the limo around 7. Fuck that. I go to the Brown and take the service elevator up to the top floor. The boss has two regular rooms reserved at all times that are on either side of his suite.

I phone Steve, who's always on call, to tell him about the extra info I learned tonight about Fuck-Face's sleeping arrangements. He answers on the fourth ring, sounding as tired as me, and informs me that the boss has decided to stay a few more nights in Denver. I'm so pissed I just hang up on him, throwing the cell phone at the wall. I… don't… need… this… shit! I'm a professional enforcer, not a goddamn servant, for chrissake!

I find myself thinking, as I fall into bed, that Steve has the better job. The guy's a formally trained butler, a gentleman's gentleman. Even if he is on call 24/7, he's almost never working odd hours, always inside, always comfortable. He's sure as fuck not drivin' all over hell and back constantly for fucking Ice Capades tickets. Sure, I might clear a little more than him, plus any extra "comps" I can swipe at the G Spot, but this shit sucks --- and I'm through with it.

I'm minutes into unconsciousness when my cell rings. I curse, desperately trying to find the motherfucker.

"Yeah?"

"It has broken" the voice says softly, with a faint German accent.

"What in the fuck…?" I sputter, and then quickly remember the code words. "Uh, OK. Where is the package?"

"At the Twin Pines Lodge in Vail, in mail slot 29C." I switch on the light and scrawl on a small pad of paper.

"Is the package… with other packages?" I stumble, feeling like a fuckin' retard. I hate usin' this fucked-up language.

"No. It is alone. Goodbye."

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone. I'll be a son of a bitch. That was quick.

I set the phone down on the bedside table, then reach over and turn it off. Fuck all you people. I'm goin' to sleep.

PHIL

I spring up in the motel bed, covered with sweat, as a fist bangs impatiently on the door. Why the fuck hadn't I brought a gun, or any kind of weapon here? Of course, they'd find me. I lamely thought about dashing for the bathroom and locking the door.

"Housekeeping! Is anyone there? Housekeeping?" a woman's voice, plainly Hispanic and very shrill, calls out.

I exhale sharply and dash to throw on my rumpled pants. The door opens and the woman starts, obviously surprised to find someone inside. "Sorry…" she begins, "I come back later." She has an expression one would wear if looking at a crazy man.

I look at the alarm clock. 9:45 AM.

"This was on your door."

She holds out a blank envelope with a piece of tape attached. "Uh, thank you" I manage, as she leaves hurriedly, banging her supply cart against the doorframe in her rush to exit.

I stand looking at the thing for a few minutes. Probably should save it for fingerprints, is my first thought. But then again, I was doubtful there were any to find.

I sit down at the small desk and rip the thing open. Inside is a white piece of paper with the words: WILL CALL AT 10:30 AM. ANSWER.

I start to sweat again, and my hands begin to shake as I place them on my forehead. I feel the sudden urge to vomit and rush to the bathroom, but nothing comes up. I can only pace the room nervously for the next 45 minutes.

At precisely 10:30, the motel phone rings. I pick up on the first ring.

"Y-Yes" I stutter.

Silence for a few seconds, then a distorted mechanical sounding voice says, "We have the girl. The price has gone up."

I say nothing, my mouth paralyzed with fear.

"$150,000" the computerized voice says, "Instructions to follow. Do not call the police or she will suffer." Then the line clicks, goes dead.

I rip the phone from the wall, breaking the cord and hurl it to the floor as hard as I can, shattering the plastic cover.

TONY

No sleep for yours truly, but after a number of phone calls to some buddies in Vail and New York (and about 6 cups of Espresso), I'm feelin' better than ever, more in control. I know what I have to do now, and it makes beautiful sense.

I have breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, and then call Julie to tell her I'll be on the road again today.

The drive to Vail should take roughly 4 hours, but with the thought of never having to light another cigar or cigarette for that annoying little cocksucker in the front of my mind, it'll fly by. I find I'm looking forward to it.

PHIL

The rest of the day is a blur.

I go to my bank, and talk with the same loan officer I've dealt with for the past ten years, but never get past him pulling my maxed-out credit report.

G knows I don't have 150. Knows it, as surely as he knows how many pairs of diamond cufflinks he has. So why would he ask for it? All I can think is that he obviously wants to negotiate some other deal. I sickeningly recall Tony telling me about another "deadbeat" who was working off his obligations as a butt cowboy and torture slave in one of G's exclusive BDSM clubs, and shudder. But what are my other options? What's one more groveling session, if it will buy me time? I am at the end of it, and I'm going to have to play the part of the victim, at least until I can get hold of Natasha and pick her brain further on ways out of this mess. I've got to find G and throw myself at his mercy, and hope his evil mind will be content to concoct some other way to subtly torment me without killing my family. One thing Tash had said the other night stays in my head: "He needs to control people. That's what it comes down to. It's not about the money or anything else. You've pissed him off and he wants you to know you're beaten, that you're his. Never forget he's nothing but a playground bully in a $5000 suit."

I drive over to the Brown, park half way down the block and wait. One thing I know about this fucker: he's far too high-and-mighty to lower himself to room service. He'll be leaving his plush hideaway to dine at some five-star restaurant at some point.

When the sun sets and it's past 7 PM, I start to get nervous, thinking that maybe he's already checked-out and escaped back to New York. But, at 7:30 on the button, his fancy Black showboat glides up to the entrance, license plate: MR+G. For once, I think wryly, his over inflated ego is working to my advantage. I watch as Vito escorts the fat piece of shit --- outfitted in an immaculate, form-fitting tuxedo and clenching an ivory cigarette holder jauntily in this mouth --- into the rear of the stretched sedan. Man of leisure, living the high-life, I think spitefully. I wonder how often he's pleasantly thought of the hell Jenny must be experiencing these past few days, and my anger boils.

I follow the limo to Morton's Steakhouse, in South Denver, and sit in the parking lot for close to an hour and a half, failing several times at attempting to exit my car. But I know enough about this place to realize no one gets out in less than two hours for an elaborate dinner.

I finally steel my nerves with several deep breaths and begin walking towards the restaurant, hoping for a relaxed dress code.

MR. G

I'm in my usual booth in the right rear corner of Morton's, one hand up Tiffany's slit-skirt and the other on Yvonne's succulent milk-white thigh, contemplating the dessert menu. Jeffrey, the Maitre d', has deferentially refused to seat anyone around me, even though there is still a waiting line at the door by 9:30 PM. Vito's table, at which he sits nearby reading a new copy of Cigar Aficionado, is the only exception.

I place the order, along with a request for a bottle of 75 year-old tawny Port from my private wine locker, and settle back in the leather banquette.

"You have exquisite taste, Mr. G" Yvonne croons, coyly sniffing the Red rose that adorns my silk lapel.

"I take it you come here often, you nasty boy" Tiffany chimes in.

"I come often, and with much gusto" I say, raising my eyebrows up and down and doing my best Groucho imitation, waggling a fresh Cuban between two fingers. They laugh on cue, while I leer nastily at their low-cut tops.

Both girls are relatively new to my enterprise, but have come with high recommendations by most of my men. Tiffany, the younger of the two at 20, is rumored to be particularly insatiable. My cock stiffens against the 150-thread count wool of my tuxedo trousers as I think of the many ways I will bring them both to the peaks of agony later tonight.

After the sommelier uncorks the Port and lights my Cuban, I'm taking the first fragrant pull (much to the chagrin of the 4-top nearby!) when what before my wondering eyes does appear but Phil Palmer? At first, it's all I can do to stop laughing. What in the hell is this loser doing in here? He can barely afford the price of an appetizer. But as I stare at him, looking expressionlessly back at me, his hair greasy and unkempt and his sport shirt half-untucked, my mouth begins to feel a bit dry. Looking over for Vito, I notice he's gone, and I quickly take a swig of my San Pellegrino.

"Ah, Mr. Palmer, enjoying your evening?" I ask, trying to sound magnanimous.

He continues to stare.

The waiter brings the desserts, three warm full-size Chocolate soufflés oozing with chocolate sauce and decked with layers of fresh whipping cream. He looks at Palmer, then back at me, sensing the tension. "Is there a… problem, Sir?" he asks.

"No, not at all" I say, dismissing him quickly, and searching again for fucking Vito. "Girls, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk with this gentlemen outside."

"That's not necessary, Mr. G," Palmer says softly. "What I have to say won't take long."

I quickly scan his body for any sign of weapons, and then tell the girls to go powder their noses.

I promise myself Vito's head for an after-dinner cordial container, and then, once the girls leave, say in a tone that barely masks my irritation "Sit down, you're making a scene."

"I prefer to stand, Mr. G."

Now I'm getting pissed. If Vito or any of my other men were around, this insect wouldn't dare contradict me.

"I received your latest message, Mr. G. I don't have what you want."

"What in the fuck are you babbling about, Palmer?" I shoot back, now openly annoyed.

"Your message… this morning" he says, voice rising just a tad.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know you've got Janice," he says, and my pulse skips a beat. I can tell he's serious. What in the fuck? I haven't heard of this development at all. Jesus Christ, are my men this fucking out to lunch?

I straighten the tail of my jacket indignantly and meet his gaze. "I have no idea what you are referring to. I don't know any Janice. Now, please leave, or I'll have to alert the staff that you're becoming a nuisance."

"A nuisance? " he parrots, now very loudly. " I'm becoming a nuisance?"

"Yes. Now go, or I'll have you taken out," I hiss, looking around the room and feeling mortification creep slowly over me, as people cease their conversations, and begin to stare at us.

"You pompous FUCK!" he suddenly erupts, reaching for the tablecloth and yanking it violently, sending all three soufflés tumbling over, onto the table and my Brioni. There are several gasps from the room, and more to my chagrin, a few chuckles.

I find myself frozen, unable to move, frantically trying to signal one of the staff with my eyes.

"You fat piece of shit!" he screams. "Not so tough, without your thugs, are you?"

"S-sit down Palmer. Let's discuss this like gentlemen…" I stall, as I thankfully see the Maitre d' and two of his staff rushing over.

The two men touch Palmer's arms and he shakes them off, wildly.

"Sir! Sir! I must ask you to leave!" Jeffrey says.

"This man… this THING…" Palmer raves, "has kidnapped my wife. He's a monster!"

The two wait staff begins to hustle him away, and I can feel my face begin to flush. Unfucking believable! And where the fuck is Vito? Rage quickly replaces embarrassment and I bellow at the Maitre d', stabbing my cigar in the air. "Why are you standing around? Chop! Chop! Call the police!" I look down disgustedly at my $4500 jacket, now covered in White cream and warm, sticky chocolate sauce. "If that psycho is allowed to leave here, Jeffrey, I can assure you that your next health inspection will yield very negative results!"

"Yes, Mr. G." he mutters, pacing away.

PHIL

I should have known I would lose it. Every good intention… It was just too much, too much. I can't lick his boots one more time, while he soaks it up, wallowing in luxury while my family is undoubtedly drowning in pain, waiting for him to order up another vile torture the way most people order a pizza.

I try frantically to explain everything to the tuxedoed manager, but he refuses to look at me. Two big guys from the kitchen have been brought over to "baby-sit" as the cops are called. I sit and sob hopelessly in a chair in the waiting area, surrounded by beautiful, well-dressed people with net-worths, looking at me as if I was a freak-show exhibit.

I suddenly hear G's husky voice bellowing at Vito, something about "incompetence," "humiliation," and a "price to pay." The fat turd comes charging out of the dining room, with the 6'4" Vito scurrying behind like a field mouse. As he strides angrily through the wait area, numerous staff chime "Good Night, Mr. G," "So sorry, Mr. G," "Please forgive us, Mr. G".

As Vito opens the restaurant door, G shoots me a death look and a hideously twisted smile that is truly chilling to behold. My wife and daughter are dead; I know this now. He looks around the room at the crowd, who are embarrassed and silent, then tears off his ruined jacket and flings it down wretchedly. He then straightens himself up, brushing a few crumbs from his unsoiled vest. "These people eat for free tonight, with the exception of HIM," he barks at Jeffrey, while gesturing to me with his stogie. Then to the crowd: "My humble apologies." Always the goddamn hero, I think sickly, looking at the floor.

Outside, the cops are equally impassive, not listening to me, telling me over and over to "Shut the fuck up." I am handcuffed, while G's limousine idles, purring softly at the curb. I can see the officer in charge talking to the shitbag through his rolled-down rear window, and notice the cop attempting to laugh lightly.

One of the cops that cuffed me propels me forward toward the limo, and I stand, burning a hole through the now raised, rear window. The glass comes down and G sits there, puffing thickly on his cigar --- warm, content, and cozy --- as the wind whips around my coatless form. "Apologize!" the cop behind me orders. I say nothing. G smiles smugly and the cop strikes me from behind, smashing my shoulder blade with his hand. I still say nothing for a bit, staring hatefully at him.

"What now?" I blurt out.

"Oh, the price for this little tantrum will be very hefty indeed, Mr. Palmer" he smirks, as the smoked glass rolls up, silently.

I start to sob again.

"Get him the fuck outta here!" the commanding officer orders, as I'm led to the squad car.

TONY

I turn on CNBC when I get back from the kitchen with a fresh six-pack.

Thank God for Sal and his weekend ski trips; as usual, the fridge is piled high with leftovers and most of them are still pretty tasty. I've come up to Breckenridge with his family at least three times a year over the past decade, and I've always enjoyed this little place. Remote, but still equipped with all the comforts of home.

The blindfolded girl groans again and I look sharply at her. "Shut yer face honey," I say, through a portable voice-disguiser that I bought months ago.

"Why are you doing…? What are you doing…?" she says again, for what has to be the fortieth fucking time in two hours.

"I'm saving your life, you stupid bitch, now stifle it! I'm trying to watch my stocks."

Her head rolls to one side, auburn hair tumbling down loosely. Fuckin' gorgeous. The sheepshank knots I've tied in the ropes are only enhancing her hot damsel-in-distress act. I had heard her mother was one sweet dish. But this one…. I shift my legs, trying to ward off a boner.

"Does this… have something to do with my mother?" she asks, causing me to look up again.

"Maybe."

"Is she… here too?"

"Maybe or maybe not, bitch, now SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I scream, throwing the empty can of Bud at her head.

My cell rings. I curse again, throw on my coat and walk out into the 8-degree cold to answer it.

"Tony! Hey, where the hell are you my man?" Vito. I roll my eyes. Daddy's little boy.

"Hey Vito. Oh man, I'm down with the flu."

"There is a major shitstorm goin' on, Boss has been asking about you all morning."

"Oh yeah?" I say, with as much interest as I can pull off.

I listen impatiently as he tells me some story about the boss, Morton's, and desserts flyin' everywhere. I can't help but start to laugh as I picture his Majesty covered with whipped cream, then quickly sober up.

"Yo, hold up." I say. "Ol' Fuck-Face was in Morton's last night?"

"Jesus, was the boss pissed. I'm kinda wondering about what's going to happen to me. He's actin' like it's my fault or somethin'. You gotta tell me what to do, Tony. I'm scared, man."

"Take it easy" I say, but I can feel my pulse start to quicken. "What did Palmer want?" I try to ask casually.

"That's just it, Tony. He thinks we've got the girl. The daughter."

"First I've heard of it" I say, after pausing only two, maybe three seconds.

"So you've called up to Wyoming?"

"Not since day before yesterday."

"Oh man, Tony. You know the Boss told you that you should call every…"

"Cool your goddamn jets, Vito. It's under control."

"It don't sound like it's under control."

"It is. I'm going to call that little fuck Gunter and get a status as soon as I hang up. Dollars to fuckin' doughnuts this whole thing is a big bluff from Palmer to buy time. Make us run around in little circles. I'm surprised I hafta tell ya this…" I start to smile a bit. Maybe Vito's going to be in a career crisis soon, I'm thinking. Oily Don Juan motherfucker.

"Tony, do me a favor. Don't fuck with me. Call the boss. ASAP."

I close the cell phone. Shit, this is comin' down faster than I expected or wanted it to. If I don't call his high-and-mightiness soon, it won't be long before he calls Von Helsing himself. Although a part of me would give just about anything to see the look on that fat prick's face when he hears the report.

I turn back to the cabin. I've gotta ditch this fucking cell phone. Tonight.

As I walk in, Janice is bent over in the chair, as far as her pretty body will allow. I stroll over to her till I'm about 3 feet in front of her, and then I undo my belt. I double it over and give her a medium-hard crack on the face. She gasps, raises her head, as blood runs from the corner of her mouth.

"Who ARE you?" she wails miserably.

I stand there for a few seconds, but I don't get the pleasure out of this that his majesty, Lord Pervert, gets. I reach inside my coat pocket for one of the Cubans that I lifted from the Suite on Friday night.

"You can call me… Mr. G." I say, my voice coming through the speaker of the disguiser, low and threatening. I tear off the end of the cigar with my teeth and spit it into her lap, then roll the stick between two fingers, retrieve a lighter from my pocket, and slowly lift her skirt.

JENNY

To stay alive and, more importantly, to stay sane, I have to tell myself that I did the right thing. I repeat this mantra, over and over, but each time I open my eyes and take in my wretched surroundings --- the rack in the corner, the whipping posts, the cattle prods and pokers that ghoulishly decorate the walls --- it seems to be nothing more than an elaborate lie, a fanciful rationalization.

I am bound to the metal frame of a chair by at least 15 different brown leather straps, including the ones that secure my jaw and forehead. My ass is spread wide.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the table where I lay just minutes before, the sparkling saw blade now motionless, blooming like a twisted flower from the warped wreckage of the bracket that had secured and powered the dildo. After an hour and a half of watching the blade slowly advance, spewing pine shavings like a fountain, and listening to its ear-splitting screech, I had given in, telling them everything. I can smell the awful burnt plastic of the bracket even now.

The Commandant had been called down, and he looked extremely pleased. He had touched the edge of my mouth with his glove, still sticky from cum and reeking of tobacco, and then laughed loudly, and for a long time. He then stood back and applauded me.

"Excellent! A wonderful performance, Fraulein! And a wise choice, as well. In just under ten minutes, that blade would have claimed it's first bite of prime pussy meat! No woman has yet to resist the persuasive powers of my saw." He rubbed his crotch offensively.

"You know, now that we're finished, there's one thing I wish you would do for me, Commandant," I said, in a softly cloying tone.

"Yes?" he approached me, looking more intrigued and delighted than I had yet seen him. He began to fondle one of my breasts, kneading it in the soft black leather, as I pretended to arch my back with pleasure.

"Stop calling me Fraulein, you stupid pig. I'm married."

He instinctively raised his hand to strike me, as his thugs moved forward. Seeing that look on his face, like a fat turd stung in the ass by a bumblebee, I laughed. What more can he do to me? I had thought, giggling with involuntary hysteria. There is nothing left to take, or to give.

Stopping in mid-air, he instead put both hands around my throat and began to slowly throttle me, as all traces of lightness, as well as oxygen, vaporized from my grasp. He leaned close and whispered: "Beg pardon, Frau Palmer. Ah, but you may not have a husband for long. What should be of primary concern to you is not your matrimonial status, but the verification of your story. If it does not prove true, the next sharp object you will encounter will be the one between my legs." He then laughed softly, licking my ear repulsively and loosening his grip, as I panted for breath.

"Major," he ordered, as Enrique secured a black satin cape emblazoned with a Scarlet swastika around the villain's neck and shoulders, "Secure her to the chair to await sentencing."

And here I am. Waiting. Until finally the door to the room opens, and a blindfold is wrapped tightly over my eyes.

MR. G

This morning, even after a half-hour steam shower from three gold-plated Moen showerheads, an hour-long soak in my marble Jacuzzi, followed by a two-hour Shiatsu massage, I am still pissed off. I take it out on my manicurist, threatening to have her boiled slowly in acid if she doesn't do a better job of buffing my pinky finger.

Esteven comes to my rescue, as usual, dismissing the girl with a few words in Spanish. Following the warm shave on my terrace, he knots an ascot around the folds of my newly smoothed neck as he tells me that Vito was finally able to reach Tony at 10:30 AM, and has told him to call me back as soon as possible; also that Palmer is still at the county jail, information that gives me an obscene amount of pleasure. I wonder if my contacts on the force will allow me come by to gloat a bit? The thought of him behind bars, with his wifey securely under my thumb, is almost enough to brighten my mood. With an efficient sweep of the Black satin quilted lapels on my Gold silk dressing gown, Esteven leaves to fetch my breakfast.

As I sit at the breakfast table, Vito lights my cigarette with his head slightly bowed. Since last night, the moron has been unable to meet my gaze, a fact that suits me just fine.

"Boss, again, I apologize for last night…" he begins.

"Will you be quiet?" I snap. "It's far too early in the morning for your lame groveling. If you want to be of use, get me that kraut, Von Helmsley, or whatever he calls himself. I'm not about to contact the maniac directly."

Esteven serves me an appetizer of caviar blintzes and Champagne, and then informs me that Tony is on Line 3. I hit the Speakerphone button. "Yes?" I bark, snapping my fingers impatiently at Vito, and then waving him away brusquely. "Go guard the plants in the foyer, you overpaid slab of meat. You should have scads to discuss, seeing as you all share the same IQ level." I tell him, nastily chuckling. He sulks away as Esteven sees him out.

"Good Morning, boss" Tony's voice pipes from the speaker.

"Well, well. It's about fucking time! Where the hell have you been the last day or so? I'm getting ready to call in your backup. God knows that oaf Vito couldn't protect his own genitalia without written instructions."

"I've been in the crapper all night, Boss. Think I hoisted a few bad oysters."

"Never mind that. Is what Palmer said true?" I say, cutting him off. "Does the Kraut have the girl?"

"Didn't Vito tell you?"

"Tell me what?" I say, feeling that I'm truly starting to lose it.

"She confessed to everything. Guess it was the Kraut's infamous table saw that finally broke her."

"Huh…" I say, taking a bite of the fat-laden blintz and smiling ever so slightly, imagining Jenny Palmer sobbing hysterically while awaiting the approach of that hungry steel blade. "I hope it took some time. I'm eager to see the footage." I say, dabbing a pearl of caviar from my lips with an Italian linen napkin, delightedly.

"A few hours. Anyway, she gave him the full address."

"Why didn't you call after you delivered the message to Palmer?"

"I didn't. Vito did."

"Vito."

"Yeah. You know, boss, I'm starting to question that guy's loyalty. And after what I hear happened last night, I'm getting pretty concerned."

"Tony, drop the Peyton Place bitch biting, and tell me where the fuck Janice Palmer is shacked up!"

"Well, I asked Vito, and…"

" And …?" I prod.

"He said he would tell you. I didn't get it."

"You didn't get it."

"No, I…."

I punch the Speakerphone button, cutting the line dead, and then lean back in my chair and fasten another cigarette in my holder.

I summon Esteven. "Send Vito to the warehouse, and then call Freddie and the boys. It's a fine day for a hike in the mountains, and Vito needs to clear his head. I believe we can assist him in doing so."

I notice his usual deferential smile slip a notch, as he lights my smoke, nods, and clears my plate.

PHIL

After sitting on the floor of one of the drunk tanks in the jail for about 3 hours, I am led up to a sterile detention room and seated behind a table.

Two men enter; one is the commanding officer at the arrest, Captain Bernard McCluskey, who, I know from personal experience, is one mean son of a bitch. It was McCluskey who arrested me on the Solicitation charge shortly after I had returned from New York after G's first attack. The other guy I have never seen before; he's younger, and bears a striking resemblance to David Duchovney, the actor, though he's a bit heavier.

They both sit, and the younger man looks down at a file on the table in front of him, and begins to speak. "Mr. Palmer, My name is Lt. John Margulies, Denver police. Before we formally process you, I'm hoping you can clear some things up for us."

"Look, Lieutenant, I really don't get why I'm here. What are you charging me with? Assault with a Deadly Dessert?"

McCluskey stands up and leans over the table, menacingly shaking a finger in my face. "You just watch your fuckin' mouth, mister! Second Degree Assault is nothing to laugh about. One would think someone with your prior arrest history would be a bit more concerned with his future at this point."

"Oh, give me a break McCluskey" I sigh. "I was cleared of that trumped-up charge over a year ago. It was a frame-up just like this ridiculous thing is. What a surprise that you're behind this one, too."

The burly Irishman lunges out, and Margulies puts his hand on his chest, pushing him down into his seat gently, but firmly. "Captain, need I remind you Mr. Palmer has not been formally charged at this point? I think we can all benefit from talking this through."

McCluskey glares at me, sits down, and grudgingly takes a sip from his Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Mr. Palmer, you told the arresting officer that you confronted Mr. Garrimone, claiming that he kidnapped your wife."

"That's correct." I say, as McCluskey squints his eyes and begins to laugh softly. "I don't think a Kidnapping charge is any funnier than an Assault charge, Captain" I add, leaning over the desk, almost tasting what it would be like to pummel this lard-ass to death.

"Oh, come now, Palmer, be serious." McCluskey says lightly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands. "You've been a resident here long enough to know that Mr. Garrimone is one of the most successful entrepreneurs in Denver, as well as the country. He certainly didn't achieve that position by kidnapping the wives of deadbeat whoremongers. Pray tell, how much is Mr. G 'asking' for a ransom?" He nudges Margulies with an amused wink.

"The Captain is right, Mr. Palmer. Do you have any proof of this supposed abduction?"

I'm beginning to feel like I'm in an episode of some '60s Black-and-White TV show, like The Twilight Zone , or The Prisoner , everything gone insane, and Kafka-esque.

"Well, Lieutenant, unless you count when he specifically told me about her kidnapping, I guess not."

McCluskey's face becomes a static mask of hatred, and Margulies looks genuinely disturbed, for the first time.

"And when did Mr. Garrimone tell you this?" Margulies asks.

"Early Thanksgiving Day, shortly after Midnight. I went to his private suite at the Brown Palace, 1404, and he spent the good part of an hour gloating over the information."

Margulies sighs, picks up a ballpoint pen. "Mr. Palmer, I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Garrimone only arrived in Denver last night." McCluskey's irritating smile widens.

"No… no, that's not right" is all I can stutter out.

"Why don't you tell us why you're really bothering Mr. Garrimone, Palmer?" McCluskey cajoles, faux-good-naturedly. "You're acquainted with Natasha Morretti, are you not?"

"Yes…" I answer slowly, wondering where in the hell he's going with this whopper.

"And you know that Ms. Moretti is employed as a Blackjack dealer for Mr. Garrimone at the Diamond Ranch Casino in Blackhawk, Colorado, where he owns a controlling interest at that resort?"

I'm feeling like a bucket of cold water is being slowly dumped down my drawers. I fight to stay calm. "I… wasn't aware he owned that business, and didn't know Natasha worked there, no."

McCluskey stabs his finger triumphantly in my face, as he raises himself from the Green vinyl chair once more. "Liar! You were at the Diamond Ranch last month and propositioned Ms. Moretti! When she declined your solicitation, you became violent and were physically removed. Perhaps you were jealous of Mr. Garrimone's prior personal relationship with Ms. Moretti."

My breaths are coming in short spurts now, and panic crawls up from my gut. "That… never… happened" I say, overwhelmed.

"That's not what the manager of the Casino, Anthony Pataglia, says, Mr. Palmer," Margulies chimes in. "He claims you've had a fixation on her since you began to frequent the casino four months ago. During that time, you've lost a total of…" --- he consulted his file --- "$85,000."

"Don't you find it coincidental that everyone corroborating this mobster's story is one of his employees?" I'm now almost yelling, infuriated by the increasingly satisfied expression on McCluskey's face. He has the contented look of a man getting everything he wants, faster than he expected.

Margulies scowls. "Mr. Palmer, there is no such evidence proving Mr. Garrimone is anything but the most upstanding of businessmen," he says, looking down, but his tone is far from convincing.

"This is outrageous!" I shout, getting up. "I'm not saying another word until I speak to a lawyer."

"Whine all you want about your poor choices and bad luck, pal," McCluskey smirks, "Ain't nothin' gonna change the facts. Even if we couldn't prove your whereabouts --- which we can --- we could nail you on Premeditated Assault alone. Mr. Garrimone is a respected businessman, and you're just a used-up sack-of-shit john with a record!"

He crisply snaps his fingers as the door opens and two other cops enter the room. As they start to read me my rights, I find I can't stand any longer. McCluskey takes the scene in with a contented, sadistic smile as I collapse on the floor.

"Lieutenant" he declares pretentiously, "I'll take over from here."

Margulies looks tentatively at me as if he expects me to say something, to protest. When I don't, he gets up, and slowly walks out, looking vaguely non-plussed.

As the two cops haul me to my feet, McCluskey grips my shirt with a meaty paw and snarls with a disquieting intensity: "Book this stinking piece of dung and take him to a nice comfy cell. But first…. rough him up a bit. Perhaps he could use a shower…" He chortles, rubbing his hands gleefully together, as I'm led from the room.

JENNY

For a while all I can hear are sounds of things clanking, clicking, locking into place. The light that penetrates the very limits of my vision from around the blindfold begins to vanish, very slowly. Finally, the band of silk is removed and I find myself in a small room, bordered by makeshift walls. It is as if I have moved without actually moving. Major Gunter stands nearby, instructing a soldier who is finishing up work on a support beam for the temporary ceiling. He looks over at me, and his shit-eating grin makes me nauseous.

"Mrs. Palmer" he begins, "why do you persist in playing these stupid games with us?" He fondles his swagger stick playfully.

"Major, I have told you what I know. I have no idea what else you could want that I have not supplied. But, if you ask me, I will cooperate."

He sidles up to me and traces my lips with his warm leather fingers, slowly.

"No, you have not, my pigeon. Your daughter is not at the Vail address, if she ever was. Your weak little ruse has incurred a significant amount of time and expense for us, and we are not happy. You will now give us the correct location."

Before I can say another word, he beckons a guard with his finger, who wheels over what looks to be an IV drip, though the bag is filled with a pale Red fluid. Suddenly, I feel there is something under my chair, and a very cold piece of plastic forces it's way up my ass. I scream in protest, but Gunter just titters, tickled by my horror.

"His Excellency wishes to sample your bodily delights personally, in his private chambers, and it is my duty to prepare you for his sovereign pleasure. You must be 'clean as a whistle,' as they say. Let me explain how my little cleansing procedure works."

He walks to a nearby cart and retrieves a wicked looking metal clamp, which he secures around my head. It is equipped with a device to hold my mouth open, and my tongue in place. He then produces two miniature claw-like devices, which are attached to the bondage gear, and fastens them securely to my eyelids, forcing them to remain open. When he is finished, he wheels the IV drip closer, and unhooks a plastic tube attached to a very small metal cylinder. He attaches the tube to a hook from the IV stand, and bends it into place like one would do with a flexible drinking straw, with the tip of the tube only millimeters from my tongue.

"This bag contains Habanera pepper juice," he croons, gesturing pompously with his swagger stick. "If you didn't know, the juice from this little miracle of nature is 100 times hotter than that of it's more domesticated kin, the Jalapeno pepper. As it hits your wet little tongue, the heat will be so pronounced it may simply evaporate on contact. At any rate, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to hold your head steady, while this torture is inflicted."

He turns a valve on the cylinder and a tiny whirring noise begins. I gape incredibly at it… it's a mini-pump! As I watch the liquid begin to be sucked up from the bag, I babble quickly "Please, please, stop. You don't have to do this…" but I'm sure nothing is intelligible behind the gag.

Gunter laughs amiably, as if understanding completely, and pats my shoulder. "Ah, we are not asking any questions at this point, my dear. That will come later. The Omnipotent One wants to savor your misery to the fullest before he extracts the information slowly from you, using only his substantial manhood!"

The first drop hits my tongue, and it feels like liquid fire. I strain desperately but find I can only move my head a short distance. I just wait, paralyzed by the sight of the pump working it's black magic, pulling the foul liquid forth to form another Red pearl that dangles devilishly at the end of the tube, ready to burst.

Now, liquid begins to shoot up my rectum. Although not as intense as the sensation in my mouth, my ass also feels like it's being filled with fire.

"The same liquid," Gunter gloats, clapping his hands together, ecstatically. "Each time you move your head to avoid drinking in that ghastly fluid, a tension sensor will be tripped, causing the pump below you to inject more fire water into your anus. As with all of my fiendish little inventions, you yourself will determine how you will ultimately suffer. But, lest you start feeling too 'in control,' I will complete your utter misery by fitting the room with these…"

He points to two kettles heaped with Red pepper flakes. "Burning pepper can be extremely agitating to the eyes and nose, and these kettles are equipped with automatic bellows that puff the smoke towards you at an annoyingly precise rate. Corporal…." He gestures to a soldier with a gas mask who approaches, carrying a lit taper.

"Have a happy, thorough, and above all, sl-o-o-w cleansing" Gunter laughs. "Keep any information that comes to mind at the fore of your memory during your herbal 'treatment.' I suspect you will be needing it shortly."

He flourishes his stick majestically and exits the room, laughing like a madman.

MR. G

"This unexpected turn of events could be highly profitable for both of us, Captain. I am quite pleased," I tell Bernie McCluskey, enjoying the cool, firm feel of one of my many vintage 1915 8" Indian Ivory cigarette holders, through which I'm partaking of an expensive Turkish cigarette. It's a beautiful, unseasonably warm, late Fall day and sunlight floods the open moonroof of my private limousine, as it floats smoothly down I-70, heading west through the Rockies.

"My sincere pleasure, sir. The bail is being set this afternoon," McCluskey announces, and I can hear the pride in his voice over my car phone.

I believe he truly hates Palmer. To me, the man has been, at best, a steady source of miscellaneous income and, at worst, a bothersome insect that had been eating away at the revenues generated by the highly profitable prostitution arm of my Denver crime syndicate. Some might claim my vendetta stems from his affair with Natasha, but they would be wrong. His inordinate suffering was never part of any grand plan, just another amusing side road taken on my journey to complete underground "ownership" of the city, which I'm hoping will be secured shortly following several key "appointments" of trusted associates to top posts in Denver government next Fall. McCluskey, on the other hand, had taken a severe pay downgrade from his superiors following Palmer's inquiries after the disqualified solicitation charges a while back. It is only logical that I now exploit his fabled thirst for revenge.

"How are you enjoying that beautiful luxury car, sir? Running smoothly?"

McCluskey inquires, trying to sound casual. I roll my eyes slightly at his simpering. It's no secret that McCluskey is lusting after the post of Denver Police Commissioner.

"It's fine, very pleasant," I return, quickly. "I'm a bit concerned, however, about the bail amount. It should be high, but not ridiculous. I want him locked up, but I also don't want any red flags raised, either."

"I understand, sir. I've put in the request to Judge Smails. We're asking for

$75,000."

I can't help but cackle. Perfect. Smails is McCluskey's second cousin, and a wicked piece of work. "That should do just fine, Captain. I'm wondering if you could also perhaps place a few feelers out West on the whereabouts of his daughter, Janice Palmer."

"Er… that might be difficult, Mr. G. It could look suspicious, if investigated."

"Why would there be any investigation, Captain?" I say, slightly agitated at his response, watching lazy puffs of smoke rise through my open roof.

"Well… never mind. I have a few men on the payroll that can look into it.

Should I get back to you with the info as soon as I can, sir?"

"No," I tell him, toying with a strand of Tiffany's silky Blonde pubic hair from the other night, that I've stashed in the pocket of my Brioni White linen double-breasted blazer. "Contact Freddy Barnes, he's going to be filling in for Tony as lead Security for a bit."

"Done. Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. Ensure that Palmer is as… heh, heh… uncomfortable as possible during his stay at your local detention center. You will be supervising him personally."

"I was hoping you'd say that, sir. He has already had a rather invasive experience in my showers last night from the welcome committee," he says, laughing softly.

"Well done, Captain" I return coldly, "Keep up the good work and great things will undoubtedly be in store for you next year." I push the END button on the phone, and then buzz Brantley.

"Yes sir?" Brantley's refined English accent comes through the wireless intercom.

"Call Freddy and have him contact the lodge in Wyoming. Have him tell Conrad… Von Helsing" I say, consulting a file on my new HP Pocket PC, "that I will be arriving tonight or perhaps tomorrow." That Kraut better have some answers for me. I want to find that little bitch and finish this as soon as possible.

TONY

This business makes you do crazy things, insane things.

I've been part of it all my life, and as with everything else that goes along with it, you become immune after a while. Ask any made guy and they'll tell you that the first kill is the hardest, and that's true. Up to now, I thought that torture was no different.

I've never done this alone before. I've always been with two or more guys, and I guess that makes it easier. It's especially easy when you're followin' orders, especially if you concentrate on the details. I remind myself that I'm on a one-way street at this point; I've got to complete this job in a certain way or I'll be enterin' retirement as nothin' but a glorified errand boy.

I gag the girl tightly, even though it's not needed in this remote area. I singe the end of the nine-inch Montecristo and take the first puff, blowing the smoke into her face. I find I'm havin' to consciously stop myself from inhaling --- I gave up cigarettes seven years ago after Julie's constant nagging, and though there have been times in the past when I could've really used a hit, I've never given in to the urge. It's been tough. Shit, the boss smokes like a chimney, but it's all this really expensive, strong stuff, and most times the smell just makes me want to puke. So, maybe I've got him to thank for that, if nothin' else.

I sure as fuck didn't think I'd be smokin' this big monster when I swiped it from the boss' walk-in humidor. I'd much rather take the money I can get selling these illicit babies to the occasional yuppie who happens to find his way to the G Spot. They fetch up to $55 a piece and are almost impossible to find, except when ordered in mass quantities, and the boss always has at least 10 boxes aging at a time.

He sure does love shit like this and, even though he usually never gets his hands dirty, the only exception has been when it comes to using cigars or cigarettes. "Nothing is more cost effective and persuasive than a burning ember" he likes to say. He gets a lot of ideas from movies and TV, that's fuckin' obvious, and this little scenario, he told me once, was lifted from "Thunderball," a Bond flick. I bought a copy of the DVD before leavin' town and watched the clip before bed last night. I went to sleep replaying it in my mind and tryin' to remember things he's said in the past when I've watched him carry out this nasty deed in New York, usually on his bed.

I look at Janice Palmer's raised skirt and it pisses me off to find I'm havin' second thoughts about this. The fact that I have a daughter two years younger than her isn't makin' it easier. But it's do or die now, literally.

I pick up the container of ice cubes and shake it teasingly in one of her ears, then remove one, wrap it in a paper towel, and press it against the baby-soft velvet of her hot thigh. She gasps lightly and begins to whimper. I leave it there to slowly chill her flesh, and then pick up the razor and shaving cream.

I put both hands on her silky Pink panties and tear downward, hard. I have to cut the ends, which are made of heavy elastic, with a straight razor. She starts to shake, whispering "No…. no…."

"Hold still, my precious, I don't want to have to hurt you any more than I plan to. You are now my property" I say, sounding very close to the pitch of the boss through the disguiser, but forcing an evil-sounding laugh that even I don't buy. I find my hands are shaking, and stop to pop a Xanax.

I spread a thin layer of cream on her fine dark-maroon cunt hair and begin to carefully shave her, removing selected bits of hair and washing off the cream with a cold cloth. When I'm finished, the hair I've removed has formed the shape of the letter "G." I add the last bit of hair to a pile that accumulates on a napkin resting on a nearby table.

She's crying uncontrollably at this point, and it's starting to unnerve me, since the hardest part is still ahead.

"Little girls who cry and whine will only make things worse for themselves," I warn sternly, imitating the big man's manner and tone. She instantly shuts up, but her bottom lip still trembles under the gag. The fireplace crackles noisily.

I then sit back in my chair and slowly relight the cigar, wondering why in the hell these rancid things cost so much. When there is a substantial ash on the thing, I remove it from my mouth and lean down toward her crotch.

I press the ice sharply against her thigh, and delicately flick the ash from the cigar, exposing the white-hot, pointed, tip. I slowly brush the very end of it against her other thigh, which chokes a high-pitched scream from her mouth.

"My cigar for heat, and the ice for cold, when combined scientifically and slowly… very, very slowly… will give you a good taste of the power I hold over you, my lovely" I recite, as best as I can remember.

I puff heavily on the cigar and then place it fractions of an inch from the melting ice, allowing the intense heat to blend with the frigid cold. As I bring it closer to the flesh, she begins a stifled wail that sounds impossibly loud. I attempt to shut it out and concentrate on giving her an even surface burn, but it's the hardest goddamn thing I've ever done. I have to brace myself against her legs to stop them from shaking, as she starts a series of sharp shrieks. As I pull the cigar away, and brush off the ash, the flesh beneath is quickly turning a mottled purple.

I force myself to do it again and again. After the sixth time, I'm getting a full appreciation for just how twisted the boss' mind is, and though that should help me get through this, it doesn't.

PHIL

Solitary confinement would seem like the best place to be in most prisons, if you'd just arrived there, but I have a sick feeling that, at least in this case, it's worse.

I can still feel them inside me and I grind my teeth together, sobbing, trying to frantically shut it out. After I was led from the questioning room, I had been taken to a vacant locker room, forced to strip, and held facing a wall in the drab gray shower area by two guards. I was raped, while lukewarm, then cold, water pounded my face. I cannot think of one thing I have left to live for. There is little or no chance my family will be alive if I ever get out of here. My mind reels at the thought of what future torments McCluskey and his goons have in store for me. But it's not the first time I've taken it up the ass. And, I think disturbingly, it probably won't be the last. I have no choice but to survive, and it's the last thing I want right now.

I hear the lock on the steel door turn slowly and a young woman guard enters, with an older man.

"The Captain wants to have a word with you, Palmer" she says, expressionlessly.

Saying nothing, I raise myself from the dusty floor of the empty cell and allow myself to be handcuffed. We enter an elevator, and the male guard pushes 9, the top floor. When we arrive, I notice the dark hallways and guess it must be late at night. This is an administrative floor, very old, with lots of decorative woodwork and frosted glass doors. We stop at a pair of double doors at one end of the hall marked DENVER POLICE COMMISSIONER, and this throws me. What now?

We enter a large office suite. As I pass the front reception area, we come to two large, ornately carved doors with elaborate golden handles. Upon entering, I can see a large presidential-looking desk and chair at one end. At the other is a sitting area flanked with large windows, beautifully trimmed in dark wood that also decorates the walls. In the middle of the windows is an expansive wood and marble fireplace set into the corner of the office, topped with a beveled mirror that extends to the 15-foot ceiling. I find I can see a faint image of myself in it, my orange jumpsuit shimmering in the glass, mocking me. The flames from the fireplace periodically brighten the dimly lit room with a ghostly flickering. Before it is McCluskey, sprawled leisurely in a stuffed burgundy colored butterfly-wing leather chair, feet up on a nearby coffee table, sipping something from a large snifter and puffing steadily on a short, fat cigar. He still has his uniform on, but I can see his tie has been removed and thrown on a sofa. He looks completely out of place in this posh room, as an aristocrat would look at a tractor pull. He turns his head only slightly in his chair to acknowledge me, and then returns to contemplating the shooting flames before him.

"Guards, cuff him to that chair," he says, pointing with his stogie at a straight-backed chair near the fireplace. "But first, take him to the window."

I am walked over to one of the side windows and look out at the scattershot array of lights comprising nighttime Denver.

"Take a good look out that window, Palmer," McCluskey says, laughing with bravado. "You'll never see the outside again, at least if I have anything to say about it."

"And what would Commissioner Heath think about you stinking up his office?" I say, unable to contain my disgust for him. He gives me an icy look. "And I don't mean from your cigar" I finish, as the man beside me takes a club from his belt and shakes it quickly in my face.

"Button it, asshole," he warns. "Speak only when the Captain addresses you."

They propel me toward the high-backed chair by the fireplace, and re-cuff me from behind once I'm seated.

"It'll be my office next year. I'm just breaking it in." McCluskey brags. "Like it?" He sweeps his cigar proudly around the room and begins chuckling.

"Yeah, right. In your dreams" I give him, but my stomach erupts in acid at the horrific thought. "How does a low-level bagman like you have a chance in hell of taking Heath's job?" I shoot back, thinking there must be something in that cigar besides tobacco.

"I have friends in high places, let's just say" he smirks, fairly calm though obviously drunk. "Did you really think anything would come of that lame investigation you triggered? IA took one look at the amount of money Mr. G contributed to our retirement fund over the last five years, and dropped the whole thing. Face it Palmer, you're fucked. Or should I say, you were fucked, and you'll continue to be fucked." He began laughing boisterously.

I stare at the floor, silent.

"You can torture me all you want, McCluskey. I'm not telling you a goddamn thing."

"The only thing I want to know, Palmer," he sneers, leaning forward in his chair and lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is was it as good for you as it was for me?" He continues to laugh. "But seriously, I don't need any more statements from you. I have all the evidence I need to prove to the court that you're a serious risk to our little community." He snaps his fingers brusquely at the female guard.

She goes to a table and retrieves a plastic bag marked EVIDENCE, containing Tasha's .22 pearl-handled pistol.

What the hell? I gape at the bag unbelievingly.

"You don't remember us confiscating this from you, do you?" McCluskey continues, smugly. "Just like you didn't remember going to the Diamond Ranch. Oh, Palmer, you poor schmuck, you're in so far over your head. I predict your story won't wash with the judge. But you never know… ol' Jimmy might cut you a break."

"Smails, right?" I ask, pitifully.

He nods his head solemnly. "Yep. He's set your bail at 75 Gs. Of course, you'll have no problem scraping that together, right?" he asks meanly, eyes twinkling with perversity.

I ignore the superfluous question, staring instead at the dark red Oriental rug that gives beneath my aching feet with an opulent lushness.

"Look" I say, deciding that being a smart-ass is not the way to go in this situation. "McCluskey…"

"CAPTAIN McCluskey!" the female guard shouts, belting me viciously in the stomach with her club.

I bend over, almost heaving my guts, as McCluskey leans back in his chair, mouthing a luxurious ring of smoke and raising his eyebrows, with an expectant look on his flushed red face.

" Captain McCluskey," I sigh. "You obviously are close to Garrimone. Please, I know you have a family, so show me just a little bit of humanity and tell me… are my wife and daughter alive? I need to know." I choke back a pathetic sob.

It might just be the light of the room, but I think I see a vague flash of pity --- or maybe just contempt --- cross his hard face. He twists his mouth in distain.

"They're alive… last time I checked."

I break down, unable to hold it anymore.

"My god you are a miserable turd, Palmer" McCluskey marvels, sounding truly disgusted. "If you had the sense god gave a billy-goat, you'd never have gotten yourself into this mess in the first place. Whorin' around, then refusing to give Mr. G what's his on top of it."

"What's his ?" I cry. "He's taken everyone… everything I have!"

McCluskey sighs, and then reaches over to snub out the remains of the cigar into an ashtray. "I don't want to hear your bitching and moaning. You have what you deserve. Mr. G intends for you to have a very unpleasant stay in my prison, and I intend to see that you get it."

"How much is he paying you to set this up?"

He gets up and half-staggers to the couch, picks up his necktie, and begins to knot it while gazing at the reflection of his florid face in the mirror above the fireplace. "Let's just say it's enough to make me the youngest retiring Commish in the history of Denver" he gloats, with a dreamy look of grandeur in his eyes.

"Can I ask… what he's done with them? What he's having done to them?" I implore.

He doesn't look at me, straightens his tie, brushes off his uniform, and dons his Blue Captain's hat. He then strolls casually to the other side of the room, and I know that he means to increase my tension by making me wait. He picks up a riding crop that rests on a nearby counter top, part of some equestrian display of Commissioner Heath's, and perches himself on the front of the expensive desk with one leg dangling, looking as confident as a Nazi General interrogating a prisoner.

"God only knows," he says in an irritating sing-song, pleasantly stroking the crop with one hand, "but one thing is for sure. It will be slow, precise, leisurely, and very creative." He begins to chuckle, then stands and slashes the crop into the air grandiosely. I grind my teeth, knowing that he's just baiting me for another beating from his henchmen. As he is poised to take another swing of the crop, really getting into the spirit of tormenting me, the desk phone rings.

He hesitates a moment before answering: "McCluskey." He listens for a minute, and then says "Moretti?" He tosses the crop on a side chair and stands behind the desk with one hand on his hip. "What the hell does she want?" Silence again. Then, "That's impossible! Give me a minute, I'll be down."

Hope surges through me at hearing Natasha's name; a completely foreign feeling. He slams the phone down and glares at me.

"Get him back to his cell immediately" he shouts. The two guards roughly uncuff me and bring me to my feet.

McCluskey snatches the crop and storms over to me, waving it under my nose threateningly. "Don't get your hopes up, dick-face! You're fucking whore can't get you out of this one. Now that I have your weapon I can turn your Assault charge into Attempted Murder like that !" He hammily snaps his fingers in my face.

Even though I should be terrified, a small seed of relief springs forth, as I watch the large man almost run for the office door.

JENNY

I'm tied to a chair in what the guards refer to as the Imperial Bedroom, a magnificent circular room made of austere marble with plate glass windows easily 40 feet tall that surround me. Even the ceiling is glass. Although I'm restrained, the warm sunlight spilling over me has an almost calming effect.

It seems to have been a long time since the last torture, though who knows? I had passed out several times, only to be awakened by the awful pepper in my nose, mouth, eyes, and ass. It was by far the worst they had put me through, much worse than even the table saw. On that thing, I had felt some semblance of control; that I could end it. This time, I had absolutely none, and I had been prepared for it to go on and on until I died. The Commandant's fiendish laugh had hovered, piped from speakers, like a black phantom over the proceedings. When I hadn't heard his voice for some time (had he gotten bored? fallen asleep?), the machinery around me was abruptly unhooked, and I was slung over the shoulder of the mighty Enrique like a stunned cavewoman. I then traveled upstairs in an elevator and was introduced to a young Japanese woman, whose name I still do not know.

She never smiled once during the entire time I was with her. She wore a beautiful Pink kimono and her lustrous black hair was pinned to her head. When I was presented to her, I was a ragged mess: eyes puffed out and half swollen shut, skin red and blotchy, pain and fatigue radiating from every part of my body.

She had led me into a spacious marble atrium that resembled an old Roman bath, and first asked me to bend over at a railing. I was terrified, but looking around, I could see no threatening soldiers or goons. She patiently explained that she needed to cleanse my insides of the remnants of the pepper juice and apply an internal healing douche. "The pain will leave you," she explained, "but not without this."

She took care to cleanse my insides with her buttery soft fingers. Massaging my clit with warm water, she paused to linger, rubbing in a circular motion with an almost business-like precision. The tension built inside of me, until I released a virtual geyser of cum. Her gentle seduction was the first time I'd experienced pleasure in what seemed like years. She knelt, and finished off the cleansing with her hot, silky tongue.

A warm bath in an immense whirlpool followed, and it was so soothing I fell asleep several times. The woman took care of cleansing every inch of my body with a soothing sea sponge and various expensive botanicals of natural almond, Aloe Vera, and Green Tea extract.

Afterward, I was rubbed with lotion from head to foot, given a complete facial healing and moisturizing treatment, and even a full manicure and pedicure. She presented a full-length mirror and I was surprised by how undamaged I looked, though she would not let me see my back. I couldn't face that at this point, anyway.

The guards had been brought in to retrieve me, but even they were gentler than usual. They brought me to the large bedroom I'm in now, tied me to this chair and allowed the woman to dress me in a overly decorative red silk and lace teddy, complete with garters.

After another hour, maybe more, the Commandant entered the room, looking fit and well rested in a flowing robe of black silk, and a knotted red silk ascot. I had fully expected him, and looked at the floor, wondering what vile tortures he plans to inflict on me now.

Surprisingly, though, he had me untied and seated himself on a large throne chair in front of me, before the massive windows. Made of dark polished wood and upholstered in red velvet, it looked like the throne of a third-world dictator: magnificent lions heads adorning each arm, placed underneath the arm-rests and attached to legs that resembled lion feet, complete with fanciful engraved talons. At the foot of the chair was a large carving of the moon, and at the very top of the 8-foot tall back, a larger carving of the sun, topped with a crown. The whole piece was packed with dense engravings of flowers, vines, and circular motifs.

The fat little man stares down his nose at me with a look of natural, unfettered disdain, and snaps his fingers in my direction, hands pointed downward as if he were summoning his pet pooch.

I sigh inwardly, any hope of resistance sapped. I rise, and then easily collapse on the cold marble, my legs still weak and shaking. I began to crawl toward him, and he smiles slightly, pleased with my easy supplication.

When I arrive at his feet, sheathed in beautiful slippers of black velvet and monogrammed with the letter "G", he snaps his fingers again and says simply "Remove them." I did as asked, and after I slip off the socks, made of impossibly soft cashmere, I find myself staring at his wrinkled, vein-ridden, puffy feet. They emit a musky stench, far from pleasant.

"You will now give me a foot massage," he intones, retrieving his cigarette holder and case from inside the robe. "But first, light my cigarette."

He tosses a heavy gold lighter negligently in my direction and I scramble to catch it, as he watches with an amused, smug expression. I exhale with relief as I finally do, though it pops from my grasp several times. I'm guessing that letting this expensive object hit the hard floor would not be a wise choice for me. I open the thing and reach out to light his smoke, which is not difficult given the length of the holder.

He inhales slowly and blows a few thick smoke rings in my direction, regarding me with imperiousness. "Keep your eyes on your work," he commands, pointing downward. I begin to massage his feet as best as I can, rubbing the sweaty flesh with as much vigor as I can muster.

"My feet are dirty. You will clean them now, with your tongue." I fight to hide my repulsion as I bend down and start suckling his toes. As I do, he begins to lightly chuckle. "You are now starting to realize your place here, Frau Palmer" he grins.

MR. G

We arrive at roughly one hour to sundown at Loser's Bluff, an overlook that's situated behind a piece of prime property that I have purchased just north of Aspen. The estate I plan to build here in two years, once I take my throne as crime chieftain of Denver, will make my current place in Vail look like a housing project. Sitting on 10 acres of prime ski-front property, it will feature such amenities as 3 heated swimming pools, a riding stable, archery range, indoor and outdoor tennis courts, solarium and greenhouse, 18-hole championship golf course, 3 professionally-designed ski slopes, and a main house featuring a grand ballroom, full-size cinema, bowling alley, 4 libraries, 25 terraces, 40 bedrooms, and the largest chamber of pain and pleasure known to man.

Brantley opens the door of the stretch for me and helps me on with a full-length white mink coat, which I raise the collar on and snuggle into against the sub-zero wind-chill of the quickly darkening evening, wearing a pair of expensive Ray-Bans and puffing heavily on a Cohiba for the little heat it provides, if nothing else. Freddy and his men have already been here for quite some time, and their faces are red and gaunt, obviously ready for this to be finished.

Freddy walks over with a confident expression, holding out both hands in a welcoming gesture. He's a kid in comparison to Tony, only a few years into the biz, but very ambitious. Even though he's not paisan, he has worked as a contract hit man for several years, with impeccable references. He's also not afraid or too proud to kiss some ass, and I like that.

"Boss, everything's ready to roll," he says.

"Excellent. Has he been able to shed any light on the reasoning behind the recent failures in his communications with me?"

"He keeps saying Tony's name over and over, boss. And he still claims he don't have the address of the girl."

"That's impossible, Freddy," I say, through clenched teeth that betray my impatience. "I talked to Von Helsing an hour ago. He's fairly sure that his men spoke with Vito, after I asked. They visited the address that was given this morning and found no sign of the girl, though she had just checked out, it seems. Vito obviously has had her taken somewhere, and I want to find out what he's up to."

"Well, boss, if this don't make him talk, I think we can assume he's outlived his usefulness."

"That goes without saying," I return evenly, but I'm too preoccupied with where that little twat could be to register much interest or pleasure in Vito's predicament.

I follow Freddy over to the edge of the bluff, and am faintly amused to see Vito suspended from the thick branch of an Aspen tree overlooking a 3,000+-foot drop into the rocky ravine below.

I can tell that Vito hears me, since his head turns slightly and he begins to mutter "Boss…. Boss…."

I completely ignore him and turn toward Freddy.

"I'm impressed. How in the hell did you get him out on that thing? Very inventive," I marvel, waving my cigar in Vito's direction and patting Freddy on the back with a cashmere-lined black Gucci glove.

"We used that Cat crane that was left by the building crew," he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of the monstrous yellow beast parked just behind us. "Tied a big loop onto his existing ropes and then just lowered him out onto the branch. He's been out there for almost an hour."

"That's a pity," I chortle. "But he still hasn't talked. That's interesting."

"You wanna question him, Boss?"

I glance over at the terrified Vito, and then at the bending branch that holds him, and smirk.

"Nah, I don't have time to mess with that piece of shit. If he knew something, he woulda talked by now. It's Tony who's screwing us."

A look of admiration sweeps into Freddy's face and he gives me a big grin, pointing in my direction and looking at one of his nearby men. "Not the boss for nothing…" he says. "So what should we do with…?" he asks, hooking a thumb toward the cliff.

I smile broadly, removing the cigar from my mouth. "Finish him… slowly. And film it, of course. I wish to enjoy it later. Much too cold out here, my boy." I pat him affectionately on the cheek, and turn to walk back to the car.

Back in the warm leather interior, just before I hear Brantley fire up the limo, I listen with pleasure to the savage roar of the starting chainsaw.

PHIL

No matter how many times I see her, I still can't get over how beautiful Natasha is and tonight is no different. Returning from the bathroom, I give her another once-over. She's wearing a Red strapless dress and matching pumps, her long tanned legs crossed elegantly. We're at the Aztec Bar and Grill, a little all-night Southwestern Tex-Mex type joint on the edge of Arvada, Colorado, a suburb of Denver.

I take a large chug of the Margarita, which sits in front of me, and put my head in my hands, hardly believing I am free from McCluskey's grip, at least momentarily. "I still don't understand how you did it, Tash," is all I can say.

She looks up briefly from the menu that she's scanning on the tiled tabletop, and gives me a mild smile. "Are you forgetting what I did for several years prior to meeting you?"

"No…" I admit grudgingly. "I guess I just didn't know it paid that well."

"Well, let's just say I have a few thousand left to my name, at this point."

"Oh god, I know how you feel" I say, feeling sick. "Um, speaking of which, you're not dealing cards in Blackhawk, are you?"

"Ah… no" she returns, as if I'd made a joke. " That would be a hell of a drive from downtown Denver. Where did you hear that?" she asks, looking puzzled.

"Oh, forget it. Just one more line of bullshit McCluskey tried to lay on me to construct his frame."

"Un-fucking-believable."

"Yeah, isn't it? Again, I'll get you the cash as soon as possible, I promise. I still have a 401(k) I can cash in, and maybe a loan from my in-laws…"

"Let's not talk about that right now," she says, putting her warm hand over mine. "First things first. Let's get some food in your stomach. God, I always knew that pig McCluskey was a sadist, but the stuff you've told me puts it in a brand new light."

I shudder, thinking again of the night in the shower, and my sphincter automatically tightens. "He's a sadist, all right. Really enjoys his work. I just hope we can get this mess straightened out before the hearing…"

"We will…" she says, stroking my hand. "Phil… we will. Look, you took care of me when I was being persecuted by that evil prick, and now I'm going to take care of you. We're going to find Jenny. There won't be any hearing. Trust me."

"I wish I understood how you could be so sure of that."

"Well…. There's something that you need to know."

I look at her expectantly as the waitress arrives with our order: a combination plate for me, and fajitas for Natasha. When the server leaves, she continues.

"I wasn't sure I could tell you this when we talked before, but after I got the call from Margulies, I knew it made sense."

"How… do you know Margulies?"

She sighs, leaning back in the booth and turning her head away from me for a moment. She then looks intently at me.

"Phil, Margulies is a Fed. I've been working as a mole for him over the last year. He's the guy I originally talked to even before we went to New York. He's infiltrated McCluskey's little club, but hasn't wanted to make a move until he was sure he could catch Garrimone, as well. He called me right after they picked you up. Said it looked like a 'classic piece of G-work.'"

"Huh," I say, smiling grimly at the label. "That it is. I guess it explains why I'm here."

"Yeah. Believe me, McCluskey tried to pull every string possible to change the charge against you to Attempted Murder, but Margulies really held his feet to the fire. There were a lot of legal loopholes to satisfy to introduce his new 'evidence' and increase the bail amount, but since I had already put up the 75 grand…"

"Makes sense. So that's obviously not your .22?"

She looks at me wearily.

"Of course" I say, disgustedly. I begin to eat quietly, the burrito digesting as roughly as this new information.

"Listen Phil, I may have an idea where Jenny is, and Margulies knows that. Are you up for a road trip?"

"Now?" I moan, feeling ready to collapse. But, I know she's right. I have to finish this.

"I'm going to try to lead them up to a place where I was taken once by Garrimone's thugs. One of his little hideaways."

"You're sure it's safe?"

"No. But what choice do we have? It's unmarked; off several small mountain roads. There's no way they'd find it on their own."

"Let's go."

"Don't you want to finish up?"

"I'm not hungry. Let's just get this over with."

As we get up to leave, the Tequila seems to be biting back unusually hard and I start to wish I'd eaten more.

MR. G

It's after dark when my limousine pulls up to the front entrance of the Black Lodge. Walking through the glossy burl wood doors (imported from South Africa) and onto the lacquered parquet floor of the entrance hall, I'm touched by how much pride I still have for this place. It had been a large hunting lodge, a floundering commercial vacation retreat just five years ago, coming apart due to years of neglect. I poured almost $3 million into it, including over $1 million to renovate my private quarters at the top of the imposing structure. Sitting on over 40 acres, my palatial wood and glass retreat overlooks an expansive range of pastures and valleys containing a fully stocked wildlife preserve (yes, some endangered), which I primarily use for game-hunting parties. Any resistance I had been met with by top Colorado brass over the past few years has dissolved quickly, as they found that the "city slicker" from NYC was a good ol' boy who liked huntin', fishin' and red meat. These hypocritical hillbillies made a habit of utilizing the place to indulge their illicit bloodlusts both in and around the lodge.

I gaze around the lobby, irritated that there is no one from Von Helsing's staff to greet me. I walk over to a courtesy phone and dial the number of the Kraut's office on the floor just below me. Gunter's faggy little voice answers and, though he tries to act officious, he sounds very surprised to hear from me.

"Mr…. G, so glad you've arrived! The Commandant is expecting you, of course. How was your trip?"

"Fine. Where is he?" I snap, impatiently.

"He's finishing up another round of questioning with Mrs. Palmer, but he should be available short…"

"Are we still on that? My god man, I've never witnessed such a slow interrogation! If I were running this show, that little bitch's psyche would be broken into a million pieces by now."

He pauses, and it delights me in a small way to hear his breath quicken over the phone.

"Ah yes, of course, Mr. G. So sorry. She is proving to be much stronger than we had anticipated…"

"Doubtful. It's far more likely that she's as clueless as you are as to the whereabouts of Janice Palmer," I shoot back. "But, I'll find that out very quickly, I can assure you."

"Please Mr. G, if you would only give me five minutes…."

"Can it, you useless little toad!" I shout. "I'm going up to my suite, and I want your boss, El Presidente, there in under five minutes, capiche ? He's got some explaining to do."

I slam down the phone and summon Brantley to follow me with my overnight bags.

As the golden elevator doors open onto the top floor, I instantly smell cigarette smoke and hear a ringing telephone, and my anger begins to rise. I follow the ringing to the bedroom, where I fling open the large French doors.

Von Helsing cries with surprise as he springs off the bed where Jenny Palmer lays, the front of her body covered with fresh red crop marks. To my horror, my $7500 Brioni robe hangs open on his disgusting, flabby, pasty-white, nude body, the remains of an erection fading quickly.

"Ah, Herr G! A thousand apologies! I didn't know you were coming in so early…"

I stare with outrage at this scene, which looks like a bad outtake from a third-rate porno, as my blood pressure enters the stratosphere.

" What in holy FUCK are you doing in here?" I scream. "Have you forgotten, you incompetent lout, that I never ever gave you permission to use my private chambers, much less to wear my clothes ? Who in the hell do you think is in charge here?"

Von Helsing turns three shades of red and hastily ties the robe close to his form.

"That robe you're wearing was custom made in Italy. There's none like it in the world, and there will never be any like it again! And now you've ruined it with your stinking German seed!"

"I…. I'll… find a way…" he stammers pathetically, eyes wild with panic as he starts to shake.

"You'll find nothing! You'll get your fucking uniform on and go to my office immediately !"

I storm over to the bed, throwing a quick glance at Jenny Palmer who has a dazed, disoriented look on her face. She meets my contemptuous gaze briefly and looks away in fright.

Tearing off my mink and throwing it at Brantley, who looks equally terrified, I head for the Master Bathroom to relieve myself of the Scotch I've imbibed over the last hour in the car, muttering profanities.

TONY

I'm awakened by the sound of a car in the driveway, and of course it's Tash, who else would it be? I don't answer that question precisely because I know the answer to it, and it shakes me the fuck up. I've been lying in bed for 3 hours now, still dressed, unable to sleep, paranoid of every goddamn thing. I swing my feet to the floor, go to the back room to check on Janice (asleep in the chair, or so it seems), then walk out to meet Tasha with my coat wrapped, unbuttoned, around my body.

Sure enough, Phil Fuck-Face is right on the seat next to her, looking like a beached whale: head thrown back, mouth open, and slightly slumped over. I wonder for a minute if he's not dead and I think that it would almost be easier that way.

Tash kills the motor and gets out of the '68 GTO that she's driven ever since I've known her. Fucking hot as usual: red dress, red lipstick, red shoes, red ride.

"Well?" she asks, as I stand there in a coma, "what are you waiting for Tony? Help me with him!" She walks around to the other side of the car and opens the door. Even with the lights fully on in the car, Phil doesn't move a muscle.

"Holy shit, he's out cold. What did ya use?" I ask, actually curious.

"A mixture of Thorazine and Valium," she answers. "On top of an already strong margarita."

"We want him to wake up, right?"

"No duh, Tony. I wanted him out cold for the ride up here."

"Don't get yer panties in a wad, I'm just askin'. Whatsa matter baby, you getting' a case of the guilts at slippin' your ex-beau a mickey?" I start cackling.

"Shut the fuck up, Tony," she says, "Easy for your ass to make jokes, up here in this warm cabin with satellite TV."

"Ah, poor baby," I say, moving close to her and shoving my hand roughly up her dress. She sneers slightly, but doesn't resist as I move my hand quickly to her cunt and begin massaging it quickly.

"Oooh… fuck !" she moans, and her hard-as-hell act falls apart as her nails dig into the back of the old ski parka I've thrown on. We kiss intensely for maybe two minutes, then, as if a switch has been flipped, she's pushing me away. "Later… after."

"OK, I'll remember that."

She gives me a resentful look, genuinely irritated. "I have no idea why I have anything to do with a greasy pig like you."

"Easy, baby," I tease her. "You know what they say: it takes a badass to make a girl's heart beat faster. We've got too much history." I shrug my shoulders, smiling slightly.

"Just take him in," she sighs, as I heft ol' Fuck-Face over my shoulder and start for the cabin.

Once inside, I place Phil in the chair his daughter squirmed in hours before and start to tie him up.

Tash begins to mix a drink for herself. "Vodka. Want one?" she asks.

"I think I'll pass. I hear you make 'em pretty strong," I chuckle.

She says nothing, sinks into one of the leather club chairs by the fireplace.

When I'm satisfied with my knots, I go to join her. "No one really gets you but me, Tash. Might as well get used to it."

She looks at me, and half-frowns, half-smiles. "I suppose you're right. I probably wouldn't have survived all those sessions with Garrimone if you hadn't been there. That little pig always thought it was him that turned me on. Moron's got an ego the size of the Grand Canyon."

"I know what you like, baby," I smile back.

"So how did our little Janice enjoy it?" she asks, still with an edge to her voice.

I smirk. "Not too much, I'm afraid."

She takes a deep swig of the drink. "You did the cigar and ice routine?"

"Just the way his Majesty does it."

"And you left the tools?"

"Uh huh. Cigar, twat hair, razor, everything but his business card." I fall silent for a bit, and I can tell it unnerves her.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No," I lie. "Just trying to get used to the thought of being a marked man."

"Don't think about it. Let's just do this. I've got some other stuff with Garrimone's prints on it that I can plant for our friend Margulies. You've kept your gloves on?"

"Ya suh boss. Just like you."

"OK. It's getting late. We still calling tonight?"

"Yep. Celly's been cloned and ready to go for weeks."

She says nothing, and continues to stare into the fire.

"How long before he wakes up?" I ask, looking over at Phil.

"Two hours. Maybe three."

She finishes the drink and throws the glass into the fireplace, where it explodes with a soft popping noise.

MR. G

I've always liked uniforms. Nothing speaks as strongly of authority or supremacy as a finely made tunic covered with ribbons, braid, and medals. And when you're dealing with this lot, it's not an option. I will under no circumstances be outdressed by a band of paramilitary Krauts paralyzed by past glories, though I must admit it's part of the reason I keep Von Helsing and his goon squad in strudel. Again, the uniforms speak volumes when intimidating unfortunate enemies of my regime.

It takes a good half-hour to don the General's uniform that I have had custom-tailored to match the black SS regalia worn by Von Helsing and company, but I know it will make the Kraut even more nervous to keep him waiting, so I take my time. My uniform has been modified slightly from the traditional pattern. Cut from shiny black satin, it contains over 25 medals and 15 badges collected from various Nazi-philes around the world. I have removed the swastikas, but added a triple-braided lanyard under one arm, a red silk presidential sash that wraps around the waist and over one shoulder, over-sized red satin cuffs with fanciful gold embroidery, and two king-sized epaulettes which rest on my massive shoulders.

Roberto, my Cuban valet at the lodge, dresses me with care, selecting a scarlet red silk French-cuffed shirt and shimmering white silk tie, diamond cufflinks. As I sit on a small dais, he pulls on tall, shiny jackboots that fit over my matching black wool breeches. Roberto is fanatical about detail, but it's completely obvious the little pansy has a thing for me: he practically creams in his servant's uniform as he sheaths my hands lovingly with the white dress deerskin gauntlet gloves, and hands me a gold-laden high-peaked General's visor. After he finally assists me in selecting a particularly long, ostentatious, riding crop, made of black leather and adorned with gold and platinum fittings, he holds the door open for me. I walk slowly to my office, at one end of the floor, my golden engraved spurs making a pleasant jingling sound as my heels click on the marble floor.

Before I enter the office, Roberto gives me a final brushing with his white-gloved hands and says, "Looking magnificent, Sire. I think I should inform you that you did receive a phone call while you were in the restroom. A Captain Mac…" he pauses to look at a piece of paper in his hand.

"McCluskey, yes," I say impatiently. "What did he want?"

"He just said to call as soon as possible. It is urgent."

I roll my eyes, and wave my glove dismissively. "I'm sure it's earth shattering, now if you'll excuse me, Roberto, I have bigger fish to fry…" I force a condescending smile and he bows his head, looking amused and embarrassed at my colloquialism.

As I enter my office, I notice with pleasure that Von Helsing is standing at attention, fully dressed in his uniform, looking obviously uncomfortable. I seat myself and select the biggest cigar I can find in my $5000 Davidoff humidor, a 9-inch Montecristo "A". I purposely take about 3 minutes to cut and light the thing, and then lean back in my chair, blowing lazy smoke rings. After another 5 minutes, I address him.

"Oh, have a seat, Colonel Von Helsing. I completely forgot you were there," I say in as saccharine a tone as I can gather. "Your job performance over the past week has indeed been so slight, I'm afraid it may be necessary to add another dictionary definition to the phrase 'vapor-ware.'"

He still refuses to look at me and seats himself, though I can tell by the way his mouth twists downward that he's puzzled by my little comment. Despite political correctness, it can be fun to torment someone for whom English is a second language.

"I would advise you to look at your betters when they address you, Colonel. It's proper protocol. If nothing else, you Germans should be good for that."

He stares at me coldly, and I have to remind myself that this man is indeed a mass murderer, in a more direct way than even I can claim the title. Despite this, I return his gaze with a small smile, and rock back in my chair.

"So, please… enlighten me. I am indeed curious as to why it has taken 14 men, including yourself, to wrest a simple piece of information from an ordinary housewife."

" General ," he says, saying the word with a slight inflection, as if it were something foreign. "I can assure you we have used every method of humiliation and intimidation. We have experimented with pain infliction direct and subtle, expedient and slow. I can only conclude that she does not have the information we seek."

"Really? How mind-bending." I return, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and rotating my chair slowly around, so that the back is facing him. I puff more clouds into the air. "What are we going to do about this?"

When I hear nothing for almost a minute, I drum my fingers on the arm of the chair, still facing the fireplace that sits behind my desk. "Do you hear that, Colonel?" I pause for a few more seconds, and then raise a finger in the air. "It's the sound of your career being slowly crushed under my boot heel. I'm quite sure that my colleagues in the law enforcement arena would be quite interested to learn your whereabouts. The international agents, especially." I sit and puff quietly.

Finally, a tormented gasp comes from Von Helsing.

"Please… General… I'm an old man…" he whines.

I turn around suddenly and bang the top of the walnut desk with my fist, making him jump slightly.

"You're an old fool, and nothing more!" I shout, shaking my riding crop at him furiously. "If she knew nothing, she would not have broken so quickly. That cheesy table saw routine is out of a comic book! I expect you were also wearing a black cape and twirling a fake mustache!"

Von Helsing is shrinking in the chair every second, looking at the floor, shoulders pathetically slumping.

Taking sincere pleasure in the browbeating, I continue. "Your whole approach is completely wrong. You have at your disposal the most comprehensive set of torture tools, historic and modern, available on the planet! But, concocting a series of tortures is a fine art. It is not a job for a band of thugs. You must start with something small, like starvation, then work your way up to something a bit more intrusive, like sleep deprivation. Then you begin with the mind games, and then and only then progress to more physical forms of torture. You must constantly keep your victim in a state of perpetual fear , always dreading the next torture, sure that it will be WORSE THAN THE LAST! " I'm now towering over him, yelling so loud my voice is threatening to give out. I sit down, shaking with rage, and signal for one of the soldiers guarding my office door. He brings me a shot glass of Bourbon, which I down in one go.

"Idiot!" I say, banging down the glass.

My reverie of disgust is broken by the appearance of Roberto at my door.

"Yes," I say, too exhausted to bite another head off.

"Pardon, Excellency. There is a phone call…"

"I told you, McCluskey can wait."

"Sire, it is a Mr. Tony Pataglia. He says he has what you want, something you will be very interested in. Line 5, Sire."

I look quickly at Von Helsing, and he looks down again. I pick up the receiver and connect the call.

" Yes? Tony?"

"Hi ya Boss." Tony's voice comes through the line cheerfully.

"You're in deep shit, fucko," I say, dropping every pretense of elegance. "Where are you? I'm in no mood for games."

"I'm sure you aren't, Boss," Tony says, almost patronizingly. "I'm gonna make this short, because I have a feeling you'll have this call traced in a matter of minutes."

"Oh, I'm a helluva lot closer to you than a phone line, my boy," I hiss, and I can hear his cool slip a notch. "I'm closing in on your little game very quickly."

The line is silent for a second or five, as I fume.

" WELL? " I shout, irritated that I'm again losing my composure.

"Let's get a few things straight, Vince," he says. My mouth hangs open at his use of my Christian name. "First of all, I'm not your fuckin' boy, so knock that shit off. Next, ol' Phil managed to spring the bail money, but lucky for you, I've got him. Not so lucky, on the other hand, because it will cost you a half mil to get your chubby little fingers on him."

"You... ungrateful insect !" I screech. Von Helsing is staring, now looking completely unnerved. "I have an army at my fingertips! I'll call the other New York families and you'll be dead before sundown. I'll take your family and torture them myself… slowly…." I gasp, feeling small chest pains. I haven't noticed until now, but in my rage, I've completely mangled the cigar, reducing it to unraveled tobacco leaves. I put it out, and then force myself to breathe deeply.

"If you or your half-cocked Nazis come near my family, Vince, I'll go to the cops and back up Palmer's kidnapping story. Simple as that."

I make an effort to control myself, and finally just respond "Fine, you'll get the money, but only after you and no one else delivers Palmer to me personally, understand? I want him here tomorrow by noon. No loose ends."

"No loose ends," Tony repeats back, mimicking me.

I slam the phone down, as my head begins to pound.

JENNY

I'm taken down into the dungeon area again, this time to a small room off to one side of the Playroom. It's an exact replica of a dentist's office, but with no feel-good posters on hygiene or teeth-whitening procedures, and a hideous array of stainless steel objects suspended from the ceiling like a ghastly mobile. Framed photographs of deformed, bloody mouths decorate the walls. On one entire wall, printed as wallpaper, is a large still of Laurence Olivier bending over a terrified Dustin Hoffman, brandishing a nasty-looking dental drill, from the movie "Marathon Man."

Two soldiers strap me into the tightly molded chair with numerous bonds, including over five on my head alone. A large piece of plastic is shoved into my mouth, forcing it open, while another clamp extends my tongue outward. Still completely nude, the front of my body radiates with pain from the savage beating I was given by the Commandant.

The door opens, and the man that had "saved" me from my prior rape struts in. His resemblance to the Commandant is striking. He, too, is fat, bald, and uses a cigarette holder, but his features are somehow harder and swarthier than my previous captor. His uniform bespeaks great importance and I understand immediately that he is the one ultimately behind my imprisonment. He seats himself primly on the small stool to the right of me and grins toothily.

"Ah, Jenny Palmer! How refreshing to finally meet Phil's wife. We go way back, as I'm sure you've heard. Allow me to introduce myself. I am General Garrimone, though you may have heard your husband refer to me as 'Mr. G.'. Almost every organized criminal act in Denver is channeled through me in one way or another. If you participate in any way in these acts, it is a given that I be allowed to wet my beak with a taste of the proceeds. Your hubby made the fatal mistake of tampering with my enterprise and then foolishly shirking payment of his insurance premiums. As a result of his negligence, the protection afforded you and your family by my organization has been revoked."

He paused to casually cross his legs and the harsh light from the fluorescents bounces off his heavy, glossy boots. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he blows the smoke directly into my mouth, causing me to gag. "Wonderfully rich, isn't it? I am a connoisseur of many fine things," he says, beaming proudly.

"As I speak, your husband is being brought to my little pleasure palace. I now only need to obtain your daughter and son to complete payment of your outstanding balance. I know you can help me locate them quickly. My men have assured me that you are ignorant of such information, but they are not as skilled in extracting it as I. If you ever want to use your pretty little mouth or your sweet little cunt again, you will help me. I do not have the patience of the men who have previously dealt with you. I will think nothing of inflicting permanent damage to your body in whatever ways are needed to achieve my goals."

I guess I knew all this stuff, but to hear it spouted in such a nonchalant, gloating manner by this obscene pig of a man was beyond horrific. I began to cry, trying frantically to speak.

The General inhaled the smoke from his cigarette serenely, listening to my pathetic grunting, plainly enjoying my sheer terror.

"Don't try to speak now. I do not wish it. I plan to enjoy myself first, and will give you a chance to speak later. Hopefully you will be conscious when that opportunity arises." He begins to laugh the cruelest, most hideous laugh I have yet heard from a human mouth. "If not, rest assured there will be many other chances."

He waves his cigarette holder in the direction of my pelvis, and a large chromium claw is lowered from the ceiling. It sports very thin, elegant-looking steel pincers, three feet in length. One of the attending thugs attaches the cold metal ends to my clit and then pulls down a cable attached to the back of the claw device. The cable is hooked to a metal loop that protrudes from the strap that secures my jawbone. My eyes dart crazily about, trying to find someone or something to explain this contraption, and what it entails, even though I know deep down that the uniform-clad monster will oblige me shortly.

"A good torture session is like an elongation of great sex, Jenny. The payoff is not in the orgasm, but rather what goes into bringing it about. Shall I tell you what is in store for you? It seems only fair."

I squint my eyes helplessly at him, attempting to implore mercy, but he just laughs delightedly.

"I am going to employ many different methods designed to cause your jaw to move. When it does, a small electrical device at the top of the claw will convert the difference in tension felt by the cable into a scientifically precise measure of movement, which in turn will be fed to the pincers grasping your tender, sweet sex. For you lay people, this means that your clit will be squeezed with a force equal to the movement in your jaw," he concludes condescendingly, sucking smugly on his holder.

I start to wail involuntarily at his diabolical description. But as I do, I can feel the cruel steel close around my flesh, ever so slightly.

The demented dictator begins to chortle devilishly. "See how even the slightest movement causes dire consequences? Imagine what will happen when I start to play with my toys…" A look of supreme evil enters his pudgy face, and he takes another deep hit from the holder. Then, slowly, and with little effort, he brings the ash of his cigarette inches above my tongue and taps with refinement on the lacquered rod held in his poshly protected hands. The ash falls on my tongue, sizzling. A scream rips from my mouth and almost instantly the tension on my aching clit skyrockets.

"While I could enjoy using your mouth as an ashtray most indefinitely, I have other, more creative, ideas," he continues, removing a tray of small metal alligator clips from a nearby utility cart. He carefully applies one to my tongue, allowing the serrated ends to cut villainously into the soft pink flesh.

Another wail of agony, followed by another tightening of the pincers, and an even shriller scream. He repeats the procedure, until I have over ten clips attached to my tongue, then shows me a small mirror, puffing meditatively on his cigarette. My mouth is a mass of blood, and I can feel it start to dribble from my mouth and down my chin. He flicks a longer, hotter ash into my mouth, as if making a free throw, and continues his psychotic hooting.

He then stands and towers over me, looking like a strange, exotic animal, magnificent in his military finery. I can see the saliva on his lips as he selects an industrial power drill fitted with a fine dental bit.

"I noticed you admiring my wallpaper when I walked in. I have only one question for you: is it safe?" He continues his deranged laughter as the piercing squeal of the drill, along with the awful smell of my shredding enamel, envelopes the room.

PHIL

The first sensations I remember upon waking up on that cold morning were the smell of cooking bacon and brewing coffee, and the feeling that my bladder was about to spontaneously combust.

When I try to move to relieve myself, I become aware of both the strange surroundings and the tight ropes that cover most of my body.

"What in the fuck…?" I choke out, and immediately begin to shout for help.

For a while, no one comes, and I search frantically around the log cabin for signs of life.

I continue yelling, and finally the large shape of a man ambles slowly from a door at the end of a dark hallway. My heart sinks quickly on recognizing Tony Pataglia, dressed in a short cloth robe, T-shirt, and boxers.

He walks over to me, face revealing absolutely nothing. He then draws back and belts me viciously in the mouth. My head lolls to one side, and I can taste the blood. All I can do is moan "Oh no… no…" terror and fear mingling into a mixture of complete dread.

Tony bends down and grips my chin, wiggling it back and forth quickly. "Oh yes, yes, Fuck-Face!" he retorts gleefully, giving me a smack on the cheek, in a deceivingly playful manner.

I debate asking him where I am, what this is about. But I finally settle on "I need to take a piss."

"I bet you do," he laughs. Then he straightens himself up and calls out: "Oh dearest, take your ex-boyfriend to the john, will ya? I'm gonna get dressed."

I turn and Natasha is standing in the frame of the entrance to the living area, wearing jeans and a tight, fuzzy Blue sweater. She looks at me and it's the saddest I have ever seen her look. She walks over to me, her .22 in one hand, and waits for Tony to untie me. She doesn't look at me, and I'm too shocked to say anything in return.

When I am free, I stand and almost fall over. Tony steadies me and then passes me off to Tasha. In a daze, I totter gingerly to the toilet, and she follows me in, gun held to my side.

I sit down on the john, all inhibitions gone as I loose my bowels and bladder into the bowl. When I glance up, Tash is looking out the window of the bathroom. She has to be here under duress. There's no other way.

When I get up she leads me over to the sink.

"Let me clean that up," she says, pointing at my mouth.

"Tash… why?" is all I can manage.

"It's a long story, Phil. Just let me clean you up."

I let her clean my mouth with a soapy cloth and apply a bandage below my lower lip. When she's finished she gestures for the door.

"No. I want you to tell me what's going on. How in the fuck did you get involved with that goon?"

"I told you… later," she replies, an unfamiliar edge of impatience in her tone.

She leads me back to the living area and handcuffs one of my wrists to the dining table and seats me in a chair.

"I'm going to get you some breakfast," she states matter-of-factly, handing the gun to Tony who is seated next to me, dressed in casual gangster elegance: black turtleneck and trousers, gray cashmere blazer.

"What's this about?" I ask him.

"Well, Phil ol' buddy, let's just say that you're my new retirement plan, which I plan to cash in on shortly."

I look at him uncomprehendingly.

"You didn't really think you'd get out of all this in one piece, did you?" he asks, jokingly. "That's one thing I've never understood about your whole situation, Phil. If you had just kept ante'ing up to Garrimone, none of this woulda happened."

"I can't ante up what I don't have, Tony," I say dryly.

"Ah, bullshit. Tash here tells me you got retirement accounts, money from your relatives. There's always more…"

"Right. And what do I do when that runs dry? Sell my soul, like you? Go to work polishing that greedy shitbag's alligator wingtips for pocket change?"

Anger flashes into Tony's face and he reaches over again to strike me.

"Knock it off, Tony. Leave him alone."

Tasha comes from behind with a skillet and begins to shovel bacon and eggs on our plates.

"Aw, I was just gonna give him another love tap," he says, faintly smirking.

"Yeah, well, Garrimone isn't going to be overly pleased with receiving damaged goods," she says, sitting down.

The bite of eggs I was about to swallow turns rubbery and cold in my mouth.

"You're taking me back to Denver?" I force out, weakly.

Tony gives me a big grin. "I don't work for Garrimone no more, Phil. I'm on my own now, with Natasha here as a side investor. You're our first joint business venture."

"You… plan to sell me to him?" I squeak, unable to hide my mounting horror. I suddenly jerk my cuffed wrist as hard as possible, hoping to break the wood of the table with sheer force.

"Phil… DON'T!" Natasha shouts, desperately.

Tony reaches out and grabs my free hand, slamming it down on the table. He then picks up a steak knife and brandishes it over my knuckles.

"Goddammit, Tony! Sit down and eat your fucking eggs!" Tash wails.

Tony sits back down and glares at me. "I told you this fuck was gonna be trouble," he says to her.

Tash takes a sip of her coffee, hands shaking.

"Look Phil, it's only temporary. Remember what I told you about Margulies? He'll get you out of there as fast as he can."

"You lying bitch!" I scream at her. "You told me he'd be here by now. Why should I believe a single fucking thing you say?"

She stares down at her plate and sighs.

"Because I'm the only hope you've got at this point, Phil. I asked you to trust me."

"And look what it got me. Breakfast with Tony Soprano, here."

Tony looks up at me and grins unexpectedly. "Yeah, I watch that show, too. I love that guy." He continues woofing down bacon, heartily.

"You'll live," Natasha says, in a coldly unfeeling way.

"Yeah Fuck-Face, you'll live," Tony says, leaning back in his chair, holding a tiny cup of Espresso with his gold and diamond fitted pinky outstretched. "Although, after a few days in that sick fuck's playpen, you might wish you hadn't." He begins to chuckle sadistically.

Tears begin to come to my eyes and I start to eat quickly, frantic to take my mind off this whole situation, not wanting to give this self-satisfied prick any more pleasure.

Suddenly, there is a small noise from the back of the house.

"Hey, our other houseguest is waking up," Tony announces cheerily, staring at me with a look of crazed euphoria as he gets up. He walks quickly from the room.

I look expectantly at Natasha, and I can see her face clouding over with tension.

"What the fuck is this?" I implore. "What's he up to now?"

"Phil…" she begins, "We needed a bit more of an insurance policy. You know as well as I do that Garrimone can't be trusted." She pushes the food around her plate nervously.

As Tony leads Janice into the room, clothed only in her underwear and a filmy pink dressing gown, my stomach starts to turn in a fit of acid.

JENNY

The maniac had taken his time, drilling slowly into the nerve of a previously healthy incisor, puffing absently on his cigarette, the burning tip inches from my open mouth. For someone for whom sanity had been a declined option at birth, he appeared to be extremely concerned with doing a careful job. Evil was something he enjoyed immersing himself in, like a mad artist zealously at work in his studio. Afterwards, he had removed the plastic fittings and leather bindings from my head. He asked me again where Janice was. I would have given anything to be able to provide him with the answer; such was the agony that consumed me.

Upon receiving only silence from me, he had frowned slightly and gestured to his guards to reattach the headgear. He then calmly prepared to begin work on a fresh tooth, a molar this time.

After he had drilled halfway through the tooth, but before he hit the nerve, he stopped and suddenly asked me where Oliver, my son, was. God forgive me, but I began babbling fervently, which seemed to make him very happy.

He had me unbound again, and proceeded to apply medicine to kill the pain as I spilled everything I knew about how my son spent his days and nights. He told me I had made a wise choice, and that he was satisfied I did not have any more information about Janice, considering how "forthcoming" I had been concerning Oliver.

The fat man then instructed his guards, in a bored tone, to take me away and "lock me up," and to wait for further instructions.

I am taken back downstairs to another place (this compound must be huge, I'm realizing). The area looks very much like a traditional cellblock: cells with large, barred, sliding doors line the stone hallways. It is disturbing that I am not alone here. Though the wing is not full, I passed a number of cells containing prisoners, most of them pale, thin, and ghostly white. They stared, as if I was a passing train, expressionless. I was brought to a vacant cell and have been here for what I'm guessing has been almost half a day.

Then, out of the blue, the wildest thing occurs. Two soldiers walk a large bald man to the cell facing mine. He is dressed in the same dull maroon jumpsuit that I wear. After they leave, I realize that the man is the Commandant!

After I get over my initial shock, I cannot help but start giggling. I stop as the pain in my mouth from my mangled tongue and teeth increase. What do I have to do to get more of those pain-killers, I wonder.

The fat man stares venomously back at me, sitting on the hard bench seat that hangs from the walls of our cells. "Laugh it up, cunt," he growls. "You're not in any better position than I."

"Excuse me, your Grace ," I snicker. "I assume you've been taken down a few notches. Tell me, are you enjoying being caged like an animal at the zoo?"

"I, unlike you, have not done anything to deserve this sentence," he says, his voice rising in anger. "This is a mistake, and when it is rectified, things will change for me. They will not change for you."

"Oh spare me, Colonel Klink," I say, laughing lightly and lying down on the hard bench, reveling in the fact that he can no longer hurt me. I stare at the ceiling where tiny marks appear to have been chipped into the cement, resembling some sort of tabulation of time, perhaps by a prior occupant.

A voice suddenly pipes from down the hall: "Is that our old friend, the Commandant?"

Another: "Finally some justice has been done. The chief Nazi pig has been put away for his crimes!"

"That's one pig down, one more to go," another chimes in a dull, lifeless voice.

"It'll be the best diet you'll ever go on, little piggy!" a jolly voice calls out, viciously.

All their voices begin to converge in a choir of hatred: "Here, piggy piggy!" "Suffer, you swine!" "Feel the burn, piggy!" "Weeee-weeee piggy!"

The fat man curls up in a ball on the floor, his meaty hands clutching his ears, disbelieving tears rolling from his eyes.

While I wouldn't say I felt sorry for this sack of garbage who made my every second here a living hell, I felt a basic twinge of empathy. Being in a place like this makes you evaluate your base principles, I'm slowly finding. It sounds like a cliché, but it's true: it makes you understand what lies at the core of your being, since you are stripped to the bare essence here. There are no uniforms to hide behind, and no props to parade about with. As hard as it is to admit, I truly know that no one deserves to be treated as we are being treated in this foul place.

The catcalls abruptly cease as a heavy door slides open from down the corridor. Crisp footsteps approach, and Major Gunter appears in front of my cage bars. He gives he a disdainful glance, and then looks over at his ex-superior, lying in a fat pile on the floor.

"I'm afraid you'll have to get used to this treatment, Von Helsing. This wing is a bad place for someone such as you," he remarks.

"I only did… what I was told to do. Same as you."

"Perhaps, but it appears you didn't do it well enough," he smirks, lighting a cigarette. "Bet you'd like one of these, eh?" he says, laughing and blowing the smoke through the bars.

The fat man stands and flings his entire weight against the steel, shaking the bars ridiculously.

"Even if I did give you one, you don't have any fancy holders to posture with, do you? That would probably take all the fun away for you, no? It would make you realize you're nothing special," Gunter sings, continuing to taunt him. "You always did like to pretend you were the boss, Von Helsing, but it appears your emulation was not well received by his Excellency."

He then turns his back on his ex-boss and faces me.

"Frau Palmer, for you I have more pleasant news."

I stare dead-eyed at him, ready for more of his irritating mind games.

"You have earned a reprieve from your sentence, at least momentarily. The Celestial One wishes you to accept an offer of employment, as a parlor maid, here at the lodge."

"Is this… some new game?" I stammer out, unbelievingly.

"Perhaps, but perhaps not. His Majesty is fond of you. Contrary to popular opinion, he admires women of spirit. There are not enough of them in his palace, he believes," he chuckles.

"What do I have to do?"

"The usual. Cleaning, mostly. But you will be serving his Excellency meals, on occasion. At any rate, you will not be caged up, so that should influence your answer. Of course, I need not remind you that if you refuse the Omnipotent One's wishes, the consequences for you here will worsen considerably," he finishes laconically, checking a pocket watch that hangs from his coat.

"All right," I say, emotionlessly. "Is there any way I can have more pain-killers for my mouth, first?"

"I will inquire on that, but do not foresee a problem, given your cooperative attitude. Breakfast will be up shortly, and Cook will give you your uniform and a quick tutorial on serving protocol. Guards, prepare her for release." He gives me a perfunctory smile. "Welcome aboard, Frau Palmer. Please do our standards of excellence justice and serve your new master well."

I am released from the cell and walked slowly down the corridor, being met with intense hatred and envious stares from the other prisoners.

TONY

"So, what makes you think Garrimone is going to let us waltz out his door with half a million dollars? You amaze me sometimes, Tony."

We're less than fifteen minutes from the Black Lodge, and Tasha's cold feet are getting icier by the second. She's already checked her lipstick around 40 times in the last half hour, and keeps twistin' around in the back seat as she guards the Palmers, who're knocked out in the way back. I let up on the cruise control and bring my black Navigator down to around 40 or so, as we exit the highway.

"Several things, sweet cakes," I tell her. "First of all, Mr. G's standing with the New York bosses is not real good at the moment. You can probably guess what these old school paisan think of a guy who makes John Gotti look low-key. His way of doing business is all new-school: me, me, me. His way has no honor, no respect. He don't want anything to do with the old crowd or their ways. He don't know canoli from caviar, for chrissakes. You think they send the top guys out to run Denver ?

She nods her head and raises her eyebrows, seemingly impressed, as I continue.

"Second, New York knows from several 'little birds,'" I point my hand at my chest with a touch of pride, "that he's not kickin' up near what he's pullin' in. And we're not talkin' skimmin' a few hundred grand here. We're talkin' tens of millions … Last, and far from fuckin' least, I know as well as you do that he carries a grudge like no other motherfucker in history. He not only wants your sweetheart back there dead… he wants to kill and slowly torture his whole family , and all because he was basically snaked by the schlub. Oh, and if the crew back home got wind of the kind of sick shit he's been swimming in, all this fancy torture equipment and legions of pseudo-Nazis, they'd be really pissed. It's just a matter of time before it blows up in his face, and that kind of exposure they don't need. How're they holdin' up back there, anyway?

She checks Fuck-Face and daughter and says "OK."

"Shit, Tony. I wasn't prepared for that freak-out back at the cabin."

"Yeah, well, you gotta remember that when you fuck with a man's family, you gotta prepare yourself for everything he's got. Lucky I had that hypo handy."

" Tell me about it," she sighs, looking guilty.

"Listen baby, I know you're having second thoughts. But this is gonna be easier than you think. Sure, Garrimone is gonna send guys after us, but I know the people he's gonna send and they can be bought off. Right now, that fat prick has one thing on his mind, and that's finishin' off those two. He's got fuckin' tunnel vision. One-track, period."

I slow the car and turn into the private road leading to the lodge. We pass down endless miles of pine trees until finally coming to two large black gates made of polished steel adorned with Garrimone's family crest. I roll down the window and hit the intercom button. Enrique, the only guy working here that isn't a German, and the only one I can stand dealing with, says "Yeah?"

"Rico, it's Tony. The boss is expectin' me."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Wait there, Tony."

It's not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I tell myself it's do-able.

"Shit, Tony."

Tash is checking out the compound. She, unlike yours truly, has never been up here before. I guess it is pretty impressive if you've never seen it. I just think it's fuckin' ridiculous.

A heavy iron door that's set into the stone wall to the side of the gates opens and Rico steps out, full Nazi gear, followed by two other soldiers I don't know. Tasha's eyes get big. He walks up to the car and hands me a large, black traveling bag, as his two men aim Uzis at us through the window. Tash freaks, screams "Oh my god…" and tries to duck down.

"Relax, baby," I say, "It's just a precaution until we hand over Fuck-Face. Right Rico?"

"Just a precaution," he repeats, stonily.

I get out of the car and walk around to the back, open the tailgate, and pull the sleeping bag containing the tied-up, drugged-out Phil toward the ground, feet first.

"What's that in there?" Rico asks, pointing at the other sleeping bag next to where Phil had been.

"Just another bag," I say, all casual-like.

"Yeah, Tony. Come on, man. I'm not another dumb Nazi fuckhead, even though I play one on the TV, right?" he half-grins.

Still playing it like King Cool, I reach in and unzip the bag, revealing Janice's pretty head of hair.

"Is that her? The daughter?"

"Yeah, it's her."

"Cool. The boss'll flip over this."

"We haven't come to terms with a price for her yet," I return.

"Look, Tony," he begins, and his two fucks step a little closer, "you know Mr. G has his dick set on this girl. I can't just let you take her away."

"Listen, Rico, he paid for Phil, so he gets Phil. End of story." I begin to close the tailgate. One of the guys opens Tasha's door and pulls her out, into his arms, pointing the Uzi at her head. She screams.

"Tasha, SHUT UP!" I scream at her. " Jesus !" I look at Rico seriously. "Rico, let me put it this way. You're out here in this little fortress playing dress-up, OK? I'm workin' for people out in the real world . People who would have somethin' to say about the shit that goes on up here in the name of family business, all right? I think it's best if we just keep this between friends, don't you agree?"

He kind of grumbles, but I can tell he gets it. He glances up at a security camera and gives the high sign, then gestures impatiently at the two soldiers. As Tash is let go, she almost passes out, falling against the SUV door, tears coming from her eyes.

"Get in!" I bark at her.

"Tony, I can't do…" she whines.

"GET THE FUCK IN!" I scream.

She does, and I throw the car in reverse for a second, and then peel out with a sharp U.

As we sail down the private road, I toss the travel bag to her. "Count it, fast," I say.

MR. G

"I can't believe that Tony had the balls to bring that little trollop here, on top of everything else he's done. But never mind. I'll finish her off slowly, as well," I fume to Enrique.

I'm sitting on my throne chair, in my private suite, puffing furiously on a cigarette as I stare at the now desolate landscape being transmitted to my $10,000 Sony Grand Wega plasma TV from the gate security camera. The TV is set seamlessly into an Italian marble wall facing me.

"What were you talking to him about for so long, anyway? I thought I told you to make it snappy."

"Apologies, your Grace," Enrique says slowly, eyes shifting a bit, "Tony was a bit hesitant to leave without counting the money."

"Ha, that's rich!" I return, "He'd better hurry up and count it. That's all he'll have time to do before he hits my little roadblock at the end of the drive."

Enrique furrows his brow, looking puzzled.

"You didn't honestly think I'd let him leave here after this betrayal, do you?"

He smiles nervously back at me, saying nothing.

"Oh no," I say, tapping my riding crop into my glove with a wistful smile, "I have terrible things planned for them all when they're returned to my grasp, just you wait and see. Right about now they should be meeting McCluskey, who also happens to have little Oliver Palmer securely in his clutches. How is his father holding up?"

He looks a bit sick at this remark, and tells me that he's still half-asleep, tied down in a holding room.

"Anyhow, Major Enrique, as the official Torture Engineer of the court, you're going to be quite the busy beaver over the coming days. Shall we get down to the details of our scheduled meeting?"

He clears his throat dryly, and says, "Yes, Sire."

"Excellent, please enlighten me with your plans for our guests."

As I mull over several different alternatives that he presents, I also ask for an update on some new machines that I'm commissioning. While debating the merits of traditional vs. modern racks, and whether there can realistically ever be a place for the medieval Iron Maiden in a modern playroom, I receive word from Major Gunter that my guests have arrived. Upon hearing that the group of new captives contains Janice Palmer, I smile with satisfaction, but instantly shoot a look at Enrique.

"Wonderful, Major," I respond to Gunter, speaking to him on the wireless intercom set into the 24 Kt. gold console to the left of my throne. "Take them to Detention Area #6. I will let you know when I wish to receive them. In the meantime, send a few guards up to the throne room."

"Very good, your Grace," Gunter answers, crisply.

I switch off the intercom and stare at Enrique, while lighting a new smoke. I sit and puff slowly for a few minutes, as his tension noticeably starts to increase.

"Interesting, isn't it Major, that Janice Palmer was with her father? And how did you miss that?"

Enrique shifts uncomfortably, looking at the door, as the two guards enter quietly and wait by the entrance for instruction.

"Tsk, tsk, such sloppy work," I chide, as he suddenly turns and makes a mad dash for the opposite entrance, about 400 feet to my left. "Guards," I say, in a bored voice, "Shoot him, please." It's a pity he never makes it to the door. I always enjoy a good game of cat and mouse.

TONY

No matter how many times I played this fuckin' scenario out in my head, it never occurred to me that we'd really be caught leaving here. I had even taken a back road that goes through a completely unpaved area, just in case. What ol' genius me forgot is that the entrance to this back road is gated in the Winter months, and that there are embankments on either side of the road that nothin' but a monster truck could climb.

As I brought the Navigator to a sharp stop, almost side-swiping it into the black steel gate, a big orange Hummer rolls up on the outside. As I threw the SUV into reverse, ready to peel away, a shot came through the windshield. Tash was screaming crazily at this point, but I couldn't think straight by then, anyhow. It all happened too fast; using Janice as a bargaining chip wasn't even an option. In less than five seconds, the gate was opening and guys with guns were all over us.

I'm now sitting in a straight-backed chair in a gray cinder-block room, a shitty fluorescent tube light buzzing and flickering over me. The door opens and McCluskey strolls in. He's got a long-sleeved white shirt on, a bright green tie, and a pair of dark green riding pants that make him look even more like the fat fairy mick he is. He goes over to the chair that's behind the desk I'm facing and places a big jackbooted leg on the seat. He gives me a wicked smile.

"Well, well! Mr. Pataglia! You didn't imagine we'd meet under these circumstances, did you?" he booms. He takes the shortest, fattest, riding crop I've ever seen from the desk drawer, tosses it in the air, and catches it with one gloved hand.

"OK, Bern. Now that I've seen your half of the show, where's the good cop to complete it?" I ask, trying to act like I'm not about to crap my pants.

He screams for the guards, who rush in. They cuff me to the back of the chair. The asshole gets in my face, hauls off, and slugs me in the mouth, almost sending me backward in my seat. It's all very deja-fucking-vu, as I think back to the wake-up call I gave to Phil this morning. I can tell right away the fuckhead's broken some teeth, and when I look up at him, the brass knuckles wrapped around his leather hand tell me why.

He removes the metal from his hand, and rubs it tenderly. He gives me a shit-eating grin.

"There are no good cops, Pataglia. Ain't that what you always say?"

I meet his eyes for a minute, spit out the bloody remains of two teeth, and then look away.

He goes back behind the desk, picks up the crop, and begins to pace back and forth with it behind his back.

"Good god, I finally have you where I want you. All the times I've dreamed of bustin' your little operations… This is my wet fuckin' dream, you stupid goombah."

"Yeah, well, this don't exactly look like Hill Street Blues, fuckface. It don't take a genius to play the game when there aren't any rules. And I'd watch what you say about my people. Your boss might get offended."

He glares at me briefly, and then returns to pacing.

"Mr… ah, I mean the General , would forgive it in this context, I'm sure. But all pleasantries aside, Tony, I'm sure you have some idea what happens to traitors around here, don't you? But maybe you'd indulge a little demonstration?"

"Look, asshole," I say, getting pissed, "you know I got connections way outside this little Western hole-in-the-wall. After you've had your fun here, your whole goddamn family is gonna be toast. I'm a made guy. Garrimone ain't gonna come to your rescue against the New York families." I highly fuckin' doubt if they'd get involved with this, actually, but you can't blame me for tryin'.

"And how, pray tell, would they have any idea about this? No one knows you're here, greaseball! It's just you, me, and big Bertha here," he grins, flexing the crop in his hands.

"They know," I say, trying to sound like Mr. Casual. "They'll be all over this place real soon."

McCluskey pauses and his face gets stony.

"You lying piece of guinea garbage!" he shouts. "Bullshit! You won't leave here in anything but a wheelbarrow! You see, Tony my boy," he walks over and strokes my cheek with his glove, putting his garlic-stench breath close to my face, "I'm not just gonna beat the living shit out of you. I'm gonna kill you. But first, we play…" He throws his head back and barks a psycho-sounding laugh.

I don't say anything, but my heart is beatin' like a jack rabbit's. He gives me a look a cat would give the canary he's ready to chow on, and then rips open the clasp that secures his pants.

"Fuck you, pervert!" I scream, "It's gonna take more than you and Heckyl and Jeckyl here to make me suck your flabby little prick."

He slams the shaft of the crop against my Adam's apple, making me choke.

"We'll see about that. Boys…" he tells them, "put on the head gear."

I start to kick wildly, and instantly get ankle irons applied to my feet. Sweat starts to pour down my face, as one guy holds my nose, while the other shoves a padded mouthpiece into my face. It fits snugly into my mouth and feels kinda like the guard I used when I played ball in high school. This deal shields my teeth, but keeps my tongue free. Hooks are attached from the piece to a big metal thingamabob that is placed over my head, like a cage.

Next, McCluskey takes down my pants and shorts, and picks up what looks like a medium sized steel egg from the desk. He brings it over to me, along with a bag of whole walnuts. Ripping open the bag, the cocksucker takes off his gloves, removes two nuts and opens the top of the egg.

"God, I love playing with this shit! You can't buy this kinda torment downtown. Allow me to show you what will happen if you don't willingly take my man meat into your pretty mouth, you dumb dago," he laughs and drops the two nuts into the egg.

He watches my face closely while rotating the bottom of the egg. As he turns it, the egg becomes smaller and smaller. Finally, I hear a sickening crack as the nuts begin to be crunched to pieces. After a few more turns, he tilts it in my direction to show me the remains of the nuts.

"While this is an effectively persuasive demonstration, it's not real accurate. With your nuts, the actual crushing will take a bit longer, obviously. The tension will really build, but when the deed is finally done, there won't be much to finish with… and of course, no tasty treats to devour, at least not afterwards!" He scoops out bits of nut, licking his lips and fingers, chomping noisily.

He gets up suddenly, fastens his pants, and starts for the door. "Shit makes you thirsty. I'm gonna go get a brew. Think about what you wanna do, Tony. Either way… your nuts are mine!"

I shake the chair violently, but am left with nothing but pointless sweat as he exits the room.

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.

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