Wednesday, March 14, 2007

The Punisher. By Bret Easton Ellis.

As I sat in the stench ridden alley, I saw my target moving towards me. Sure, he was a low level mafia enforcer, but when one has a desire to cleanse the streets of the criminal element, you can't be picky. He shuffling left and right bumping into everything around. Sad, pathetic...I am doing this guy a favour by capping him. He's not alone though, behind him struts a gorgeous hardbody, with fake blonde hair and the tits to match. She's saying something I can't quite make out, and I see the big oaf turn and feed her a slap, right to left across her pretty face. In another time, in another place, I'd have my way with her in this dank alley. But that's not the prey I'm looking for tonight.

After she picks herself up and dusts herself off, and walks out of the alley trying to keep what little dignity she has, the fat slob continues my way. Nice suit, Armani double breasted, tailored to his body exactly, makes him look almost respectable if it wasn't for the slicked back greased up guido haircut and cheap bargain store shirt he's wearing underneath. Shoes are Armani to match and big guy's sporting a rolex on his right wrist. Idiots humming some shitty tune from the 70's. If it was quieter I'd be able to figure out what it is, but the bustle of the street covers his tunes. Good. They'll cover my tracks too.

Guy's name is Roberto Ugionne, low level guy. Makes his money and a fair chunk of it too. Last guy I has a "chat" with said Berto was shaving money off the top for himself. Like I care, but he also let loose the little fact that Berto had a "special" attraction. To children. This man disgusts me, and he makes me glad that I wear thick leather gloves for this work. Few feet now.
I tighten my boots, pull my gloves on tight, and stand before him.

He sees the skull first. They always do. He knows what it means. Hate to say it but I'm becoming something of a legend around these parts. Wiseguys know not to hang around this neighbourhood, and the guys they throw me know that they shouldn't talk. But they do.

They always do. However, they also think that by talking, and telling me what I want to hear, I'll go easy on them. This, is not true. People believe that all I do is punish, take lives for lives. If you'd seen me work, you'd know that their death is a release. Certain members of the criminal element receive more punishment then others. My record so far was a woman beating, drunk who left two children without a person in the world. He took two days to finish off. By the time he was done you couldn't recognize him at all. I left him on the steps of a club run by those guido fucks. Never saw anything in the newspaper, but I rarely do. Reporters know not to bother me, and Cops know I'm necessary, so they look the other way. The only people who take real notice are my next targets, and I'm glad they know. Makes this moment all the more sweeter.

Berto reaches for his gun, but I'm in his face first. I take my bowie knife and stick it into his hand and through to his hip. He feels it. I see the look in his eyes, he's gone from big bad mafia boy to whimpering baby in ten seconds. Pity. I like it when they fight back. He passes out from the pain coupled with the alcohol in his system already. Good. Makes moving him easier.

He wakes up several hours later in a warehouse I've had staked out for weeks. He's not my first guest here and he won't be the last. I like it here, it's big, and theres always machinery going in the neighbouring buildings so no one hears me work. His left arm in cuffed to a pipe and his right remains skewered on his hip. I cauterized the would a bit while he was out as to prevent him from bleeding to death and taking the easy way out. He's gonna feel this. He looks me in the eye and tries speak but I've got his mouth gagged. I'm a few feet away from him now smoking a nice fat cigar he had in his coat. Tastes good, haven't had a decent one in years. I stand up and pull the gag down for a second making him promise he won't scream.

"I have a question for you, and you better give me a straight answer. You do, and this may just go easier for you."

He looks at me with tear filled eyes and nods. "Anything, anything you want..."

I walk up to him and crouch down, meeting his eye level. "Where...oh where, did you get this cigar. Seriously, it's fantastic."

He looks at me, confused, crying, but silent. "No answer?"

"Please...Castle, I know who you are, and what you do....please...." He's full out bawling now. Dammit. I thought he'd be tougher then this. "Please...just don't kill me...just let me go"

"Bert, old chap, you say you know who I am, yet you want me to release you?"

"Yes....."

"Well...BERT" I get right into his face. "I just don't see that happening." I put the cigar out in his right eye and he screams. I leave it there and stand back up. "C'mon now, We had a deal, I pull down the gag and you wouldn't scream. You help me, I help you, it's simple really." More screams. "Listen Bert. I let you talk because I thought you had something to offer me, but if you're just going to sit there crying and screaming for mommy, then I don't think you can help me. In fact, I don't think we have anything in common at all. You need to be quiet now. You keep screaming and I'll find something to use to keep you quiet." Still screams. "Alright, you forced me to do this..." I take another knife and cut off his privates and shove them in his mouth, then put the gag back up over his mouth. "Taste that... just like you made those kids...feel their pain...it's your day of judgement today, repent, and you just may be okay...."

He looks at me through a tear filled eye and tries to sound out something of an apology, but through his own flesh and the gag I can't make out a word. Doesn't matter. This man is dead, he just doesn't know that yet. "Bert, you really are a dumb fuck, aren't you....there's no escape now, no release....no easy way out. This is just the beginning."

I walk back to a tool closet I have set there and pull out my nail gun. I hook it up to the compressor and walk towards Bertie, sitting now in steadily expanding pool of his own blood.

"Tell me Bert....Do you like Phil Collins?"

I'm glad I have a tape set up for Maury tomorrow.

2 comments:

Cate said...

Nicely done!
... though as a reader I'd say lighten up on the black background with red text dude. It's a motherfucker to read.

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