by John L. Monk
I slipped down the hall and found a wide circular staircase with a marble banister. It led down to a grand foyer with an actual fountain in the center and little places around it to sit. When I got to the stairs, I slipped at the top and crashed down the first four steps, getting banged up a bit in the process.
Limping my way down, I listened for anything that sounded like people, but all I heard was my somewhat labored breathing. Ernest was in his fifties, a little overweight but not terribly so. After last night’s zap and nap I needed to take it easy.
When I got to the front door, I didn’t see my shoes or wallet or phone or any of the things I needed. If they had a closet somewhere nearby, it was camouflaged in the layers of molding and panels and all that rich stuff.
The mansion was basically four wings meeting in a four-way stop, with the entrance in the middle. At the end of each diagonal, the hall slanted off, like a foot.
I chose the closest hall on the left, passing a sitting room, and came to a set of French doors just after the bend.
Cracking one of the doors, I spied the strangest bed I’d ever seen. It was a sculpture of a gigantic, scaly, clawed hand with a wide circular mattress clutched in its palm like a platter. Nobody was sleeping on it, and I didn’t blame them.
Just when I planned to backtrack, to try one of the other hallways, I heard Lana’s voice from the foyer. She sounded cold and imperious, which was basically normal for her.
Quickly, before someone glanced down the hall and saw me standing there, I slipped into the room and shut the door.
The room was bigger than the one I’d woken up in, and more lavishly furnished. On closer inspection, each finger of the demon bed had ivory-colored rings carved into them, creating handholds. The claws themselves, which curled over the bed, had ropes hanging from them looped through some kind of pulley system.
One wall was a floor-to-ceiling stack of square-hewn logs with manacles bolted into them. From a hook at the top hung a coiled bullwhip. In front of the whipping wall, a ten-by-ten section of carpet had been cut out revealing the concrete subfloor, darkly discolored.
Out in the hall, Lana laughed. I’d been so preoccupied by the freaky furniture I’d lost a precious few seconds of focus. I ran across the room and through a door, entering a bathroom with a big empty tub in the middle right out of Scarface.
The shower didn’t have a door, but rather an entrance constructed of stone, which took me around a corner to a spacious cave with showerheads and nozzles everywhere and a wide ledge for shampoo and soap. I sat down on the granite bench against the wall and tried to control my breathing. If the echoes gave me away, there was no way I could explain what I was doing there.
Minutes later, I left the shower-cave and tiptoed over to the door. I cracked it open and peeked out—and saw Lana and Jacob getting X-rated on the demon bed. Lana was face-up, a hand through each ivory ring, with the ropes from the claws looped around her ankles.
Kinky, disturbing, and complicated, but Jacob didn’t look confused. He worked the ropes with both hands, leaning into it like he was hunting for something, and no way was he giving up without finding it.
Lana was talking.
“Tear me … beat me … fuck me … kill me,” she moaned. “Oh yes, right there … do it … harder … stab me … kill me … now!”
Jacob did something tricky and athletic, and suddenly she was facing away from him. He proceeded to pummel her with a thick black rod. It made loud smacking sounds, and it had to have hurt. Lana seemed to love it though. She kept yelling, “Kill me! Kill me!” over and over again. And the look on Jacob’s face while he hit her, with every scream, was positively feral—a contortion of desire, crazy starved eyes, his face beet-red from exertion. He grabbed her hair and snapped her head back … and then he really began to whale on her.
The beating verged on serious, like he could really hurt her. And despite who Lana was, I reached to open the door—to save her, I guess—but stopped when she yelled for him to kill her some more. Then she gave up vocabulary altogether and screamed, screamed, screamed … and then she was laughing. Exultantly, in triumph, and then a little scornfully, like she’d beaten him and wanted to rub it in.
Jacob, for his part, gave a huge sigh and rolled over onto his side, panting and spent from all the sexual homicide he’d been dishing out.
Under normal circumstances, I’m hardly the Peeping Thomas type. But I needed to know when they left the room or if someone wanted to use the bathroom so I could steal away to my hiding spot in the shower. Nevertheless, it had been fascinating to watch. Like two psychopaths at war on some twisted plane where Hate had murdered Love.
No cuddling afterward or cigarettes or any of that. They lay there getting their breath back, neither of them touching each other now that the act was over.
A minute later, Jacob said, “So what about the muse? We gonna wait and keep feeding her or stick to the schedule?”
“Ernest is fine,” she said, like she’d said it a hundred times already. “After today, he’ll be back to normal. That idiot, Sean. You said he was good, a professional. Then he half-kills our golden goose. And why on Earth did you give him that needle?”
“Why didn’t Ernest come home like you told him?” he countered. “Because he’s his own guy, that’s why. Every guy’s gotta be free. Pussy and freaky only go so far.”
“It’s good enough for us,” she said, coyly.
“And money,” he said. “That’s great for us. We said we’d be honest, didn’t we? And Ernest is money. He’s got something in that fucked up head of his. Darker than you, even.”
Lana laughed heartlessly. “You turning into a fan, my son?”
“Don’t do that…”
“I married your daddy, that makes you mine. Why won’t you call me mommy anymore?”
“I said shut up!” Jacob yelled, and got out of bed. He went over and picked up his clothes and started to put them on.
Lana hopped out and came around, then slipped her arms around Jacob’s burly chest. He tried to pull away, but she dug in with her nails and said in a quiet voice, “Don’t piss me off, okay?”
Jacob froze like he’d been splashed with water.
Lana said, “You knew the deal when you hooked up with me: who I am, what I do, who I do it to. That’s what you liked about me—I gave you the power you never had. Daddy didn’t understand you, but momma does.”
And wonder of all, Jacob broke down and cried. He fell into her arms, hugging her around the waist while she gazed down on him with a superior smirk.
After about a minute of that, Momma Sandway said, “There’s nothing that can stop us—no turning back. Ernest knows that, even if he’s confused right now. Tonight we’ll show him the muse, he’ll get inspired, and then we cash more checks.”
I wanted her to keep talking about this mysterious muse, but she took Jacob’s hand and headed my way. I ducked back and hid in the shower and remained perfectly still, once again willing my out-of-shape self to breathe quietly.
The door outside opened. But rather than head for the toilet or fill up the big empty tub or go wash their hands, Jacob and Lana came right into the shower cave with me. I was so shocked I sat there staring at them, perched on the bench like that’s just where I sat sometimes.
“Hello, Ernest,” she said, looking confused and a little worried.
“What the fuck, man?” Jacob said.
I looked from naked Lana to naked Jacob, then Jacob to Lana, and then Lana to Jacob again.
Then, in a lost quavering voice, I said, “Where am I?”
Chapter Eight
Lana whispered something to Jacob. He nodded and left.
“Ernest,” she said, “do you know who I am?”
I blinked at her. “You’re Lana.”
She smiled encouragingly and said, “What do you mean you don’t know where you are, hmm? Does your head hurt?”
“A little?”
“Did you fall down?” she said.
The muscles in her jaw rippled like she was chewing her tongue. She wasn’t smiling anymore, and she regarded me with an icy gaze.
From the bedroom, Jacob yelled, “Got it!”
“Come with me, Ernest,” Lana said. “Watch your step.”
I got up carefully, trying not to fall down, and followed her out of the shower cave. Interestingly, she hadn’t blushed or shown anything like modesty where her nakedness was concerned. She had small, perky breasts that matched her slender figure. No tattoos or piercings, trimmed pubic hair, and her back was a red mess of welts from the beating she’d taken. Beneath those sketched a tracery of old scar tissue, as if she’d been whipped repeatedly over the years. And again, despite her face and body measuring up to the definition of “beautiful” by anyone’s standards, she stirred nothing inside me resembling desire.
When she reached for my hand to steady me, I pulled away and said, “I’m fine.”
Lana’s eyes narrowed, and she smiled a hard, tight smile. She didn’t try to touch me again.
When we got into the room, Jacob had a wheelchair with him.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I said, and edged around it toward the far door.
“Ernest,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sit in the fucking chair or I’ll have Jacob put you in it. Please?”
Because she’d said please, I nodded and sat down. Also, now that I’d started down this course, I couldn’t very well announce I was okay again. Lana was already unstable, and I had zero desire to get chained to that whipping wall and beaten.
Increasingly, I wondered about the real Ernest and how he interacted with her. Did he also have a domineering personality? Or was he weak and needy and more like Jacob?
“Stay with Ernest,” she said to him. “I need to get something.”
Jacob said, “Sure. We’ll be fine.”
After she left, Jacob’s face relaxed fractionally.
In a mocking tone he said, “She’s a real bitch, huh? Great in the sack, though.” He sighed longingly. “Sorry about Sean. That one’s on me.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
Jacob said, “After your muse, you’ll snap back fine, you’ll see. I’m not supposed to say nothing, but…” He peered around conspiratorially, then held his hands about two feet from his waist. “She’s big, know what I mean?”
“That big?” I said.
“Keep that to yourself.”
I nodded.
Apparently there was an overweight woman in the building. If they introduced me to her and expected me to get busy or whatever, I’d play cold fish, like I always did. Heck, I had a rock-solid alibi this time—still messed up from the zapping and drugging I’d taken.
Jacob nudged me softly and gave me a knowing look.
In a low voice, he said, “So what were you doing in that house for, man? That’s got everyone freaked out.”
Desperately, I wracked my brains for something to explain my actions. Looking for drugs? Wanted to beat up a bad reviewer? Just because? I opened my mouth to say something, and then Lana came back carrying a box.
“Found them!” she said, happily. She pointed at me. “Hold his arms.”
Jacob leaned down in front of me and grabbed my arms. He must have seen the alarm on my face because he winked at me, guy-to-guy, an us-against-them kind of thing.
Lana took out a leather strap with friction clips and lashed my left wrist tightly to the arm of the wheelchair. Her hands were strong, steady, and merciless, and I worried she’d cut off my circulation. I experienced a moment of panic and struggled to free myself, but Jacob held me easily. After the first wrist, she did the other one. When she was done, she checked her work and then loosened the first one, fractionally.
“Now his legs,” she said.
Jacob bent down and said, “You kick me, Ernest, I’m beating the shit out of you. Got it?” He said it almost like he was joking around, but there was a hint of a threat in it. Jacob was some sort of pro fighter, and I’d just seen him beat up his girlfriend who he sometimes called mommy, so when it came to violence I took him at his word.
“Got it,” I said.
After I was strapped in, Lana leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. I flinched, but she either didn’t notice or she ignored it.
“Can’t have you wandering around hurting yourself,” she said. “You’re just exhausted. You need good food. For the mind and your warrior heart. Now think, Ernest: do you know where you are now?”
I didn’t like being restrained so I said, “In your bedroom. We were just in the shower. I was a little groggy when I woke up, but everything’s much clearer now. If you’ll undo these straps, I’m sure I can move around all right.”
Lana shook her head. “Let’s see how it goes after the fun later. Hopefully by tomorrow you’ll be ready to write again. How does that sound?”
“I’m feeling great now,” I said, and jerked my hands hard against the straps to prove it.
Frowning, she said, “Jacob, would you put him somewhere out of the way please?”
Jacob laughed good-naturedly, grabbed both handles, and pushed me toward the door.
Before we crossed the threshold, I turned back and said, “What happens tonight?”
Lana didn’t answer and Jacob didn’t either. He pushed me down the hall, past the foyer, and into a room with a large television hooked to a DVD player.
“Wait till you see this,” he said, wheeling me into place. Then he turned on both the TV and the DVD player with a remote. “You’ll love it.”
Chapter Nine
Jacob had stood witness while Brian murdered a man, as if it were no big whoop. He fornicated (or whatever he called it) with the woman who had ordered it done. The same woman who, whilst fornicating (or whatever she called it) had yelled out crazy stuff like “kill me” and “stab me.” Jacob had beaten her black and blue with a rubber club. They had a whipping wall in their room with an easy-to-clean concrete floor. And they were business associates (or whatever they called it) with Ernest Prescott, whose writing was so sadistic and hateful it turned my stomach in a way commonly reserved for Hallmark stores and vegetables. And now this same Jacob, willing participant to all that awfulness, wanted me to watch movies with him.
He slipped a DVD from a clear plastic case, confirming my worst fears.
“Home movies?” I said.
“Better,” he said, and put in the disk.
Strapped down and trapped, unable to scratch my itchy nose and wondering what would happen when I needed to use the bathroom, I sat in my chair and wondered what a guy like Jacob thought Ernest Prescott would find enjoyable.
The scene opened to darkness, then the cheerful sound of Brother Bones whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. Very creepy. Just as I wondered if it was simply a bootleg Globe Trotters’ video, the screen brightened and the camera zoomed in, leaving nothing to the imagination. What followed were depictions of torment and barbarism, savage and raw, exposing the limits of human endurance stretched to the breaking point. Unlike the events in Sliced, this was real. There was choking, there was pummeling and blood, there was violation and agony and humiliation and grief, each scene more shocking than the ones preceding it, building again and again to the same predictable climax where the victim was forced to hang his head while Jacob raised his fists in victory, howling like a maniac.
That’s right: Jacob was playing me his extreme fighting videos. His videos, because he was in every one.
“Wow,” I said at one point. “You sure hit that guy.”
Jacob faced me with a condescending smile. “Oh yeah, Ernest the karate fighter. Just be glad I wasn’t there when that asshole pulled his knife. I’d be in jail and he’d be dead, know what I mean?”
Coming from anyone else, I’d have figured it for bluster. With Jacob, it was probably the closest he came to modesty.
The video kept playing, fight
after fight, and despite myself I was getting into it. It was something to do. Also, years ago, back when extreme fighting first got popular in the U.S., I’d rented the first five or so pay-per-view specials.
There’s something about two people battling it out that triggers our survival instinct. And even though I’m technically dead most of the time, my survival instinct carries with me, such that two people duking it out on the mansion’s big screen TV easily became the most interesting thing in the room.
In that respect it was a little like watching Sliced, and I wondered what that said about me, that I could enjoy the one while condemning the other.
Watching Jacob’s videos, I found myself flinching and wanting to punch the air, despite my restraints. But after a while, it got tiresome watching Jacob win every fight. I kept hoping for the other guy to choke him out, like Royce Gracie did over and over again in those early extreme fighting championships … but no, Jacob kept knocking everybody out. He was a hitter, not a grappler. He had no style or finesse, only brute strength and aggression. Royce Gracie liked to grab his opponents around the middle and hold on for fifteen minutes while they tired themselves out, beating on him with short ineffectual punches. Then he’d flip his leg up around the guy’s neck and do this weird jujitsu thing and the guy would give up, screaming in pain.
“Hey look at that,” Brian said, coming into the room with a plate of sandwiches and a six-pack of beer. “Prescott’s watching sports. How you liking it, man?”
“Fun fun,” I said, flashing him a thumbs-up, one of the few gestures I could do that didn’t require raising my arms.
Brian said, “Made them myself. You want roast beef or baloney?”
“Both,” I said. “I’m starved. Thanks.”
Then, despite being a big guy who liked to shoot people at the nod of my literary agent and captor, he proceeded to feed me. I’ll give Brian one thing: he made a mean sandwich. I downed four total, taking little swishes of beer in-between, even though I didn’t like beer.