by Jeff Strand
“Then we’ll get right into the overview,” said Daniel. “You’ve probably guessed that all of us sitting here at this table are…well, we’re sickos. Just like you. Without trying to get into the psychological explanations and theories about our mothers and all that crap, it’s safe to say that we very much enjoy torture and murder. We like the suffering, we like the pain, we like the whole visual spectacle. Simply put, we’re a bunch of freaks.”
“Here, here,” said Josie, raising her wine glass.
“The thing is, it’s not the most convenient hobby to enjoy. The dangers are incredible. Even a sniper puts himself at risk, but we want the up close and personal element. We don’t want it over quickly. We want them to know what’s happening, and what’s going to happen. Sometimes we even love to rub the family’s face in it…not literally, though that would be fun, too.”
Just keep smiling, I told myself. You like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… at least don’t puke on the lobster…
“Anyway,” Daniel continued, “I am, if you haven’t already guessed, extremely rich. I did not murder my father to get my inheritance, I earned it the good old-fashioned way: lung cancer. So I had this wonderful house built. Like it?”
I nodded. “It’s roomy.”
“That it is. It’s tastefully decorated, except for your room, of course, and quite frankly the type of place you’d feel perfectly comfortable using to entertain royalty. But I assume you noticed the other building?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s are where the fun begins. I have created what I like to call the Psychopath’s Paradise. ‘Psychopath’ may not be the most accurate word, if you really get into the medical definitions, but it works well enough. A place where people like myself, and Josie, and Foster, and Stan, and Mortimer, and Andrew Mayhem the Headhunter can have themselves the most outrageously entertaining kill-fest imaginable, without worrying about all those annoying interruptions like family members walking in, or cops showing up, or having to constantly say ‘Scream and you’re dead! Scream and you’re dead!’ Let me tell you, Andrew, you’re in for a treat.”
Thirty years of pretending to love that disgusting, slimy fudge my Aunt Patty makes every year at Christmas wasn’t nearly enough practice for the feigned delight I had to show at this moment.
“Sounds fuckin’ awesome!” I said, hoping gratuitous profanity would make my joy more believable.
“So, anyway, every year we’re each responsible for bringing three victims, though Josie and I will usually snag some bonus prey. Those like myself, who capture them early, get the extra enjoyment of inflicting mental torture upon their families. Then there are losers like Stan, who wait until the last minute and nearly get themselves shot.”
Stan hadn’t been paying attention. He looked up at the sound of his name, shrugged, and returned to his dinner.
“And you invite a special guest each year?” I asked.
Daniel shook his head. “You’re the first. So we have lots of special surprises for you, my friend. In fact, let’s all finish up our meal so we can move on to the first.”
I had absolutely no interest in finishing my meal. “What are we doing first?”
“What else, new guy? Initiation.”
Roger’s Side
THIS CONTINUES the sad, sad tale of Roger Tanglen. They still haven’t taken away my tape recorder, not that I offered it to anyone, so I guess I’ll just keep talking until they take it away, or they kill me, or my fellow prisoners tell me to shut the hell up before they beat me senseless.
“Shut the hell up before we beat you senseless!”
That was Rodney, my cellmate. As you can hear, we haven’t completely lost our sense of humor yet. Which is good, I mean, if you quit laughing, you might as well be dead, right? Wow, that sounds profound. Laughter is the best medicine. Clown noses and whoopee cushions will get us out of this, I’m sure of it!
Yes, I’m babbling again. I apologize to whoever ends up transcribing this mess. Should that be whomever? Whatever.
Let me get down to the important stuff. Right now I’m in a room about…oh, a hundred square feet. Eighty, maybe. It’s set up like holding cells at a jail, at least the way they look in the movies, since I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing one in real life. Five cells on each side. There are two doors in the room, one on each end, metal doors with a handle like the kind you see inside of a meat locker, I think. You know, one of those long handles that you pull down. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been inside of a meat locker. I’m using movies for reference again. And I’m babbling again.
There are eighteen other people in here, mostly two to a cell. Like I said, I’m with Rodney Telfare from Phoenix, one of my co-passengers on the trip here. When I’m done I’ll pass around the recorder and let everyone say their name, just for the record. I only have one other tape, so I hope I don’t run out, but everyone deserves to have their name on the tape so there’s some chance that their families will find out what happened.
Actually, I hope I do run out! That means I’m alive longer than the length of the tapes! I take back my previous comment.
Believe it or not, these cells aren’t all that uncomfortable. There are two beds, with comforters and fluffy pillows. We’ve even got a water cooler. No refrigerator, though. Every cell has its own bookshelf, but every single title on ours is either a horror novel or true crime. Just getting us in the mood, I guess.
Oh, and I can’t forget the inspirational slogan painted on the wall: “Today is probably the last day of your life.” Cute, huh?
I think I’ll hand this over to Rodney now, so he can…no, wait, I think somebody’s unlocking the door.
[Sound of door opening. Footsteps.]
“Hey, dead meats, how’s it going? I’m coming for one of you! One of you gets to die tonight! Whoever could it beeeee? I just don’t know, there are so many fine candidates to choose from! Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers…oh, no, I like this one. Big and strong. What’s your name, sir?”
“He asked you your name, asshole!”
“Now, Foster, that’s no way to speak to a dying man. You really do need to learn some manners when conversing with people who are just moments away from a ghastly, hideous, unbearably painful death. Again, what’s your name, sir?”
“Rodney Telfare.”
“Rodney Telfare! Well, Rodney, YOU’RE GONNA DIE!!! I hope that hasn’t ruined your evening. All right, Foster, get him out of here and bring him to the ring. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yeah, it would be a shame if you had to do anything around this place.”
“Ah, quit yer dad-blasted bellyachin’. You love using that cattle prod and you know it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Ta-ta, everyone! Keep looking over your shoulders! You never know, I could be coming for YOU next!”
[Sound of door closing.]
“What a dick. All right, Rod, you can make me work for this, or you can be nice. See this gun? One of your fellow prisoners gets shot for every second of annoyance you cause me, starting with your cellmate. Come over to the bars. Good.”
[A cry of pain. Sound of a body falling.]
“Heh heh, look at him twitch. And if you don’t want to be in his place, you just stay right back there where you are.”
[Sound of cell door sliding open. Body being dragged. Door slamming shut.]
“Damn, what did we feed this guy?”
[Sound of door opening, then closing.]
Oh, God.
I’m…I just…I’m turning off the tape now.
Chapter 10
THIS SHOULD have been the time where I got over being Mr. Cautious and did something. Maybe I could’ve grabbed a steak knife or a lobster claw and tried to use Stan as a hostage. I knew it wouldn’t have worked, but I was still furious at myself for not trying.
Now, of course, I was in absolutely no position to try anything. Daniel and Foste
r had gone on ahead. Josie had blindfolded me, and she and the others led me to wherever we were going. They didn’t say anything as we walked, and I didn’t know whether to worry more about my upcoming initiation or the fact that they very well might have known all along that I wasn’t who I claimed to be. For all I knew, I was to be their first victim of the season.
We walked for about ten minutes, stopping at one point for a door to be opened. There was a huge rush of cold air and wind as we walked outside, and then another door opened and we walked back inside, no longer on a carpeted surface. Two minutes later I walked onto what felt like sand, and after a few steps Josie put her hands on my waist.
“We’re here, sweetie,” she said.
She pulled off my blindfold, and I found myself standing in a scaled-down version of a Roman gladiator arena, maybe thirty feet across. The walls were about eight feet high, so there was no chance of climbing out, at least not without a few minutes of privacy. Josie left, closing a metal gate behind her. I saw Mortimer and Stan take their seats above. Stan held a bag of popcorn.
Daniel was directly above the far wall of the arena. He sat on a throne, wearing a king’s robe and jeweled crown. Josie appeared above and sat down in the front row.
Daniel picked up a horn and blew into it, making spitting sounds but very little music. He set it aside, and then gestured grandly. “Welcome, filthy peasants, to the Initiation! This evening, Andrew ‘Headhunter’ Mayhem shalt prove that he is worthy to stand among us! He shalt battle a prisoner, a strong and mighty foe, until one of the two hath fallen dead!”
The gate on the far side of the arena opened, and a tall, muscular, but scared-looking black man was shoved forward. The gate slammed shut behind him.
“Come forth, Almost Initiated One, and choose thy weapon!” Daniel said, pointing to me. “Choose well, for it will be thy only source of defense!”
My legs trembled as I walked forward. Even if I were willing to fight an innocent man to carry off this ruse, I wasn’t even sure I could beat him! My mind raced through every possible escape method, but save for somehow managing to kill all of the bad guys from my spot down here in the arena, there didn’t seem to be one.
Daniel lifted a large brown box to the ledge. It displayed a sword, a mace, a short spear, some other bladed weapons I didn’t recognize, and a stapler. “Choose now!”
“I choose the sword,” I said.
“The Almost Initiated One chooseth the sword!” Daniel announced. He removed the sword from the display box, made as if he were about to throw it, and then grinned and put it down.
“Thy King rules that the Almost Initiated One isn’t going to get off that easy!” he said. “He hath far too much experience with his weapon of choice. Choose again!”
“Hey, he’s cheating!” I said, trying to sound amused. “What kind of crooked operation are you running here? Gimme the sword!”
“Thy King’s word is final! Thou must choose again!”
“What, are you just gonna make me run through the whole box of weapons until I pick the one you want?”
“Nay, Almost Initiated One! Thy next choice will be thy weapon! Thou hast my word as King!”
“Then I choose…” I said, as a sudden idea came to me. “I choose as my weapon…knowledge of the periodic table of the elements!”
There was a long silence.
“I beg thy pardon?” asked Daniel.
“Any man can fight with blades of steel, or maces of…steel. But true wisdom is the finest weapon of all!” I pointed accusingly at the prisoner. “I challenge thee to a duel of wisdom, a duel in thy knowledge of the periodic table of the elements!”
Daniel looked utterly confused. Then, after a moment, he shrugged and sat down. “Okay, sure, go for it.”
Now, of course, I had to hope that I still remembered. I’d wanted to be a chemist for about three weeks back in high school, but I’d had that stupid table hammered into my skull so deeply that it could never escape.
The prisoner looked even more baffled than Daniel. “Speak!” I shouted. “Prove thy worthiness at this battle of wisdom!”
“Uhhhh…” said the prisoner.
“Thy knowledge is miserable! Victory will be mine!” I flexed my muscles in glory.
“No, wait. It goes, H for hydrogen, He for helium, Li for lithium, Be for, uh, beryllium, B for boron…”
My mouth dropped open.
“…C for carbon, N for nitrogen, O for oxygen…”
I just stood there, flabbergasted, as the prisoner rattled off the entire list. As he progressed, his voice took on a singsong pattern, as if he’d memorized the elements using a song like the ABC’s.
“…and Lr for lawrencium,” he finished.
The spectators above exchanged questioning looks.
“Okay, well, I guess you have great wisdom,” I admitted.
“All right, enough of this intellectual crap!” said Daniel, standing up again. “Let’s see some blood! Andrew, pick your weapon!”
“But I won!” the prisoner insisted.
“You didn’t win squat. He was just messin’ with you. Andrew, weapon! C’mon, c’mon, let’s move, his royal majesty is getting impatient!”
That annoying little voice in my head began to speak again, forcing me to consider the option of fighting to the death. After all, if I killed the prisoner, I’d earn their trust, and then I’d have a better shot at rescuing Roger and the others. One would die so others could live. It was a worthy sacrifice, wasn’t it?
No. I couldn’t do it. There had to be another way.
“The stapler,” I said.
Daniel leaned over the side of the wall. “Okay, Andrew, I know I’m standing here dressed like some dipshit king and we’re making this into a fun little game, and we’re trying to be all silly by sticking a stapler in the weapon display case, but you do notice the element of danger here, right?”
“I notice it. I choose the stapler.”
“Okay, whatever, it’s your funeral. Stapler it is.”
He removed the stapler and tossed it onto the sand next to me. I picked it up and held it in a menacing manner. I was still hoping to find some way to get out of this mess without either of us getting hurt. If the prisoner didn’t feel he was in serious danger, maybe we could figure something out.
“Prisoner, choose thy weapon!” shouted Daniel.
“The sword!”
Damn. The annoying voice told me that now I was going to die so that the others could die, too.
Daniel picked up the sword and tossed it onto the ground next to the prisoner. I immediately rushed at him, arms outstretched. I had to keep weapons out of this as much as possible.
The prisoner moved out of the way, and then kicked me in the shin. I flew forward, landing on my stomach and ending up with a mouthful of sand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pick up the sword.
I quickly got up, spitting out the sand. I wiped my mouth off on my sleeve as we stood there, six feet apart, trying to stare each other down.
“Gooooooooo Andrew!” shouted Daniel. “Staple him to death!”
“You can do it, Andrew!” Josie pitched in. “The Wench Brigade has faith in you!”
The prisoner stepped forward and took a quick swing with the sword. I moved back out of the way, wishing I had my trusty tire iron. And that my car was between us. And that one of us was back in Chamber.
I unhinged the stapler, ready to fire staples at the slightest provocation. I hoped I looked ridiculous, but the prisoner’s expression remained serious and wary. Did he really think they’d let him go if he killed me? Had they even promised such a thing?
He dashed at me, and I let loose with a mighty storm of staples. I tried, anyway. The stapler jammed after the first one. I dodged his attack, and then fled to the other side of the arena.
Daniel cupped his hands over his mouth. “Boooooooo!!!”
“Release the lions!” shouted Josie.
It would not have surprised me one bit if real l
ions suddenly rushed into the arena, but fortunately none appeared. I lifted my foot in the air and made comical kung-fu noises while I contorted my body into ridiculous fighting positions. I had to get this prisoner to relax. And I didn’t want the others to know I was terrified.
“I’m rootin’ for the prisoner,” Stan declared, flicking popcorn into the ring at me. “Gooooooo prisoner!”
“Gooooooo prisoner!” Mortimer chimed in.
“Kiiiiiiiss my ass!” I replied.
The prisoner ran at me again. I stood there, arms casually folded, and then let myself drop just as he swung the sword. It smashed into the wall, and I quickly wrapped my arms around his legs. He fell to the sand.
I began pressing the stapler against his right leg. It wasn’t working, but they probably couldn’t tell that from above. “All fear the mighty stapler!” I shouted, trying to grab for the sword with my other hand. The prisoner rolled on his side and swung the sword, slashing my shoulder.
The sting was incredible. I cringed and reflexively pushed my hand to the wound. For a split second I felt nothing but pure fury. It faded instantly, but perhaps that was something I could use.
“I’ll kill you!” I screamed, diving upon him and pummeling him with my empty fist. But I pulled my punches at the last instant, hoping it looked convincing from above. I was really hitting him, but he had to notice the effort I was making not to hurt him. The prisoner tried to swing the sword again, but I bashed his arm with the stapler, hard, sending another jolt of agony through my injured shoulder.
“You’re dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!” I grabbed for his throat and screamed in his ear. “Dead!” Then I whispered “please stop fighting,” followed by another “Dead!”
He seemed to get it. He made another halfhearted swing with the sword, which I easily blocked. I pretended to struggle much more violently than was necessary, and then wrenched it out of his grip. Then I tossed the stapler aside and began bashing on his head with both fists. I continued to pull my punches, but a couple were harder than I’d intended. We hadn’t exactly rehearsed this.