Funhouse

by Michael Bray

“I have to, they told me.”

  “I’m telling you not to, please Dwayne.”

  “I have no choice.”

  He walked towards Randy, completely unafraid.

  “Stop, please!”

  He fired.

  The sound rolled across the fields, and at such short distance, Dwayne was launched through the air, coming to rest on his back in the cabbage field. Hit in the stomach, his intestines pooled around the hole in his white T-Shirt. Randy dropped the weapon and ran to his friend, kneeling next to him in the dirt. His stomach was a mess, his insides now on the outside, the smell of hot blood mingled with the smell of vegetables and flowers. Randy held his friend’s hand, sickened and surprised that he was still alive.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to...” Randy sobbed.

  Dwayne looked at his friend with glassy eyes, and somehow managed a smile.

  “You... you... I…” He said through chattering teeth, and the sight of his friend in such a sorry state only made Randy’s guilt worse.

  “Why did you make me do it? Why didn’t you stop?” Randy sobbed, and as he watched, Dwayne smiled. He swallowed, and managed to spit out the words that he was so desperately trying to say.

  “St...sto… sto…”

  He was silenced as another roar of the shotgun sheared away the top of his skull, and punched a great explosion of dirt into the air.

  Randy flinched and whirled around, staring at the old man, who stood behind him, the gun smoking from the barrel as Samsonite turned the weapon on Randy.

  “You didn’t need to do that!” Randy spat through his tears. “He was gonna die anyway. Why did you have to do that?”

  The old man smiled, and then licked his lips.

  “He tried to take them away from me, and I didn’t want that. Nobody can take them from me, not him, not you.”

  “I don’t want to take anything; I just want to go home.”

  “You say that now, but you’re young, and strong, and they will get to you like they got to him.”

  “Are you crazy old man? I just saved your life.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I love them, I can’t live without them, and I won’t let you take them from me.”

  Randy realised then what had happened, and glanced to the ravaged remains of his friend, then back to the old man.

  “That’s why he was coming to kill you, wasn’t it?” Randy said, smiling at his own stupidity. “You knew they wouldn’t let you die in peace, you knew they would want you dead.”

  “Course I did, you dumb little shit.”

  “They had sent him to kill you, not me, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, I suppose they did.”

  Randy shook his head in disbelief. “All that stuff you said last night, it was all bullshit wasn’t it Mr Samsonite?”

  “Don’t get all preachy to me, you little asshole! You came here, trespassing on my land then took away my scarecrows, my friends,” The old man raged. “Well even if they think I’m too old, I don’t think I am. I have looked after them, devoted my life to them. It won’t be easy, but I’ll learn to forgive them for trying to replace me.”

  “Mr Samsonite, please.”

  “I’m sorry son, but this is the only way to make sure I still have a purpose.”

  Randy knew then what Dwayne had been trying to say as he lay dying in the dirt.

  Stockholm Syndrome.

  The old man had it, and who could be surprised after so long alone with whatever power lived in the dirt here. Randy closed his eyes, and hoped that it wouldn’t hurt when it came.

  Samsonite took a single step forward, and fired.

  H_ N G _ _ N

  “Make sure the noose is tight.” Dillon said to the guards as he paced back and forth, smoking his cigar.

  Brad said nothing. He simply looked his captor in the eye and tried to show that he was unafraid, but Dillon's wide smile told him he hadn’t quite managed it.

  “I understand you like games.” Dillon said as his guards checked the noose as instructed.

  Brad again declined to respond, and instead clenched his fists. Although they were restrained behind his back and secured with cable ties, he would still give anything to have them freed just so he could beat some humility into the overweight mass of flesh in front of him.

  Dillon was a French Canadian businessman, who due to his thriving export business, was also rich. Really, really rich. He had homes in Monaco, Florida and Switzerland, and even a private jet which was painted black and had his name emblazoned on the side in gold.

  The man himself was large, both in height and in stature. Brad was six two and slim. Dillon was maybe five inches or so taller and a couple of hundred pounds heavier. His face was smooth and flabby, his grin wide and somehow comical now that he had wedged the cigar into the side of his mouth. He squinted against the sun, glaring at Brad with eyes that were cruel and full of vengeance.

  “Are you surprised at how things have transpired?” Dillon asked, puffing smoke as he came to a halt in front of the makeshift gallows.

  “It’s not how I planned it.” Brad muttered as he adjusted his footing on the ladder.

  Dillon snorted and paced, content, for the time being, to smoke and enjoy the sun. Brad looked around, trying to get some sense of his surroundings. He was in some kind of yard or compound. The grass on the ground was thick and yellow, and swayed in the slight breeze. To his right, just inside his peripheral vision was the ghost of a building of some kind, which was attached to a huge sandstone wall which looked as if it encased the yard from any outside attention. He looked over it to the sky, which was a beautiful, deep blue.

  Brad blinked away fresh rivulets of sweat from his eyes as the punishing heat of the day continued to burn down on him. As if reading his thoughts, Dillon spoke. His tone was cheerful and happy, which, considering what had happened, was a concern.

  “If you are wondering where help might arrive from my friend, then I might save you the trouble. We are alone here. You and I will be able to conduct our business in peace.”

  Brad didn’t want to believe him, and half considered trying to turn and look behind him, but his footing was so precarious on the top two steps of the ladder that he dared not move, let alone try to risk losing his balance by looking around. Instead, he concentrated on retaining his balance, and stared straight ahead, swallowing against the pressure of the rope on his neck.

  “What is it that you want from me, Dillon?” He croaked.

  Dillon smiled, and switched the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth.

  “From you, I want nothing, apart from answers.”

  Brad licked his parched lips, the salty taste of his own sweat combined with fear threatening to break him and make him beg, but he knew that he couldn’t do that, because that was exactly what Dillon wanted. He forced aside the raging, butterfly fear in his stomach and concentrated on retaining his balance.

  “This is quite the predicament, wouldn’t you say?” Dillon said as he walked to the step ladder and rested his hands on the top rung, just inches from Brad's feet. The gold rings on his fingers shimmered in the blazing sun, and Brad knew that it would only take the smallest movement, the slightest shake from Dillon, and he would surely die. Perhaps sensing his terror, Dillon glared up at his prisoner with hatred, and grinned.

  “Don’t worry, it won't be that easy. Not until I get my answers,”

  He grinned as he gripped the ladder and started to tip it back, and Brad almost immediately lost his balance; he was teetering on the cusp of falling backwards and the certain death that would follow, yet he somehow managed to shift his weight and retain his balance as Dillon laughed and walked towards the wall.

  “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” He said as he loosened the top button of his shirt. “Perhaps a drink is in order.”

  Dillon motioned to one of his guards who scurried off out of sight. Brad heard a door open and close, and then there was silence. Dillon walked to the thermometer screwed to the wall, and le
aned close.

  “Thirty six degrees. It feels hotter in here, no?”

  Brad didn’t respond, but it didn’t stop Dillon. He went on anyway, still in the same trivial tone.

  “This area is something of a suntrap. It retains the heat of the day, although, by the looks of you, you already appreciate how hot it is.”

  Dillon's lackey returned, bringing with him an ice-cold bottle of beer. Dillon took a long drink, and that alone made Brad’s stomach cramp with need.

  “Ahh, that hits the spot.” Dillon said as he belched loudly. “I would offer you one of course but...” He grinned without humour as he took another sip. “You don’t look to be in any position to drink it.”

  “Look.” Brad said, perhaps finally understanding the gravity of his situation. “We don’t have to do this. I can go away, disappear. You will never see me again.”

  “Oh, but then I won't know.”

  “Know what?”

  Dillon looked at him with predatory eyes as the smile melted from his face.

  “Why you thought you could sleep with my wife and get away with it.”

  Dillon waited, perhaps expecting Brad to plead or beg. When neither came, he looked genuinely surprised.

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “What’s the point, we both know it happened.”

  “Yes, indeed we do.”

  “So what now?”

  “Ah, I'm glad you asked.” Dillon said as he walked towards the sandstone compound wall.

  “As I asked you earlier, you like to play games, correct?”

  “Depends on the game.” Brad shot back, determined not to let Dillon see how afraid he was.

  “Ah, well this is a game that everyone knows Mr Jackson. However, first, I wonder if you would mind answering my previous question?”

  Brad swallowed and shifted his weight, more aware now of his burning calves as they supported his body just a few inches from death.

  “It wasn’t about you. It was just one of those things that happened.”

  “Indeed.” Dillon said, folding his arms and watching Brad with a wide sneer. “But nevertheless, it did happen. And now we have come to this.”

  Dillon sighed and took a handkerchief from his pocket. As he wiped his brow, he looked at Brad and flashed another grin.

  “You understand why this has to happen, don’t you?”

  “It doesn't. I already told you I was sorry.”

  “I believe you, but I have a reputation to consider. I cannot be seen to be weak.”

  “Then I'll leave the country. You'll never see me again.”

  Dillon laughed, and shook his head. “I might believe you, if I didn’t know you couldn’t afford it. And besides, how would I look if you suddenly turned up like a bad penny one day? No, it has to be this way.”

  “Then do it. Get it over with.”

  “You really think I could be so barbaric?”

  “Considering my position, yeah. I do.”

  Dillon smiled and approached the wall. He leaned on it, resting one foot against the stone.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to earn your freedom, and your life.”

  “Why bother, we both know the outcome.”

  “Ah, is that not a defeatist attitude? Do you not even want to live?” Dillon strode towards the ladder. “Should I simply kick this from under you, so that you die like a dog in the burning sun?”

  “No, please.” Brad said, squirming as he tried to both get away and retain his balance at the same time. “I’ll play along with your game, whatever it is.”

  “Very good.” Beamed Dillon. “I knew you would make the right decision. First, the stake, as in my experience, games are not so enjoyable without a substantial risk.”

  Dillon nodded to one of his men, who approached with a suitcase. Dillon took it and opened it, then carried it to the ladder so that Brad could see inside.

  “One million dollars, clean and untraceable. Yours if you win. With it, you will take your freedom and leave this country. I think this is enough so that you would have no reason to show your face again.”

  Brad looked at Dillon, but found his eyes returning to the money. It was more than he had ever seen in his life. "What about Monique?" He asked quietly.

  “She is not part of this equation. This is between you and me as men.”

  “What have you done to her?”

  Dillon laughed and set the open case on the floor.

  “Nothing has happened to her. Why would I harm my own wife? She was led astray and has learned her lesson. She likes men like you, Mister Jackson. Down on their luck Americans with your chiselled features and your beach blonde hair. Oh I’m quite sure you made quite the impression. But Monique knows well enough that her place is here with me.”

  He paused, and tilted his head.

  “You didn’t think she would ever stay with you, did you, Mr Jackson?”

  Brad's expression told him the answer, and Dillon burst into another bout of booming laughter.

  “Don’t be fooled into thinking that you are in any way unique here. My wife’s adulterous ways are nothing unusual. You are, I believe the seventh during the ten years of our marriage. You are just another statistic.

  Brad looked hurt, and Dillon lowered his voice, licking his wet lips as he spoke.

  “She does it to get to me. To remind me that I need to show her more attention. I don’t like it of course, but she knows that all she has to do is screw some degenerate low-life like you, and she will be rewarded with attention and more money being spent on her.”

  “I don’t believe you. She wouldn't..."

  “Oh she would. Whilst we are here burning under this awful heat, she is in Monaco. I gave her the gold card, so I'm sure she is either at the apartment, or sitting on a boat in the harbour, sipping champagne and looking over her purchases. She has already forgotten you, Mr Jackson.”

  “So why can't you just let me go?”

  “I cannot be seen to be weak. Like it or not, you are solely responsible for everything that has happened.”

  Brad blinked sweat out of his eyes and tried to ignore the stinging sensation on his skin as it was barraged by the sun.

  “What if I refuse to play this game of yours?” He said, his voice coming out in a broken, cracked mumble.

  “Mr Jackson.” Dillon beamed. “Think about it. How long do you think you can balance there? Surely already your calves burn with the effort of standing.”

  Brad said nothing, but Dillon was right. His legs did hurt, his muscles screaming at him to give them a little respite.

  Brad grimaced. Dillon grinned.

  “Alternatively, you can indulge in my game. A battle of mental fortitude, if you will.”

  Brad shuffled; sure he could feel the start of an alarming numb ache of a cramp in his leg.

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  “No, you really don’t...”

  Dillon replied as he walked to the wall and took a piece of red chalk from his pocket. He started to draw a series of lines, speaking over his shoulder as he worked.

  “When I was a boy, my father was often busy growing our business. As a consequence, much of my childhood was spent alone. We were rich of course, so it was far from a broken home. To combat the monotony, the other children and I, the ones who like me were neglected by parents who were working on securing our futures, would group together and play games. Cards, chess and the like. Things devised to pass the time.”

  Dillon finished drawing on the wall, and then turned towards Brad and flashed a wide lion like grin.

  “My favourite was Hangman, Mr Jackson. And it is that which we are about to play right now.”

  Despite the heat, a cold shiver danced down Brad’s spine, and he licked his parched lips.

  “It’s insane. I won’t do it.”

  “But I thought we had reached agreement? After all, it is just a simple word game. The stakes are as follows. If you correctly guess the clue, you leave here with the
million dollars and your life, on the strict understanding that you leave the country immediately. If you lose, and the hangman is complete, I kick the ladder from under you and watch you die. Alternatively, if you refuse to participate, I will leave you out here until your strength wanes, after which you will pass out and die anyway. I see only one option, Mr Jackson.”

  Brad didn’t want to play along. He knew how dangerous Dillon was, and that any agreement made was likely playing into his hands. But he very much wanted to live, and even if it was only guaranteed for the short term, he would take it.

  “What choice do I have?" He said, locking eyes with Dillon.

  “Very good!” Dillon replied, clapping his hands together. “Take a moment to look over the clue, and we can begin before the heat becomes any more unbearable.”

  Brad looked at the case full of money, then at Dillon and finally at the wall.

  ---/------/-------/---/-----

  His instincts screamed at him not to play along, and that anything that Dillon said could not be trusted. However, he also acknowledged that the odds were against him, and even though he was reasonably fit and healthy, he was already starting to feel weak. He wondered how long it would take for the heat to affect his brain function, and realised that the sooner they began, the sharper he would be and ultimately, the more chance he would have of survival.

  “Okay." Brad said as he glared at his captor. “I’m ready.”

  “Marvellous! I’m sure you know how the game is played, but I shall confirm the rules so that there is absolute clarity. You will call out letters of the alphabet in order to try to fill in the blanks on the clue. A correct answer and I will place the letter on the wall. Incorrect, and I will begin to draw the hangman. If you guess enough correct letters, and you think you know the answer, you may tell me what you believe it to be. If you are incorrect, you forfeit the game. If you do not answer the clue before the hangman is complete, you forfeit the game. If you decide to withdraw, you forfeit the game. Are we in agreement?”

  “Just say it how it is, Dillon,” Brad grunted “by forfeit, you mean I’ll die.”

  “If you wish to be so to the point then, yes. That is true.” He said with a slimy grin. “But is that not all the more reason to ensure that you answer correctly?”