by Chris Thomas
‘Shit,’ said Gilbert, as he read and re-read the message that had just appeared.
‘What?’ asked Alistair, now looking somewhat concerned.
‘Look,’ Gilbert said, handing the phone to Alistair.
We are in and we are monitoring you. Be careful.
‘So what?’ Alistair replied, alarming Gilbert with his lack of concern. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken them until now to start, to be honest. Jarvis, is this going to be a problem?’
‘Not really,’ answered Jarvis, sharing his boss’ attitude. ‘I can’t see that their monitoring systems will be any better than all the others that bombard us during the episodes.’
‘OK,’ said Alistair, now standing in the middle of the warehouse, looking around into the dark voids of space that surrounded him. ‘Gather round, everyone.’
Gilbert, Jarvis, Eric, and Stan joined him, along with a couple of the goons.
‘We’re going to have a few uninvited online guests this evening. CCU has finally decided to join the party. But we carry on as normal, as if we have absolutely no idea that they’re watching us. It won’t take as long this time, but we need to maintain our focus throughout. Everyone clear? Good. To the Brotherhood.’
‘The Brotherhood,’ they replied in unison.
‘Let’s go get Cramer. It’s show time.’
31
Harris and Fowler sat back in their seats, watching on their respective screens as the large, light-encrusted Red Room sign zoomed away from the camera. They had seen the disclaimer on the entry screen.
‘Presumably that’s why there’s very little trace of this online. They’ve asked nicely for people not to record it. Looks like there is honour amongst thieves then,’ said Fowler.
‘Or they treat it like some sort of exclusive club,’ replied Harris. ‘Look, I think our clown friend is about to put in an appearance.’
The double doors opened, the white light shone through the smoke, and out stepped the Host, arms outstretched. In front of the entrance, he stopped and performed a pose with one arm straight, one arm bent, both pointing in the same direction, like a lightning bolt. The spotlights came up as the doors closed behind him, and as the smoke began to clear he jogged down set to face the camera.
‘Good evening, my deep web friends. Welcome to another edition of the Righteous and the Damned here in the Red Room.’
‘Snappy title,’ commented Fowler.
‘We’ve got a fantastic show lined up for you this evening. So without further ado, let’s bring out tonight’s volunteer.’
‘Well, this clown fellow sounds like a delightful chap,’ Fowler added, as he and Harris watched the camera zoom past the Host to the doors.
As they opened, a large goon in a red tracksuit stumbled through with an equally massive body clamped firmly in a headlock under his arm. Two more goons carried him, by a leg each, down to the chair stationed by the Host. As they began the process of trying to clamp the powerful hostage down, fighting against his struggles, the Host decided to offer them a helping hand. He walked over to the chair and placed a hand around the back of the volunteer’s head. With his other hand, he thrust two fingers firmly downwards into the soft tissue just below the Adam’s apple. The technique took an instant control, causing all the volunteer’s muscles to go limp, while the goons finished securing him.
‘OK, let’s see who we’ve got today. Tonight’s volunteer you may not be very familiar with, but I can guarantee that the minute you see him you will take an instant dislike to him. His official job title would be something like “gangland enforcer”, but the only way we can think of describing him is “a total and utter shit”. He’s well known in the underworld for removing people’s teeth with pliers or snipping their fingers off with bolt cutters. Oh, and I should point out that he doesn’t care who he does it to. In fact, our little friend here has even been known to coerce his targets by holding their young children’s heads in a vice and threatening to crush them unless they do what he wants. Like I said, a real nasty shit.’
‘But despite this, his slimy lawyers have always had the knack, whether it be through intimidation, bribery, or both, of making sure that he gets away with his crimes. Well, not tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Please say a warm hello to our guest, Mister Cramer McAllister.’
The goons whipped the sack off of McAllister’s head. Clad only in white underpants and a tight white vest, he instantly began shouting, swearing, and spitting.
‘That’ll be him then,’ said Harris. ‘How is the trace going?’
‘It’s still in there, but their system is solid as a rock. These people really know their stuff when it comes to security.’
As McAllister continued his tirade, the Host stood behind him with his hands on the man’s head. He began massaging as McAllister flicked his head from side to side, as if trying to swat a fly with his chin.
‘Calm down, Cramer. Or actually, how about I call you C-Mac?’ said the Host, softly.
‘How about I fucking smash the lot of you to shit! Don’t you fucking know who I am? Who I work for? You think you’re tough guys; you know nothing. You want to get sucked into my world? I’ll suck you in, pathetic little maggots. I’ll suck you in so far, I’ll have to shit you out in pieces at the other end. You’ve got no—’
Before he could finish his sentence, the Host smashed him around the side of the head with the gold clipboard, shutting him up briefly.
‘Thank you, C-Mac, for that lovely introduction,’ said the Host. ‘But let us just get one thing clear. We know precisely who you are and we know full well who you work for. In fact, we might send your good buddy Curtis Slater a little video of this. You never know, he might even be next to sit in the hot seat. But just in case our viewers out there don’t know who you are, here is a little montage of newspaper clippings and photos for their reference.’
A clip started to run showing headlines such as McAllister Walks Free Again, Enforcer’s Victims Slam Judge, and it ended with a photograph of McAllister kneeling down behind the rent boy with his trousers around his ankles.
‘Sorry, Mac,’ said the Host, as the camera returned. ‘Not sure how that one got in there.’
‘You don’t get to judge me, you little prick, hiding behind your stupid little clown mask.’
The Host jumped and landed on McAllister’s lap, quickly grabbing his throat and ramming his head back against the seat whilst pointing at the camera with his other hand.
‘Quite right, Mac, I don’t. But those people out there do. Start the bidding.’
On screen, the large monitor lowered down from the ceiling and the names and numbers began flashing up.
‘So that’s what this bid box is for,’ said Harris, rolling his cursor over a box on the side of his screen.
‘OK, let’s see who the first winner is tonight,’ said the Host, looking up at the screen. ‘And it is … UpsetDad, with a cracking seven bitcoins. Sorry you’re upset, Dad, let’s hope that Cramer here can cheer you up.’
The message began to appear on the monitor.
I have no idea who you are, but I am pretty certain the world will be better off without you. Can you ask him why he did what he did to children?
‘So, C-Mac, you heard the man. Why did you threaten to torture children?’
‘Fuck you, arsehole. You think that the people I was employed to go after were all sweetness and light? Most of them were drug-pushers.’
‘Who happened to owe you money for the drugs that you supplied them, so that they could be drug pushers, you mean?’
‘They took liberties and they paid the price. We’re not here to be pissed around,’ said McAllister, arrogantly. He had never been one to play the lesser man, and submitting to anyone simply wasn’t in his nature.
‘But children, Cramer? Children,’ replied the Host, waving his hands at McAllister. ‘How could you stand there with a child, who has absolutely nothing to do with their parents’ activities, and hold their head in a vice? I’m struggli
ng to even say it. A vice, Cramer. You put a small, innocent child’s head in a vice and threatened to crush it?’
McAllister smirked. ‘Yeah, and they fucking paid up pronto. Stupid little junkie pissheads.’
‘I think we’ve all heard enough about the type of character this man is. UpsetDad, pick your punishment please.’
Host, I’d like an angle grinder to the knee please.
Harris and Fowler looked at each other. ‘Get that tracer in there, now. We have to find out where this is.’
‘I’m trying,’ replied Fowler, slightly annoyed. ‘But this site is practically impenetrable. We can’t make it go any faster than it’s going.’
Harris began biting the top of his biro as he watched one of the men in red tracksuits hand the clown a small electric cutting disc, which the Host proceeded to rev up in front of McAllister’s face. McAllister started to turn pale and shook his head violently from side to side. Forcing himself to watch, Harris took a large swig of water as he realised his mouth had dried like sandpaper without him noticing.
Both men winced as the Host ran the spinning disc of the angle grinder just below McAllister’s kneecap. Through gritted teeth, McAllister tried his hardest to stand the pain, but it all became too much. As blood poured down McAllister’s leg, the Host put the grinder on the floor, before stamping on the top of the knee, causing the bright white patella bone to slip out of the gash and onto the floor. McAllister screamed. And swore a lot. As blood gushed from his leg, he started to slow his breathing, in an attempt to prevent himself going into shock. He had learnt a few tricks himself from torturing people. A goon threaded a belt under his leg, before fastening it tightly across his thigh.
‘We can’t have you bleeding to death now can we, Cramer?’ said the Host, resting his elbow on McAllister’s shoulder whilst continuing to talk into the microphone. ‘Not before your viewers have had more of a chance to speak to you.’
‘Fucking … arseholes,’ shouted McAllister, as saliva sprayed out in all directions.
‘He doesn’t seem very happy, does he?’ said Fowler, as a matter of a fact.
‘No,’ replied Harris, curtly. ‘Grace, are you getting this?’
‘Yes,’ shouted Grace, from over the desk partition. ‘The recording is running, but there is so little to go on. The camera movements are very carefully orchestrated, never veering outside of the set. This is obviously a very well-rehearsed routine.’
‘What about the sound?’
‘Again, not sure what type of audio filter they’re using, but this “Host” person’s voice isn’t coming up with anything in our database. Doesn’t help of course that he’s wearing that mask.’
‘Bugger,’ replied Harris to himself, turning to concentrate back on his monitor. ‘There must be something.’
On screen, he watched as the Host grabbed McAllister’s head under the chin and pointed it at the large screen.
‘It’s exciting isn’t it, Mac?’ said the Host. ‘See those names up there? Those are all people who truly despise what you have done. And they want you to pay for your crimes.’
‘I’ve not been convicted of any fucking crimes,’ he gasped through the pain, struggling with the words but still valiantly managing to get them out in short bursts. ‘You really think that you’ll get away with this? I know people, nasty people. They’ll hunt you down and when they find you—’
‘Find us?’ laughed the Host. ‘If you’re talking about that weasel Slater, whose dirty work you do, I hope he does. But what makes you think he gives a flying monkey’s about you? Also, just to clarify, you were convicted of crimes, just not jailed, thanks to that slimy lawyer of yours. We’ve decided that you did not receive the punishment that you deserved and that is why you are here. Got it?’
‘Who gave you the—’
‘Anyway,’ interrupted the Host, stuffing his hand into McAllister’s face. ‘Let’s see who the next winner is. And, with a huge fifteen bitcoins, Mac say hello to MafiaMama. Evening, MafiaMama, what would you like to say to the big C?’
Buonasera Host. This man is un grande bastardo as we say. I want to know, who does he prefer to torture, adults or children?
‘This is crazy,’ said Fowler. ‘People are queuing up to win this. That’s the best part of ten grand that ‘MafiaMama’ just paid.’
‘So what does that tell us?’ asked Harris.
‘That not just anyone can take part in this. You need a serious amount of wedge.’
‘Quite. These viewers are probably high earners, professionals, well-educated. What makes someone want to pay that much money just to watch a criminal be tortured?’
‘You’re forgetting the other people like us who have had to pay for the privilege and aren’t bidding. There could be hundreds, even thousands of viewers. And I would imagine they’re lapping it up,’ replied Brooks.
‘Agreed,’ said Fowler. ‘Why else would they go to this amount of risk unless they were pulling in a lot of viewers and a lot of cash?’
‘He seems to have absolutely no hesitation in doing what he does. Does he really see himself as some sort of internet vigilante doing this for the good of the world?’ asked Harris, as he watched the Host poking McAllister in the wounded kneecap with the corner of his clipboard.
‘Hurry up Cramer, for Christ’s sake,’ shouted the Host. ‘MafiaMama asked you a question and she would like an answer, please.’
‘Fuck you. You think I’m going to answer any more of your questions, you stupid little clown prick?’ McAllister replied, defiantly.
‘Come on, Cramer,’ said the Host, continuing to poke the kneecap. ‘I know this hurts.’
‘Fine,’ spat McAllister. ‘But come close.’
The Host moved to put his head near McAllister’s and held the microphone nearby so the viewers could hear.
‘Children,’ said McAllister, with a smirk on his face. ‘Children. I love fucking up the children. You do an adult and they recover. You do a child and it stays with them for life. Like a little part of me is with them forever.’
Even with a mask on, the Host seemed somewhat taken aback.
‘He’s not going to like that,’ said Fowler. ‘It looks like he wants to do him in himself.’
‘McAllister, if I could, I would choose the next punishment for you.’
‘Told you …’
‘But MafiaMama has the honours. It’s time to see what she wants to do with you. Mama, make it a good one.’
Can’t believe what I just heard. Crowbar, Host, for the children. Anything. Make it hurt.
As a goon handed him a black metal crowbar, the Host pulled a long thick cable tie out of his pocket, which he proceeded to wrap around McAllister’s wrist. McAllister looked down, confused, and then at the Host.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Well, Cramer,’ said the Host, as he pulled the cable tie as tight as he could. ‘I once heard someone say that there is nothing in the world that cannot be fixed with one of these.’
‘You’re bloody mental—’
Before he could finish his sentence, the Host threw the crowbar up in the air and caught the flat end, plunging the hook deep into McAllister’s thigh, causing him to scream out in pain. He wrenched the hook out, spun it in the air again, and then smashed it into the side of McAllister’s face, then back the other way, before finally slamming it straight into the man’s mouth.
McAllister groaned as his head dropped forward, a trickle of blood pouring out the side of his mouth and down his t-shirt. By now, the cable tie had caused his hand to turn a bright shade of purple and swell up like a giant beetroot. The Host placed the hook of the crowbar on top of it.
‘He’s not, is he …?’ asked Harris, in hope more than expectation.
The Host brought the crowbar up, before smashing the hook down into McAllister’s swollen hand.
‘He is,’ replied Fowler.
The pressure build up in his hand caused it to explode, sending blood and tissue ov
er his now-limp body, leaving a gaping wound at the top that dripped over the arm of the chair and onto the floor. McAllister passed out with the pain and drooped forward.
‘Not entirely sure that cable tie fixed his hand, ladies and gentlemen. If anything, it appears to have made it worse. We’ve just got time for the last question. Start placing your bids.’
The Host went off camera and took a drink of water.
‘I don’t think we should change exit nodes for the finale,’ said Jarvis, not removing his eyes from the screen.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it’s too risky, given who’s monitoring us. It just might give them the window of opportunity that they’re looking for.’
‘Fine, do what you have to,’ replied the Host, placing the water bottle down and securing his mask.
The Host reappeared in front of the camera as a goon wafted the smelling salts under McAllister’s nose and slapped him around the face. After a few seconds, he started to groan again, and the show continued.
‘OK, let’s see who our final highest bidder is. Well, Cramer, you will be pleased to hear that you’ve generated a lot of high bids. People have certainly taken a disliking to you. The winner is—’
Just at that moment, the Host and everyone else’s attention was drawn to a huge clatter off-set, which echoed around the large expanse of the warehouse. Without speaking, he motioned with his hand and two of the goons ran off to investigate.
‘Sorry about this, people,’ said the Host, directly into the camera. ‘We’ll be back with you shortly.’
The goons hunted around the racking with flashlights, searching for anything that could have made the noise. One then spotted three large bars of metal stood on their end and another that was lying on the floor, just rolling to a stop. They nodded at each other and walked back to tell the Host.
‘Panic over, everyone,’ said the Host. ‘Just a slight environmental mishap. So, let’s go back to the scoreboard …’
As the Host spoke, no-one in the room heard Joe’s chair tip over, or him, muffled both by the curtain and his hood, as he shouted,
‘Someone just knocked me over. There’s someone else in here!’