Mr. Snuff

by Jon Athan

  Scott shoved the last door open, then he beckoned to Russell. He said, “Come on. Let's get this over with, Russ.”

  Russell nodded at Scott, then he strolled into the room. He stopped towards the center of the room, then he nonchalantly glanced around. He was unperturbed by his surroundings – he had seen it all before. The room had dingy gray brick walls and filthy concrete flooring. On the parallel walls to his left and right, there were two small rectangular windows. The sunrise sunshine barely pierced through the filmy glass barriers.

  Russell recognized the elderly man sitting behind the desk directly ahead – Joseph 'Joe' Jones. The man had thinning white hair atop his dome and a great white beard down to his slow beating heart. His devious eyes were covered by his sleek sunglasses. The glasses, however, could not veil his gnarled wrinkles. He wore a black t-shirt underneath a black leather vest, black pants, and black boots. He was surrounded by two men in black suits – gangsters like Scott.

  As Scott walked past Russell and leaned on the desk, Joe extended his arms and said, “Russell, it's been a long time, my friend. I'd say it's been far too long. I hear you need my assistance.”

  Russell shook his head and said, “I don't need your assistance, Joe. I need your resources. I need a gun.”

  “A gun. Of course, I know. Scotty has told me everything. You need firepower for your little... suicide mission, right? I think that's a fitting description. Well, as long as you've got the funds, we've got plenty of firepower for you. Hell, as a preferred customer, I'll even give you a discount. What do you need?”

  Russell stared at Joe and slowly shook his head. He was irked by the man's blasé demeanor. He glanced at Scott and smirked. He noticed Scott did not bother to correct Joe – he was indifferent. Scotty, he thought, that damn Scotty.

  Russell said, “I need a handgun. Something compact and fast. I need a large magazine, too. At least 15 bullets with one more in the chamber... You got a Glock for sale?”

  Joe chuckled and shook his head. He said, “Listen, Russell, you're going to need more than a measly handgun. If you're going after Wu, you're going to need firepower. You need a magnum, a shotgun, a fully-automatic rifle. A handgun? You might as well be attacking a fortress with a butter knife.” He chuckled and shook his head, astonished by Russell's negligence. Joe glanced at his associate to his right and said, “George, grab a shotgun from the back.”

  The gangster turned around, then he unlocked an iron door behind Joe. The shrill squeal of the hinges echoed through the room. George flicked a switch, then he strolled into the room. From afar, Russell could see an armory of weapons waiting beyond the doorway. Ruinous firearms covered the walls and filled the drawers inside the storage room. He had never been inside the room, but he remembered handling similar rifles and submachine guns.

  Russell said, “I don't need firepower, Joe. I don't need a shotgun. To be honest with you, old man, I barely intend on using the gun. The bullets are reserved for that fool's crew. Mr. Wu is going to meet my hammer. Just give me a handgun with a fully-loaded a clip. Just one. That's all I need.”

  Scott said, “Don't be an idiot, Russ. I can buy you anything in here. I can suit you up with a shotgun and a bulletproof vest. Hell, I can suit myself up and head in there with you. If you...”

  Russell interrupted, “No. You've done enough, Scott. I can cover the handgun and I cover myself.” He pulled out a tiny wad of cash from his pocket. He tossed the money on the table and said, “That's more than enough for a handgun. Just make sure it works.”

  Joe sighed and shook his head – stubborn man. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “George, get him a Glock, a G30S, and load it up. Don't give him a throwaway, either. A good one.” He turned his attention to Russell and smirked. He said, “You'll have ten bullets, unless you want to spring for some extra magazines. I wish you'd take my advice, old man. This motherfucker, he's... he's dangerous. You should know, Russell, we didn't leave that warehouse voluntarily. We retreated. Wu was abducting and killing every man's kids. We couldn't catch up to him. He's a sneaky motherfucker. So, we gave him what we figured he wanted. Next thing you know, we found peace. We moved our headquarters, but we found peace. You'll need firepower if you want his head.”

  Russell stared at Joe, piercing through the man's shades and gazing through the windows to his soul. The ominous warning was sincere. Joe, a habitual criminal since birth, feared the power of Mr. Wu. He did not show fear like a normal man, but Russell could identify it. It was the same dread lingering in his soul. Common sense told him to heed the warning and run; vengeance told him to proceed without caution.

  As he received the firearm from George, Russell said, “I appreciate the support, Joe. I appreciate the warning and all that. I really do. Honestly, I understand the savagery of this man... I've seen if first-hand as you probably already know. It doesn't matter to me, though. I'm going in there and I'm going to kill the man. I'm going to take as many of them with me, too.”

  With a furrowed brow, Scott interrupted, “With you? What the hell are you talking about, Russ? Huh? You're talking like a dead man. Listen to yourself before you walk out that door. Think about this.”

  “I've thought about it for days. Since the moment my girl disappeared, I thought about this. I didn't know Mr. Wu, but I had the feeling. I knew something was wrong and I knew I'd have to get my hands dirty again. It's set in stone already, Scott. There's no going back. I don't have to think about it anymore. I'm done thinking.”

  Joe chuckled, then he said, “You're a tough son of a bitch, Russell. And, to be frank, I hope you get him. If it'll ease your mind and avenge your daughter, I hope you crush that man's skull with your hammer or whatever the hell you're planning on using. It'll help ease the mind of a lot of former gangsters with dead sons and daughters. And, I was never a fan of that man's business. I'm rooting for you, champ.”

  Russell checked the chamber of the firearm – the gun was loaded and ready to draw blood. He nodded at Joe, then he turned his attention to Scott. Scott was unusually dispirited and despondent. He was a man with a big mouth and few emotions. The anger and the snark were notably absent. The gangster-turned-investor was hollow.

  Russell said, “Thank you for your help. You were one of the few people I could truly call a 'friend.' You were one of the loyal ones. You're a good man, Scott. Don't you ever forget that.”

  Scott bit his bottom lip and nodded. He swallowed the lump in his throat, then he said, “You know, just call me 'Scotty.' Call me 'Scotty,' Russ. And, I appreciate it. It means a lot coming from a man like you.” He sniffled and erratically blinked, trying to contain his emotions. He asked, “So, is this, uh... Is this 'goodbye?' You're going to walk off and finish what they started?”

  Russell patted Scott's shoulder and said, “Yeah. This is goodbye, friend. I'll see you in another life. Thank you for everything, Scotty.”

  Russell sighed as he shoved the handgun in the back of his waistband. He patted Scott's shoulder again, relishing in a sense of humanity before delving into a world of cruelty. He sauntered away from the desk, exiting the small room. Scott and Joe simultaneously shook their heads as they watched an old friend depart for madness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Carnage Industry

  The sky was stark, gray and dreary. The sunshine barely pierced through the dense clouds, slits of the balmy light caressed the outskirts of town. The dry grass and patches of dirt were wet with dew. The outskirts of town reeked of revolting manure – excrement used to mask the scent of decaying corpses and burning flesh. Yet, the stench of death lingered and the vile miasma was undeniable. A man with his nose up his ass would surely smell shit and putrefaction.

  Russell walked through the field of yellow grass and moist mud. His black steel-toe boots were begrimed from the simple trek. His fitted black jeans fared no better. His black leather gloves, however, were pristine. He shimmied in his layered clothing – a black hooded sweatshirt beneath a black leather jacket. If he pl
anned to kill, he wanted maximum comfort.

  Russell stopped and stared up at the tumbledown building ahead. Through his criminal experience, he was fairly familiar with the grounds. He remembered the building like the back of his hand. He had already come to terms with the torture and murder of his past. The building was surrounded by towering trees and stood adjacent to a route leading in-and-out of town.

  Cars drove by, blissfully unaware of the madness harbored within the condemned warehouse. The building was comprised of red bricks. The walls were marked with illegible graffiti – gang markings from a past before Wu's sinister reign. A vast majority of the window panes were shattered. The chain-link fence surrounding the building was cut and slumped over.

  Russell whispered, “Mr. Wu, Mr. Wu... Where are you?”

  He inhaled deeply, then he trudged forward. He slipped through the dilapidated fence with the utmost ease. He pulled his sleek black handgun from the back of his waistband as he walked towards the maintenance door – the rear entrance of the warehouse. He twisted the doorknob, then he scowled. The door was locked.

  The frustrated father glanced to his left, then towards his right. The coast was clear. With all of his might, he kicked at the sturdy metal door. When one kick wasn't enough, he kicked again. He could hear the door frame groan and the steel clank with each mighty punt. The ruckus did not bother him, stealth was never his specialty. After one deep inhale and one final kick, the door swung open.

  Standing at the doorway, Russell gazed into the room with a furrowed brow. He whispered, “What the hell is this?”

  The small rectangular chamber was barely illuminated – a flickering bulb for every three meters. To his right, there was a set of rusty green lockers. Garments protruded from the cracks on the storage units – shirts, slacks, ties, and the like. Some of the lockers were secured with padlocks, others were left open. Some people did not care to hide their wicked deeds. At the end of the small room, there was another steel door with a red emergency light above the frame.

  As he sauntered through the room, Russell murmured in a dubious tone, “A dressing room?”

  Russell shook off the jitters as he approached the other door. He stepped back and prepared to kick, then he stopped. He was strangely drawn to the doorknob. His eyes widened as he twisted the knob. The door was surprisingly unlocked. The hinges grated as the door slowly swung open.

  Staring through the doorway, Russell whispered, “What the hell is all of this? What have you done, Wu?”

  The door opened up to a long and wide hallway. There were steel doors on each side. Each sturdy door was separated by eight meters of concrete wall. Angry shouts and sorrowful weeping echoed down the hall. Hoarse grunts and ghoulish groans seeped through the sealed doors, wafting through the hallway – moans of pleasure and groans of pain, or was it all the same?

  The interior of the warehouse was heavily modified, reconstructed to harbor several torture sessions at once. From the blood stained on the concrete floor and the muck clinging to the new walls, the warehouse was unrecognizable to Russell. His arms trembled as he stared down the hallway. He was struck with apprehension, but he refused to quit. His entire body shuddered as his depression blended with his rage. The painful cries echoed the death of his daughter.

  Scowling with sharp eyes, Russell gritted his teeth and said, “I'll kill every single one of you...”

  ***

  Russell's boots clacked as he walked down the hall, perambulating through the madness. His mind told him to depart, but his heart told him to push forward; logic called for the police, vengeance called for blood. He could not bottle his emotions any further – the flask was full. He needed to quench his thirst before he dehydrated.

  Tightly gripping the pistol in his right hand, Russell stopped at the first door to his right. There was a small bullet-resistant viewing window installed on the sturdy door. Through the filthy glass, Russell could see the interior of the chamber. The tiny room was simple – a bloodied concrete floor with matching walls.

  A short man, a foot shorter than Russell, stood towards the center of the room, gazing at the viewfinder of his handy flash memory camcorder. The man was dressed in a long black cloak down to his ankles and he donned a black bag over his head. Russell grimaced in disgust as he glanced towards the cameraman's subject.

  There was a nude man at the far left corner of the room from the entrance. Only the man's dome was veiled by a black mask. He thrust his hips forward and moaned loudly as he sexually assaulted a woman on the floor. The petite brunette woman was pale, bloodied, and motionless – a corpse. The dead did not rest after the torment of life – they were raped and defiled.

  Revolted by his discovery, Russell clenched his jaw and muttered, “No... No... You bastards... You sick bastards.”

  Russell gripped the doorknob, then he slowly turned his wrist. Once again, the door was surprisingly unlocked. He glowered as he brutishly opened the door and barged into the room. The cameraman turned towards Russell with wide eyes. The bag rustled as the man struggled to speak. In the corner, the savage rapist continued to thrust and grunt, blissfully unaware of the intrusion.

  The cameraman stuttered, “Wh–Who the hell are you? What...”

  Russell did not respond. He scowled as he walked up to the man with unwavering strides. Without a second of hesitation, he planted the muzzle of the pistol between the man's flickering eyes, then he pulled the trigger. The earsplitting gunshot reverberated through the small room as the cameraman plummeted to the ground.

  Blood splattered on the wall and ground behind the cameraman. Bits of flesh and brain lingered. The camera clicked and clanked on the concrete as it bounced towards the farthest wall. The nude man staggered to his feet as he held his hands to his ears. The thunderous ruckus disrupted his flow – he couldn't rape someone with gunfire going off nearby.

  As he turned towards Russell, the man muttered, “Fuck... Damn it... What the...” He stopped as he stared at the intruder, shocked by the father's presence. The man asked, “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

  Russell aimed the handgun at the nude man and sternly demanded, “Get on your goddamn knees.”

  The man trembled as he staggered to his knees with his hands up. Russell tightly gripped the black bag covering his dome, then he yanked the makeshift garment from his head. The barbaric man had short beach blonde hair, deviant blue eyes, and a clean-shaved face. Judging from the crows' feet around his weary eyes, the man was around his mid-40s.

  Russell held the handgun one foot from the man's dome and asked, “What's your name?”

  The nude man stuttered, “My–My name? Why–Why do you want to know my name?”

  “What's your damn name? Don't make me ask you again.”

  “My–My name is Ron... Please, don't kill me. I'm sorry. I'll do anything you say. I'll go home. I'll... I'll never come back here again. I swear, you'll never see me again. Please, don't do this...”

  Russell huffed as he planted the muzzle on Ron's brow and knelt down. He glanced at the corpse in the corner, then he asked, “Was she a good lay? Do you like them dead and cold?” Teary-eyed, Ron glanced at the body and shrugged. Russell continued, “Why should I let a man like you live and leave? Hmm? You're a piece of trash. No, you're worse than the shit at the bottom of my boot. Why should I let you live?”

  As tears streamed down his blushed cheeks, Ron said, “I... I have a family. I have a wife waiting for me at home. She relies on me for everything. This was... This was just a foolish mistake. A moment of weakness. Please, let me go.”

  Russell furrowed his brow as he gazed into Ron's indecipherable eyes and pondered the explanation. He was baffled by the man's words. A foolish mistake. Ron considered the murder of a young woman and the raping of a corpse 'a foolish mistake.' Russell couldn't help but feel infuriated as he thought about his daughter – was Carrie's death a foolish mistake?

  Russell repeated, “A foolish mistake?” He bit his bottom lip and nodde
d. Russell said, “This foolish mistake is beyond 'foolish,' Ron. It's not a mistake, either. You just don't understand because you are a very sick and demented man. Trust me, you wouldn't feel any remorse for a piece of shit like yourself if you were in my shoes. Think of it this way, Ron. Do you have children of your own? Do you have a daughter?”

  Ron nodded and said, “Yes, I have a teenage daughter...” His face twitched as he nervously smiled. As he glanced at the corpse in the corner, Ron smirked and said, “Well, I had a teenage daughter...”

  Russell raised his brow as he examined Ron's erratic twitch and uncanny grin. The man's demeanor shifted from remorseful and saddened to wicked and unpredictable. The implication was vile. With his sly response, Ron added incest on top of torture, murder, and necrophilia. He was unperturbed by the entire situation, treating the confrontation like a game.

  Despondent, Russell said, “Never mind. A guilt trip won't work on you... You're not like that young man...”

  Ron chuckled as he slowly lowered his arms. He said, “You're right. You're absolutely correct. I don't feel guilt. I don't feel like the rest of you. I need a rush, like a junkie, you understand?”

  In a dubious tone, Russell repeated, “A rush?”

  “Yeah, a rush. I need more than the average man. I guess it's because I'm more than the 'average' man could ever wish to be. I'm... I'm a god around these parts. Just as I sacrificed my daughter, my people do the same. They've done the same for years. They want me to enjoy the fruit before it's perished. I... I swim in virgin blood and I...”

  Ron's shameless vaunting became nothing but muffled nonsense. Russell didn't want to hear the babbling of a lunatic. He staggered to his feet and sniffled as he contemplated his next move – nefarious actions called for nefarious consequences. Ron took pleasure in raping young women, dead or alive. His 'tool' needed to be permanently confiscated.