He rolled Brittany’s body over to maneuver her headfirst into the chute and noted the erect nipples. No surprise there; people who died of spinal trauma—including hanging, decapitation, or a gunshot wound like this one—usually exhibited the physical signs of a final orgasm at the moment of death. Too bad she didn’t have time to enjoy it.
With some effort, he wrestled her oversized ass into the opening and sent her down the chute. After a delay of several seconds—the River Styx wall panel was the only second-floor access point for the disposal system—he heard a heavy splash as Brittany’s corpse arrived in the refrigerated brine tank in the basement. He shut off the water and closed the access panel.
“So…how did your afternoon go?”
While Mark had been busy with Brittany, Lisa had had a prospect interview that had resulted in a successful contract signing. Now it was almost closing time, and they were meeting in Lisa’s office.
“Unlike you,” she replied, “I didn’t get laid. As the report showed, Mr. Bartoli is into bondage. All I had to do was stand up, flash my boobs at him, and order him to get down on his knees. Stuck the contract in front of him and told him to imprint it. All he said was ‘Yes, Mistress…’ and it was done.”
“Hah! That easy? Must have been a short interview.”
“Well, he did negotiate—or maybe ‘beg’ is the better term, as in ‘please, Mistress’—for some pre-termination services. I’m going to have to get out my leather outfit and dust off the whips and chains. He’ll expect to be dominated and humiliated for at least an hour before I put him out of his misery—and he’s paying us good money for that. I had to play the role to prove I knew how to give him what he wanted.”
“So he’ll be back in three days?”
“He’ll be back if he stays away from his regular dominatrix. Supposedly she’s the reason he wants to check out in the first place, but I’m absolutely sure if she gets wind of it, she’ll order him not to come—he’s her golden goose.”
“Remember, we’re talking about a guy who thinks his only escape is death. As long as he’s alive, he’s her slave and must obey her every command. So if she orders him not to die…” She shrugged.
“If she orders him not to die, he doesn’t show up. He’s in breach of contract, we keep the money…and you can put the whips and chains back in the closet.” It was Mark’s turn to shrug. “Works for me.”
“Me, too.” She grinned at him. “Though I’ll be a little disappointed—I’m kind of looking forward to playing Mistress of the Dungeon. So…how was Miss Piggy?”
“Very nice, actually,” he admitted. “I had fun with her. She was 350 pounds of warm, cuddly comfort—in the hot tub, in bed, and on the massage table. Almost hated to whack her, but I think she at least enjoyed her last couple of hours. Anyway, she’s in the tank—figure she can chill for a couple of days before we need to process her.”
“Yeah…no hurry,” she agreed. “We don’t have another tank candidate until Bartoli gets back—if he does.”
“Meanwhile…” she gave him a seductive look, “you and I need to talk about this ‘warm, cuddly comfort’ thing. I mean, you never know—maybe there’s something I can learn from the late Miss Piggy.”
Two days later—on the eve of Bartoli’s expected termination—they decided to process Brittany. They needed a net and the overhead electric hoist to get her heavy corpse out of the tank and onto a gurney, but after that, they had no problem rolling her into the Meat Locker.
“Hmmm…interesting shape,” Lisa mused, “kind of a nice, sweet face, especially with that innocent, surprised expression. I guess I’ll just start right in…” Lisa selected a suitable knife from the rack and stepped up to the table, where she proceeded to open Brittany’s belly from groin to rib cage. Soon she was up to her elbows in search of organs to harvest. She passed her finds to Mark, who bagged each one in turn, and marked the containers with Brittany’s demographics—white female, age 34, and so forth; nothing specific, of course—Charon’s Ferry never revealed the identity or personal information of its clients.
“You know,” Lisa said, “she’s really quite healthy—was healthy, I mean—considering her obesity. Look at the size of this heart, and no sign of arterial clogging or anything.”
“Yeah…she had a big heart,” Mark agreed. “Her problem was that it got broken too many times. Poor kid just couldn’t find any love in the world.”
“That’s what brings most of them here.” Lisa shook her head. “If everybody loved everybody, we’d be out of business—and so would LifeEnders, for that matter. Here’s the liver…think that’s the last of the goodies…”
As Lisa had predicted, Arthur Bartoli didn’t show up for his appointment the next day. Instead, she’d gotten an email from his mistress advising that he was not coming and that a refund of his fees should be posted to the woman’s account. Further, the email advised, Lisa was to have no further contact with ‘the Slave’—as she called Bartoli—else ‘the Mistress’ would ‘deal with her in a painful manner.’
Mark had gotten a big chuckle out of that one, and an even bigger chuckle out of Lisa’s reply.
Mistress Willow:
Unfortunately, the fees paid by the Slave in question are non-refundable. However, we can offer you an opportunity to substitute your name for his on the contract so you can personally avail yourself of the services in question without additional charge. This offer will expire if not accepted within three days.
While most of our clients prefer their experience here to be painless, it is my understanding that you might want to choose otherwise. We will be happy to accommodate you if that is the case. I’m sure you will be amazed at the levels of pain that can be achieved when one does not have to concern oneself with the continued health and well-being of the subject.
If you wish to schedule an appointment for termination, please let me know. You are, however, advised to get your affairs in order before visiting our offices.
Sincerely,
Lisa Woods, Executive Director
Charon’s Ferry, LLC
The three days passed without a reply—which surprised neither Mark nor Lisa. Lisa made a print of the original email and her reply in large, bold font to frame and hang on the wall of her office. At the top of the piece, she added the title: Caveat Emptor.
Chapter Three
Public Service
Sometimes I feel like I’m working in an animal shelter, Eunice Mercer thought. Too many puppies and kittens, not enough homes for them.
Eunice Mercer didn’t work for an animal shelter—she worked for the California Suicide Prevention Center, a state-chartered non-profit organization that tried in vain to stem an epidemic of suicide, especially among young people who should have had a full lifetime ahead of them.
All the same, her “animal shelter” analogy was appropriate. The Center was overwhelmed by a flood of people who needed its services—counseling, opportunities for self-improvement, addiction rehabilitation, and sometimes just shelter from the dangers of life in the neighborhoods it served. Like the animal shelters, CSPC couldn’t help all those who needed it.
Mercer hated dealing with Charon’s Ferry. They were in business to do the very thing she was trying to prevent, but with a backlog of cases, and no resources with which to help them, she had no choice. Like the operators of those animal shelters, she’d reached the point where euthanasia was the only remaining option for some of her clients.
Some, like the case she had in front of her now, were especially painful, but she consoled herself with the thought that the Ferry would give the girl a quick, painless death. At least, she hoped they would, but nobody really knew what went on inside the Ferry’s doors.
She looked at the file one more time, then punched an icon on her pad that provided a secure line to Charon’s Ferry.
Mark had no one in his office when the call came in. He touched the flashing icon and found—as expected—Eunice Mercer’s unsmiling face on his screen. Me
rcer never smiled when she called him.
Mark had to give the woman her due. She was honestly trying her best to un-fuck a fucked-up world, and while he thought she was mostly shoveling shit against the tide, she probably did save a life or two along the way. Out of respect for that, he always tried to match her somber mood and deal with her in his most professional manner.
“Good morning, Eunice. How can I help you today?”
“Good morning, Mark. I’m afraid I need to send someone to you again—a teenage girl. I’ll be using a grant voucher. Do you have a spot on your schedule for her?”
Another Ferry Grant…Mark touched an icon to bring up the master schedule. “Let me see what I have.”
Charon’s Ferry—in the spirit of public service—offered a low-cost “termination” at just $2,000 per person for anyone referred by CSPC. It would still be too high for most of the people Mercer worked with, but the Center had received a grant from an anonymous donor that was earmarked to cover Ferry termination fees for up to a thousand CSPC clients over a ten-year period. By coincidence, that fit with the Ferry’s own limits—they wouldn’t take more than ten of the low-rate clients per month, with a max of 100 in a calendar year.
To her distress, Mercer had been tapped by the Center to administer the grant. In other words, I have to decide which ones we can’t save—tell them we’ve got nothing more for them and send them off to die.
“I’m sending the file to you now,” Mercer told him, and a ping from Mark’s system announced that she had done so. “I’m also sending a Wait Waiver. I don’t want to rush you, but…the girl is really suffering.”
“No, that’s OK,” he assured her. The Wait Waiver was something only the Center could issue—a waiver of the required three-day waiting period between the signing of a Charon’s Ferry contract and the actual termination of the client. The law allowed CSPC to waive the requirement, since it was presumed they had already tried their best to convince the subject not to do it, and three more days wouldn’t make any difference.
But that meant Mark needed to schedule an execution, not a client interview. Fortunately, CSPC executions required little planning, since the client got no pre-termination services, and had no choice as to means and method.
“We can take her tomorrow—your choice, morning or afternoon.”
“In the morning, if you don’t mind. But…there’s something I need to ask from you. The girl’s mother wants to come along with her to…”
“No.”
“She doesn’t want to actually be there at the end. She just wants to meet you before…”
“No. We don’t allow anyone other than the client to even enter the building. Corporate policy, cast in stone…No.”
“Mark…I know this is just business to you, but for me, it’s personal. Please hear me out.”
He started to say no again, but the pleading tone in her voice stopped him. He sat back in his chair and looked at her, trying to assume an expression of impartial neutrality.
“I’m listening.”
“Her mother will not try to talk her out of it,” Eunice insisted. She spoke rapidly, afraid he might cut her off if she didn’t make her point quickly. “She knows the kid is too far gone—already tried to kill herself three times. She very nearly succeeded two of those times. EMS barely managed to keep her alive long enough to get her to the hospital.
“The mother knows if you don’t do it, she’ll try again and maybe suffer horribly, maybe end up alive, but maimed or crippled for life. She’s lucky the girl isn’t in prison now, locked up in a padded cell forever. She probably would be if the judge hadn’t decided to give us a chance.
“I’ve been trying to get through to her for six months, and nothing’s worked. She was going to do it again last week, but her mother begged her to wait. Next week, she’ll be in court again, and if I can’t tell the judge she’s OK—which I can’t—she’ll wind up in that cell.
“All her mother wants to do is talk to someone—you, I guess—and get some assurance that you’ll treat her with compassion, that she won’t suffer. I know…you aren’t getting paid for that, and I have nothing to offer you in the way of compensation, but…”
“All right. We’ll allow it,” he told her, and smiled at the sudden look of consternation on her face. She hadn’t expected to win this one.
“But…” he gave her a stern look, “…we will only allow her mother to be present at the pre-processing meeting, where we tell her what’s going to happen—the stuff the law says we have to tell her before we terminate her.”
“After that, we’ll let Mama say goodbye, and we’ll escort her out of the building. If she creates any sort of problem or disturbance, we’ll remove her from the premises immediately. That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you, Mark. I owe you one.” Eunice produced the hint of a smile, the first he’d ever seen from her.
“No…you don’t,” he told her. “Despite what you may think, it isn’t ‘just business’ for me. We do care about our clients, and we try our best to give them a ‘happy ending’—as strange as that may sound.
“Eunice, I respect you. You’re a good person trying to do good works in a world that doesn’t always appreciate it. We’ll be ready for them at 10:00 AM tomorrow morning. OK?”
“They’ll be there. I’ll drop them off myself.”
As Mercer signed off, a message popped up on Mark’s screen indicating a new contract signed and ready for review. Lisa’s closed the deal, he thought with a smile. Probably means a double-header on Friday.
The Ferry tried not to keep its clients waiting. Most were scheduled for termination exactly three days after signing. Mark had signed one up this morning, and Lisa had done the same for her afternoon prospect.
He opened the contract Lisa had just secured and whistled with surprise at the fee she’d collected. All Ferry contracts had to be paid at signing, so the money—$250,000 in this case—was already in the bank.
Even for a moderately wealthy client, that was a large fee for a simple termination. He scrolled down to the “Means and Method” section but found nothing unusual there. Like so many Ferry clients, this one—a woman named Elise Dickerson—had chosen hanging as her method of termination. One of humanity’s oldest forms of execution was actually one of the most humane, being both quick and relatively painless, if done properly. The Ferry always did such things properly.
Mark scrolled down to the “Pre-Termination Services” section and found what he expected to find: a promised hour of sexual gratification, including (but not limited to) certain specific acts to be performed between the client and “the designated Charon’s Ferry representative”—Lisa, of course—in a “suitably romantic environment” with snacks and drinks to be supplied by the Ferry. Well, we knew Dickerson was a lesbian. Just didn’t expect she’d be willing to spend this much money for one more wild party before she checks out.
Mark had no problem with it. Though they were lovers, he and Lisa considered sex with clients (and sometimes with prospects to entice them to become clients) to be part of the job. Neither of them felt the slightest bit of jealousy, since most of the people they had sex with would be dead soon after. Dickerson wouldn’t get her hour until she imprinted the final acceptance of the contract on Friday—too late to change her mind.
Lisa wasn’t a lesbian, but she was bisexual, so she had no problem with the contract provision. Mark, on the other hand, was a hard-core straight guy and wouldn’t have even offered the service to a gay male prospect—he would rather have lost the contract instead.
For that reason, Lisa handled most of the gay prospect interviews—male or female. She also took most of the younger straight males, for whom her stunning good looks were a persuasive sales tool. Mark took most of the straight female prospects for the same reason. He was—at least according to Lisa—a reasonably good-looking guy. He had yet to figure out how women judged such things, however.
Finding nothing else worthy of note in th
e contract, he punched an icon, and a moment later Lisa’s smiling face greeted him on the screen.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Looks like we’re going to be busy on Friday.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she replied. “She might bail on us yet. This woman changes her mind faster than I change my underwear.”
“Even better; we’ve got her money and don’t have to process her afterward.”
The Ferry’s contract clearly stated that failure to appear at the appointed time constituted a breach by the client, with no refund of fees paid. A few lawsuits had been brought over the issue, but the courts had ruled that the client’s only recourse was to demand “specific performance.”
In other words, you couldn’t get your money back, but under some circumstances, you could require the Ferry to go ahead and kill you as specified in the contract. Judges, mindful of their own life expectancy, tended to rule in favor of people who were licensed to kill. While the Ferry wasn’t in the regular murder-for-hire business, the special franchise acquired through their contract with LifeEnders allowed them to operate as they saw fit—within the law, of course.
“Anyway,” Mark continued, “just a heads-up. Eunice Mercer is sending us one with a Wait Waiver tomorrow morning. And there’s a twist…”
He proceeded to tell her about his agreement to let the girl’s mother attend the pre-termination meeting. Lisa shook her head.
“That’s going to be…awkward, at best,” she said. “I mean, what do you say? ‘We’ll take good care of your daughter—right up to the point where we kill her?’”
“Apparently, that’s exactly what she wants to hear. I need to read the file Mercer sent over.”
The Ferryman Page 2