home

The black cab driver in front of me was old and I say that in the most vile manner. Maybe I hate the thought of growing old, maybe I'm reminded of my deadbeat dad. Either way, I resist the urge to reach forward and snap the geezer's neck. It scared me that the only thing that was really stopping me at that moment was that the car would careen off the winding hill it was climbing.

We stop in front of a beautiful saltbox with a great view.

"Nice place."

I resist the urge.

"Yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that, you dumb fucking nigger." I reply curtly, teeth gritted and unsmiling. He's silent as I toss some change into the backseat and exit the vehicle.

He drives off a little more than depressed. As I walk up the steps to my abode, the howling wind barely masks the muffled screaming seeping through the cracks in the door. I contemplate the cost of resoundproofing the walls, before I enter and shut the door quickly behind me.

A young man is sitting on a chair in my living room, naked unless you consider the blood caking his genitalia and lower thighs, clothing. He has a cropped haircut with dark mousse kneaded into his scalp, albeit a few days old, now a sticky mess. Dark red rashes and bleeding abrasions line his ankles, indicating the painful struggle he had against the restraints tying him to the wooden antique chair legs. His arms are tied up behind him, his toned muscles are no match for the strength of fibred layered wire that has cut deep into his wrists, almost hitting a small bundle of nerves that could send him into shock. As I move towards him, the smell hits me first, a mixture of coagulated blood and shit. When he sees me, he stiffens. To have that effect on the people, it's intoxicating. 

"You spat out the gag," I murmur, leaning in real close. "Do you want me to put in a more permanent one?"

He whimpers like a sick dog, reclining back in fear. I retch at the thought of this now. A man reduced to a snivelling animal deserves no pity or respect, much less mercy.

I take off my jacket like it's been a long day and I'm faux-happy to see my sight for sore eyes wife. My "wife" doesn't feel the same way.

"Please just let me go please I dont want to die-" he's screaming, cursing in French after and hanging his head in defeat.

I saunter over to my record player and put on one of my favorites. ABBA. Voulez-Vous. It blares out startling the French diplomat. I grin and dance over to a table in my kitchen with several sharp tools and devices neatly laid out in rows, several are a dark nostalgic brown, an accumulation of the traces of blood that could never come off. I pick up a battery connected to a small pocket sized device that looks a bit like a portable radio. The device is connected with long heavy duty jumper cables to several clamps and sharp shivs, all in different shades of black.

As the song hypes up, I attach electrodes to his nipples, the clamps resting neatly in the pre existing wounds left after last night. I do a little dance as I grab the next two electrodes. He's begging me, pleading me, to stop. 

voulez vooooouuuus

I can't contain my excitement as I attach the next two to what's left of his testicles. He winces, a sick prologue to the full novel. Using a thin serrated scalpel, I cut a long thin incision on his abdomen, a wide dark smile below his navel. It bleeds but I was careful not to nick any arteries so the amount is manageable. He cries out as I dig my finger into the cut, probing for a rough yet extremely slippery organ which is very hard considering how hard he's shaking.

voulez vooooouuuus

I find the lobe of his liver and pull gently, loosening it before attaching two electrodes to it. He looks at me, pleadingly.

"You're going too far. This isn't even halfway believable, just stick to the script," he whispers, losing the accent completely.

I turn towards the director. He subtly nods once giving me the go ahead. The actor screams in anguish at the silent exchange. 

you know what i meaaannnn voulez vooooouuuus

Look at this fantastic device. I made it myself. The close up of the camera reveals a bit of gristle on the face and I lightly wipe it off with my thumb. There are several knobs and an LCD screen, indicating the large amount of volts that I am about to send through the man. The biggest knob has very little resistance besides the notches every twenty volts, I set it to a cool 200 volts. The slightly smaller knob on the right has a lot more resistance as it controls the amperes of current. When in the business of torture, it is very important that you understand how electicity works. Voltage is irrelevant when you plan on inflicting damage via electricity. Current, on the other hand, is what you should pay attention to. I bring it to 200 milliamperes, strong enough to make him squeal without killing him. I turn to the actor playing the French diplomat and wait for the song to crescendo before I throw the red switch on the far left. 

voooooooouuuuuz

He convulses and screams, breaking character several times, shouting his mother's name and cursing the director. You can visibly see the flesh around the points of contact blacken and curl, as if those specific parts of his body had explicitly died and would never return henceforth. The electrodes attached to his innards are ejected out of his body, pulling with it a large chunk of his liver, which flops around on the ground in front of him, charred and burning. His muscles lock up as they seize, hands and legs thrashing against the restraints.

As the music fades, I turn down the knob. The smell of smoking flesh fills the room. It smells uncanny, like an extended family barbecue where your drunk uncle has thrown up and needs help finding the toilet. His body falls limp against the chair, head hanging lifelessly from his torso and his intestines have swelled and pushed against the cut in his abdomen, opening the wound up and exposing his entrails.

The camera crew moves a little closer to get a close up of his grotesque wounds but he springs to life, screaming for his agent and spitting at the camera. As he starts to calm down, he twitches, spitting expletives and also actual spit drips from his mouth tinted red. The shot is ruined by that stunt he just pulled. I press my fingers into the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes hard.

"Play nice, Jean. Nobody wants to do a reshoot," I'm exasperated but the director shakes his head. 

I sigh. 

As I remove the electrodes from his body, a PA takes the record off the player and the camera crew repositions themselves.

"No no no," the actor shakes his head, crying. "This can't be happening, I'm in another fucking shoot next week, for that Will Smith thing I can't fucking do this." 

"Can somebody please put Jean's liver back in?" 

A PA wearing light blue gloves picks up the organ on the floor and moves over to Jean. He's still rambling about how he should have taken the Spielberg gig. The PA thrusts his hand into the wound.

I put on my jacket and walk out as he screams for help. The taxi is back on the street, the driver smoking but he puts it out when he sees me. 

"Joe."

"Michael."

I get into the car and there is an unnerving calm before I hear the words, "Action!"