going to tell me what I want to know.”
“ Fuck you.”
She held up the knife again, letting it gleam in the light. It was bloody now from the warm chicken breast. Then she slid it down through the meat again, making a long slicing sound.
“Mm,” she said. “Whoops.”
“Whoops? The fuck do you mean, whoops?”
A heavy plopping sound filled the air as she slapped a thick piece of meat on his torso. “I think I hit the bone. You’re starting to bleed very badly, Mr. Damage. You’re going to need assistance soon. I hope you don’t get too drowsy.”
As if on command, Damage’s eyes blinked rapidly—like he was trying to fight off drowsiness himself.
“The...the hell...”
“I want to know about the stashes, Mr. Damage.”
“Stop fucking calling me Mr. Damage!” he shouted. “My name is Damage!”
“Your name,” she said, “is whatever I require it to be, Mr. Damage. Stop swearing.”
He turned his eyes to one side. “Whatever. I can’t even feel what you’re doing, so—”
“Then you want to wake up tomorrow with no flesh left on your legs? That’s only the short version of what I’m prepared to do to you, Mr. Damage.”
He gulped. “What do you mean?”
“I suppose you’re one of those fellows who doesn’t believe his hand will burn until he touches the stove himself, hmm?”
She took her pliers out. She made a big production of it. Holding them up to the light, turning them this way and that. Letting them clack. Then she stuck them between his legs. She tugged and pushed, putting her hand on his belly to show how she was exerting herself.
“N-no,” said Damage. “No, no no no no. Okay? I’ll cooperate. I’ll do what you want. I j-just, hold on, hold on, wait. W-wait—!”
Then there were two distinct soft, wet plunks as his “testicles” hit the bottom of a metal bucket beneath the ironing board. They were walnuts, landed in mass of mashed grapes. She held the bucket up and rattled it around.
Damage began to scream. Beretta came forward and held his mouth closed with the rag, keeping him quiet. When Damage finally stopped screaming, Beretta let go.
“They can still be re-attached, Mr. Damage. But we’ll have to work very fast.”
“You bitch!” he shouted. “You fucking b-bitch! I’ll fucking kill you, Nurse! I swear to god! I’ll tear your head off! I’ll—!”
Helen raised an eyebrow and pulled a walnut out from the bucket. Damage only caught a glimpse of it—a shiny, gooey, round object. She placed it on the table behind her and, raising the hammer high so Damage could see her work, smashed it to bits. The grape mass collected around it made the sound especially wet.
Beretta had to gag Damage again. He was screaming, hyperventilating almost, his eyes wide.
“You,” said Helen, “are going to stop fucking swearing, Mr. Damage.”
“Y-you’re fucking swearing, aren’t you?”
She raised the hammer again. “Swearing is for people who aren’t tied up. Am I tied up, Mr. Damage?”
“Ah, Jesus! Okay. Okay. Whatever you want to know.” He was crying now. “Whatever you want to know. J-just leave my last one to me. Just leave it alone.”
“Tell us about the stashes,” she said. “Where are they hidden?”
“Oh god,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew someone was gonna fucking put the screws to me on this. I knew they were. I never even wanted to know about it. Goddammit. I can't tell you. Rattler...he'll kill me.”
There was real fear in his eyes—fear that was all-encompassing. But it was in a wrestling match with his fear of Helen and what she would do.
“Mr. Damage, do you think that I'm bluffing?”
“No. N-no, Jesus, it's just...he'll rip me to shreds.”
“And so will I,” said Helen, raising the hammer again. “Tell me about the stashes.”
His eyes went to one side and he let out an exasperated breath. “Shit, I mean, you already know most of it, don’t you?”
“Know most of what?” asked Helen.
“The
“ Fuck you.”
She held up the knife again, letting it gleam in the light. It was bloody now from the warm chicken breast. Then she slid it down through the meat again, making a long slicing sound.
“Mm,” she said. “Whoops.”
“Whoops? The fuck do you mean, whoops?”
A heavy plopping sound filled the air as she slapped a thick piece of meat on his torso. “I think I hit the bone. You’re starting to bleed very badly, Mr. Damage. You’re going to need assistance soon. I hope you don’t get too drowsy.”
As if on command, Damage’s eyes blinked rapidly—like he was trying to fight off drowsiness himself.
“The...the hell...”
“I want to know about the stashes, Mr. Damage.”
“Stop fucking calling me Mr. Damage!” he shouted. “My name is Damage!”
“Your name,” she said, “is whatever I require it to be, Mr. Damage. Stop swearing.”
He turned his eyes to one side. “Whatever. I can’t even feel what you’re doing, so—”
“Then you want to wake up tomorrow with no flesh left on your legs? That’s only the short version of what I’m prepared to do to you, Mr. Damage.”
He gulped. “What do you mean?”
“I suppose you’re one of those fellows who doesn’t believe his hand will burn until he touches the stove himself, hmm?”
She took her pliers out. She made a big production of it. Holding them up to the light, turning them this way and that. Letting them clack. Then she stuck them between his legs. She tugged and pushed, putting her hand on his belly to show how she was exerting herself.
“N-no,” said Damage. “No, no no no no. Okay? I’ll cooperate. I’ll do what you want. I j-just, hold on, hold on, wait. W-wait—!”
Then there were two distinct soft, wet plunks as his “testicles” hit the bottom of a metal bucket beneath the ironing board. They were walnuts, landed in mass of mashed grapes. She held the bucket up and rattled it around.
Damage began to scream. Beretta came forward and held his mouth closed with the rag, keeping him quiet. When Damage finally stopped screaming, Beretta let go.
“They can still be re-attached, Mr. Damage. But we’ll have to work very fast.”
“You bitch!” he shouted. “You fucking b-bitch! I’ll fucking kill you, Nurse! I swear to god! I’ll tear your head off! I’ll—!”
Helen raised an eyebrow and pulled a walnut out from the bucket. Damage only caught a glimpse of it—a shiny, gooey, round object. She placed it on the table behind her and, raising the hammer high so Damage could see her work, smashed it to bits. The grape mass collected around it made the sound especially wet.
Beretta had to gag Damage again. He was screaming, hyperventilating almost, his eyes wide.
“You,” said Helen, “are going to stop fucking swearing, Mr. Damage.”
“Y-you’re fucking swearing, aren’t you?”
She raised the hammer again. “Swearing is for people who aren’t tied up. Am I tied up, Mr. Damage?”
“Ah, Jesus! Okay. Okay. Whatever you want to know.” He was crying now. “Whatever you want to know. J-just leave my last one to me. Just leave it alone.”
“Tell us about the stashes,” she said. “Where are they hidden?”
“Oh god,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew someone was gonna fucking put the screws to me on this. I knew they were. I never even wanted to know about it. Goddammit. I can't tell you. Rattler...he'll kill me.”
There was real fear in his eyes—fear that was all-encompassing. But it was in a wrestling match with his fear of Helen and what she would do.
“Mr. Damage, do you think that I'm bluffing?”
“No. N-no, Jesus, it's just...he'll rip me to shreds.”
“And so will I,” said Helen, raising the hammer again. “Tell me about the stashes.”
His eyes went to one side and he let out an exasperated breath. “Shit, I mean, you already know most of it, don’t you?”
“Know most of what?” asked Helen.
“The
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