Department of Student Loans, Kidnap & Ransom

Chapter 12

The Executioner, waiting impatiently over his morning coffee, checked the text message as soon as it arrived. It read: 'Your friend is with us. Come join us.' An address for a house in somewhere called Maple Ridge was sent in the next message. It was going to take a while to get to this far-flung suburb. He assumed that this was the location of choice in the Vancouver area for disposing of people. The inquiry he voiced into his phone ('Maple Ridge crime rate high?') was answered with a murder rate per capita map of the Greater Vancouver region. Maple Ridge, conveniently located with its back to an endless forest, was shaded in a dark burning red on the map.

Walking out of his hotel and onto the street, he asked the doorman "Quick question: Maple Ridge...How would you describe that area, briefly...and honestly?"

"Really scary white people," answered the Asian doorman.

"Great. Thanks."

It was going to be a fun day. The Executioner could sense it.

An hour later The Executioner was on the streets of Maple Ridge. While walking the last mile of his journey, as was his habit, he was slightly disappointed at the white people he saw in what passed for downtown Maple Ridge. The hotel doorman and the Vancouver murder map had him expecting something vaguely hellish in a menacing Anglo sort of way, like London or Darwin or Auckland. But if anything, it felt far more American, with only some minor alterations. The people here were rednecks; there was no doubt about that. But they were like a strange combination of redneck and Los Angeles Persian nightclub bouncers.

The young men strutted to and from their trucks, their steroided, hormone-enhanced muscles prominently displayed. Their sculpted and gelled hair was impeccably crafted and dyed. And their necks and arms were covered with elaborate tattoos. He could see a few older men with faded tribal and barbwire tattoos. But the younger ones were sporting some sort of over-stylized faux Russian prison tattoos that were fused with what appeared to be Salvadoran street gang ink. Obviously, these men were neither Russian nor from Central America. The scene had the look of a prison clown cosplay convention. The Executioner decided that the scene was actually quite entertaining in some bizarre way.

Arriving finally at his destination, the door of the house at the end of a long driveway was answered by a haggard old lady who reeked of cigarettes.

"You here to see my boys?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You gonna take that whiny little American bitch off our hands?"

"Yeah, within the hour if that's OK with your sons," said The Executioner, smiling.

"They're around the back of the house in the garage. Watch out for the dogs. They bite."

The disheveled lady went back to her couch, lit a cigarette and put her virtual reality goggles back on.

The Executioner walked to the garage and knocked on the side door entrance. A chorus of angry barking erupted on the other side.

"Just a second. I'm putting the dogs in the kennel!" a voice said from the other side of the door.

When the door opened, he was greeted by a man who looked like a slightly-toned-down version of the men he had been laughing at earlier in the hour.

"So," the man said, "I'm ready to dump this guy in the forest. But my brother says that you want to talk to him for a while?"

"Yeah, for a bit."

"This place is not sound-proof, but our neighbors aren't close enough to hear anything if this guy makes a lot of noise. And even if the neighbors did hear anything, they are not the sort of people to call the police, especially considering that my brother's a cop."