My Name is Stab

Chapter Twenty Nine - Best Served Cold

By this time, it was getting late but neither Mike nor I felt any inclination to stop. Something was driving us to complete what we had set out to do before we slept. Mike stepped out of the room for a few minutes and, when he returned, he was holding something behind his back.

"If you lot had been normal, run of the mill sadistic bastards," he announced, "I might have been persuaded to just kill you. But no: you forced Theodora and her sister to watch as you raped and killed their mother. Then you tortured, raped and killed her sister. You even gave Theodora her sister's flesh to eat. For heaven's sake, you invented the game of 'killer orgasm'."

He looked around at the five bound men.

"And because of all that, I received a special request to allow 'The Beast' to come out to play. You might even say it's a Royal Command Performance!"

The gang might not have understood that joke but I appreciated it.

He paused again, dramatically.

"You're not going to like 'The Beast'."

I had to laugh. A large wet patch had appeared on the floor around Deemo.

"Now I know you all like your games so we're going to start with one. It's called 'Mission Impossible'. I'm going to ask you two questions and, if any of you can come up with a satisfactory answer to either, I'll just put bullets in your heads. All clear?"

He looked round the room. I don't know what response he was expecting but what he got was pure terror.

"Right, first question: why did we find a nightie from an eight year old," he looked at me and I nodded to confirm the age, "that had been cut open as if for rape?"

He looked round the room for a moment. "Any takers? Sudden and urgent need to change her into a party dress, perhaps? Or maybe you'd been playing an exciting game together and she got much too hot?"

He waited a couple of seconds.

"OK. No takers for that question. Let's try the next one. Why did we find the severed finger of a six year old." Again he looked at me to confirm the age. Again I nodded.

"Any takers for that one? Remember, the prize is a bullet in the brain. Last chance now, otherwise the beast is coming out to play..."

He looked around the room for a couple more seconds. "I guess that's why the game is called 'Mission Impossible," he said.

"Right, Deemo," Mike said, turning to the crumpled figure on the floor who was still clutching his bruised scrotum with his bound hands. "You're into vice in a big way, aren't you?"

Deemo couldn't speak but nodded silently. He obviously felt it was expected of him.

"So that gave me an idea."

He suddenly punched Deemo twice in the lower chest, knocking all the air out of him and rendering him helpless for the few seconds it took to adjust his bindings so he was tied, spread eagle, on the kitchen table.

"As you're so into vice," Mike went on, "I thought it was only right and proper that you get to know... well, vice." He produced a bench vice that he had collected from the workshop and started to tighten it around Deemo's shrivelled testicles."

"No... please!" he begged. His eyes looked to Mike for a moment but he obviously saw no hope there so he turned to me. "Have mercy!"

"Mercy?" I responded, torn between shock, outrage and, misplaced though it was, amusement. "Mercy!" I shook my head and almost laughed. "I'll show you mercy!"

I stepped across and gave the vice a tiny extra twist, drawing a scream.

"More?" I asked him, putting my face close to his. "Oh yes, 'More is always better!'" I gave another slight twist drawing an even louder scream.

"Can we gag him, please," Theodora asked Mike. "We don't want to wake our little angel in there!"

I'm glad she thought of that. I wouldn't have. She should probably go back in her box, though. She shouldn't really have anything to do with this.

With pleasure," Mike replied and stuffed the man's sliced underwear in his mouth.

"Now it's entirely up to you, Stab", Mike went on with obvious glee, "and I would completely understand if you didn't want to have anything to do with that pitiful thing, but I thought you might want to play a game called, 'Don't get so excited!'"

He picked up Deemo's knife and prodded at the tiny, limp manhood that was drooping in abject terror.

"The rules of the game are as follows," he went on. "You try to get that pathetic thing excited and every time you succeed, we squeeze a little tighter."

I licked my lips in anticipation.

"I wish Laura was here," Mike said absently. "I rather think she would have enjoyed the game too! I bet it would have got quite competitive!"

"Oh," he said, turning to the four remaining gang members, "if any of you takes your eyes off the display for a moment, you'll be on the table next. What I have planned for you is bad but not quite this bad. All clear?" He gave a smile that, in another situation, would have been friendly and cheerful.

And, as I started to run my fingernails along Deemo's twitching manhood, I found myself, incongruously, singing the old school song and wondering whether the, by now undoubtedly late, Dr Prendergast would have approved.

On balance, I decided, she probably would.

By the time we had finished, Deemo's scrotum was irrevocably crushed and, in spite of Mike's efforts with slaps and cold water, the gang leader was remaining stubbornly unconscious.

So, one at a time, he dragged the remaining four guys outside. "You lot," he announced, "get to play a game called 'topple'."

He had hammered four of the spears into the ground in a rough square with a fifth at the centre. Then he had sharpened the top of each into a vicious spike. There were two firewood rounds by each spear, each about a foot long and four inches in diameter.

He lifted one of the men so that he was straddling the spike with about an inch of it stabbing up into his bottom. He then carefully balanced the man's feet on the firewood. "Comfy?" he asked the man. "No? Good!"

He did the same for the remaining three prisoners.

"And the prize for the last man standing is I cut your throat. Oh yes, if you say a single word, I start lopping bits off."

He went to collect Deemo from the kitchen. By this time he was starting to come round. Mike dragged him out, with the vice bouncing along between his legs, and lashed him to the central spear. "Look what you've got to look forward to," he said with a manic grin.

Two of the men had been wounded in the legs - probably my work from under the table. They didn't last long before they slipped from their perches to slowly impale themselves on their spears. One of them died within minutes but the other kept twitching for over an hour before he was still.

But the other two lasted for two more hours, staring at each other, willing the other to fall. At the end of the two hours, both of them were trembling as they tried to keep their balance on straining tiptoes.

Then one of them fell. He let out a scream of pain as his own weight drove the spear deep inside him. The other released a quiet sigh of relief.

"Well done," Mike announced. "You're the winner!" He walked behind the last surviving gang member and put his knife against the man's throat. "Oh, by the way, I lied about cutting your throat". He deliberately kicked away one of the pieces of wood and watched with evident satisfaction as the last gang member slid slowly but inexorably down onto his stake.

"And now," he said to Deemo who sat, groaning and sweating, tied to his own stake, "it's your turn."

He hoisted Deemo up, introduced his bottom to the stake and whispered, "It's party time," in his ear.

And then he let him go.