Chapter 18 #2
“The girl you work with was nice enough to leave her equipment all plugged in and ready to go. Thoughtful, really, your co-workers. I bet you like working here. Bet you get a lot of sweet, innocent girls just waiting to be tattooed by a guy like you. And you, of course, never steer them wrong, do you, my friend?”
“N-no,” he stammers, forcing out a word at last.
“So you’ve never once taken home one of your clients and betrayed their trust?”
The guy’s eyes roll in their sockets and his hands strain at the bindings. Jesus. He’s not much of a poker player, that’s for sure. It’s embarrassingly easy and glaringly obvious that this piece of shit is the worst kind of rapist turd, but I need to hear him say it.
I pull down one of the boxes of needles used for piercings, slide out a long, glistening object, and twirl it between my fingers.
My eyes flick to Tracker’s face. I love that he’s standing in the shadowy corner of the room, where the overhead lighting is surprisingly shitty for someone who draws on people for a living.
The single hanging fixture over the chair, a modern cage with a burning yellow bulb, is a bit better.
It’s all the light I’ll require, at any rate.
“What do you say, brother? Balls or cock first?”
“Honestly, I don’t want to see either,” Tracker drawls, sounding bored.
His eyes flick to his nails and he inspects them like he’s looking for dirt.
‘If it was me doing the reminding, since someone seems to have conveniently forgotten he’s a rapist asshole, I’d go straight for the eye.
I’d say that would be the best way to jog his memory. ”
“No!” The terrified howl that echoes through the room obviously deflated the guy’s lungs, because he sits in the chair, gasping for air like he’s just been sucker punched in the gut. “No, please, don’t! I haven’t done anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m innocent, I swear!”
Brave words considering what I’m planning on doing to him if he doesn’t confess. Hell, I might just do it anyway even if he talks. I let out a low whistle while Tracker starts to hum the tune to a happy sounding song.
“You know, I think you’re right. The eye first. Then the balls. If you don’t want to watch, you can look away. I’ll piece his dick after. Give him a nice PA. That’s what those things are called, right?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Tracker mutters. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, though, and I can tell he really does want to see me put that needle into some soft, painful spot and skewer the asshole like a bug. “But I think you should give him one anyway.”
“It’s decided then. Should we untie him and make him strip for us? Put on a show before we pierce his little prick? What do you think he’s packing? Three inches?”
“I’d say two.”
I stroll over and when I’m two inches away from the guy’s beltline, he lets out another ear piercing scream. His eyes practically roll up in his head, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he passed out.
“Alright!” He whimpers. “I did it. I fucking did it. I’ll tell you what you want to hear. Anything. All of it. Just please. Please, leave me alone.”
Yeah. Not gonna happen. But I can play nice.
I let my arm fall harmlessly to my side, the needle glistening now that it hits the light directly overhead. “Funny. I thought you couldn’t remember. You said you didn’t do anything. That’s not the case?”
“N-no,” he sobs. Tears trickle down his cheeks, which have turned from white to a sickly pale gray. His flesh doesn’t resemble the hue of anything living, that’s for sure. “I did it. I remember.”
“So now you remember?” Tracker asks dryly.
“I didn’t forget.” More pathetic sobs and shuddery breaths.
More drool leaking down his chin. “I know why you’re here.
You’re here because of them. I didn’t want to do it.
I swear. I don’t know… I couldn’t help myself.
I’m sick. I have a problem. I’ll get help.
I promise. Just please, god, please, leave me alone. ”
“You hear that, man? He says he’s going to get help. I think we can trust him. He’s going to get help. We’ve done our work here.”
Tracker levels a grin at me that’s so evil it churns even my stomach. I just wish Rapist Central over there could see it.
“I think you’re right.” I soften my tone and Tracker nods at me as he strides out of the room, hand slammed into his pants. He whistles a happy tune as he leaves and shuts the door tight behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he wails. “I won’t do it again. I swear I’ll get help. Counseling.”
“Counseling. Yeah. Sounds like a good plan to me. I’m sure you won’t do it again. Will you?”
I stare the squirming turd down. He looks like the steaming pile of shit he is, his once pretty face blotchy and gray, full of snot and tears, his urine soaked pants stinking in the warm room. Doesn’t the place have AC?
“No. I won’t do it again. It wasn’t me. It was the sickness. I never meant to… to hurt them. It just happened.”
“It just happened,” I say sympathetically, like I believe him.
His eyes widen at my change of tone and demeanor, and he nods his head wildly.
“How many times did it ‘just happen’. And don’t you even fucking think about lying to me.”
“Just four times. In ten years. That’s it, man. I swear. I’ve tried to control it. Keep it from happening.”
“You ever kill someone, cupcake?”
Spittle flies from his mouth as he spits out the words in a hurry, like I’m the offensive one here. “No, no man. I swear. I- I would never kill someone. I’ll get help this time. I’ve been meaning to do it. I promise.”
“So you said.” I stretch, my vest flexing and creaking with the movement, snapping in the sudden stillness in the room.
“And I believe you. Really. I do. I know it’s never gonna happen again.
You’re never gonna lay a hand on another woman.
Never gonna make another one your victim.
You’re never gonna get away with rape and torture and abuse again. ”
He nods at me so hard I’m a little shocked that his neck doesn’t rip off his scrawny shoulders.
I imagine this man, this fucking piece of shit, worthless sack of shit, sorry excuse for a human being, touching my woman.
My wife. Not just touching her but drugging her.
Raping her. Taking her virginity. Laying his hands on her.
Tasting her. Marking her. Dumping her. He was so fucking certain she’d never go to the cops.
That she’d be too terrified, ashamed, confused, and traumatized to ever think of searching for answers or justice.
So fucking sure.
The little shit keeps nodding and then he gets brave and gives me a smile, like we understand each other. Like I’m sympathetic with him. Even if I was a stupid man, I know he’d say anything to get out of his position. And I’m not stupid.
I’m on the warpath and he’s going to pay. With his blood.
He stops nodding around the same time my hands hit the tattoo gun that’s still plugged in.
I give it a test, and it buzzes away satisfactorily.
There are already little pots of ink set out everywhere.
At least ten black. Right. That will do nicely.
If I run out, I can always refill from the bottles of ink lining the shelves.
“Wh-what are you going to do? What’s happening?”
The terror in his voice feeds the monster growling inside of me. It prowls and roams beneath my skin, in my soul, and I let out a low laugh of sheer pleasure at the fear I see written all over his face. When I palm the gun, he pisses himself again.
The stench of his terror is acrid as I lean in and roughly grip his face in one hand while I bring the buzzing machine to his forehead.
“There, there, sweetheart. I’m sure this will only sting for a second.
That what you tell them before you do it?
Oh right. You don’t tell them a fucking thing, because you drug them and rape them and they’re unconscious when you carve words into their stomachs.
Anyway, here we go. Try not to move, or I might slip and take out your fucking eye. ”
“No!” The bastard is smart enough to hold relatively still and not thrash around. Seriously. I might take out an eye.
“You should be thanking me,” I croon as the machine hits skin and the needles start bobbing up and down in furious motion.
In no time at all, the beginning of a crude, messy, blocky letter forms. I might be shit at this, but there is no way that anyone will mistake the word I’m about to ink into him for anything else.
“I wanted to cut your dick off and stuff it in your mouth, but my brother convinced me that would be too messy. You’d likely bleed out and then we’d have to dispose of you, and getting rid of bodies isn’t easy nowadays.
We save that shit for days when it’s only absolutely necessary.
Besides. I don’t want you dead. I want you to live with what you’ve done for the rest of your life. Just like they have to.”
In hindsight, it was a good choice that this group made, choosing that brick building as their shop. Those dense bricks go a long way to drowning out the screams.