41. Cupid #2
Drift frowns. “Well, I don’t. Not everyone is a Roman history geek, Cupid.”
“I’m not a geek,” I say, miffed. “I prefer history buff or bookworm. But Vlad wasn’t Roman—he was Romanian. You may know him best as Vlad the Impaler.”
Every crew member’s head turns my way, finally catching up with me and Crypt.
Having everyone’s full attention, including our captives, I share what I know.
“Assyrians, Byzantines, and Romans all used the gruesome practice, but nobody quite perfected it like the Ottomans, especially Vlad. Where most would dump you into a pit of stakes or run you through with a spear before propping the stake upright, Vlad’s technique was more… unique.”
The room becomes as quiet as a tomb as I speak, my words heavy with suggestion. “You see, Vlad loved torture—the slower the better. He also had a fixation with sexual mutilation.”
“Like you,” Crypt says matter-of-factly, no insult in his tone whatsoever.
“I wouldn’t compare myself to the likes of Vlad III. However, I enjoy removing the weapons men like to use against women and other men, like cutting off the dick of a sex trafficker,” I say, looking at the Russians with a cruel smile.
Kirill glares at me with utter hatred. Mikhail is sickly green, like he might hurl chunks again.
I move closer to them, using the iron stake like a walking stick as I speak. “Vlad’s method was brutal, inspiring fear throughout the Ottoman Empire and beyond. You want to hear his version of impaling?”
Kirill and Mikhail squirm, knowing what I’m about to say is gruesome.
Crypt’s hand goes above his head. “I want to hear.”
“The insertion process was fascinating. A blade was used to slice up the anus. To stop the bleeding and prolong the torture, a clotting paste was applied to the incision. It would do nothing for the pain, but that was the point—no pun intended.”
I let out a low chuckle, laughing at my own joke.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Kirill hisses, fear making his voice quake.
“Why, thank you,” I say, feigning flattery.
“But it wasn’t my process. Let me finish explaining it to you.
A greased stake with a sharp point and tapered base would be thrust into the rectum tip first. They would then use a mallet to drive it further up the body’s intestines until the body was stable enough for the stake to be stood upright.
Gravity would do the rest of the work, pushing down on the stake until the victim succumbed to death hours later. ”
All the men cringe as if they can feel the very sensation. Well, everyone except Crypt. My enforcer looks at me like he’s taking mental notes to remember for later use.
My smile tightens my face as I watch the fear build in the traffickers. “Can you guess which method of impalement I’m going to use on you?”
“CUPID! You’re fucking with the wrong people, you piece of shit,” Kirill yells at me, his chest heaving with each breath.
“You’re wrong. I’m not fucking you, but this rod sure will.”
Snickers echo around the room, my men enjoying Kirill and Mikhail’s discomfort as much as I do.
Moving closer to Kirill, I know which trafficker I want to start with. He tries to jerk away, sensing danger.
“You’re scared. Good. You should be. I’m about to make you a human shish kebab.”
Ruger snorts loudly. “More like a shit kebab.”
We all laugh, minus our captives, of course.
“Hoist him higher,” I order.
Oaks moves towards the electric pulley system, hitting the button to lift Kirill higher toward the top of the twelve-foot ceiling.
Crypt comes to my side, his brows pulled together. “Prez, I thought you were going to hammer the stake into him like Vlad.”
“It’s been a long night, buddy. I’m tired and want to crawl into bed with my woman. I’m all for torturing these bastards, but I don’t want to drag this out any longer. Trust me. My method will be just as effective, only faster.”
“Okay. How are we doing this?” he asks, eyeing Kirill fighting frantically against his restrains.
I raise my voice, making sure Kirill can hear me over his thrashing and the chains clanging together. “We’re going to cut out a few steps. No pre-slicing. No greasing. We’ll use gravity to raw-dog this big boy up there.”
Crypt helps me anchor the iron stake between the stones in the floor directly under Kirill. Too bad I didn’t assign another brother to watch over Vanessa tonight. I could really use Cookie’s physics knowledge to calculate this stuff out.
With pursed lips, I stand back to gauge the distance.
Meh. It’s close enough. My eyeballing will have to do.
Kirill is chewing me out in Russian, probably cursing me and my men to damnation. Little does he know that if there is a hell, Satan would assign me and my men to torture Kirill for the rest of his miserable eternity.
I laugh at the fear on his face without a trace of empathy. Kirill never showed mercy to any of his victims. They deserve justice for what happened to them. For them, I will not give him grace.
“Release the pulley,” I order.
Oaks hits the button.
We watch as Kirill comes screeching down, his voice cut off as he’s speared from ass to mouth and blood spurting from his orifices like a fountain. His lifeless body stares blankly into the void, a river of crimson pooling on the cool stones beneath him.
“Bull’s-eye!” Drift shouts with elation, throwing his fists in the air in victory. “That’s gotta be a one-in-a-million shot right there. What are the odds? We should buy a lottery ticket.”
Seeing his comrade impaled in such a horrific fashion, Mikhail screams his damn head off.
Ruger studies the speared corpse, scratching his head. “How the hell are we going to pull this thing out of him?”
Scalpel pushes down on the corpse with all his strength. “Yeah, he’s really wedged on there. It will take a lot of force to yank it clear. There’s no way we can reuse the stake.”
Crypt raises his hand above his head again, his face lighting up like a little kid. “Oooo! Oooo! I can get another one.”
I hold out my palm to stop him. “You’re not raiding the cemetery again, Crypt. It’s not worth getting arrested.”
“Awe!” Crypt drops his hand with disappointment.
“We’ll improvise,” Oaks suggests, retrieving his Glock from his hip holster on his belt.
If Mikhail’s screams don’t make us deaf, a shot fired in a stone room will. “Use something less noisy.”
Crypt retrieves a hatchet from the tool table, launching it through the air and striking the henchman right between the eyes. The screaming stops, leaving the room in sweet silence.