6. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Leon Aldon
I pull into my driveway hours after sunset, hearing only the crickets in the grass and a few dogs in the distance.
It's peaceful out here; it gives me everything I need to be who I am.
I own a home on the outskirts of town, owning several acres to myself, just to avoid having neighbors one day down the line.
I deal with too many people during the day to be okay with living almost on top of someone else.
When I open my trunk, I see that my guest of honor is still out cold.
Good. I hate it when they struggle too soon; it takes the fun out of it.
I lift this smelling, fat drunk out of the trunk and toss him into the wheelchair I keep for this very reason.
Some of these people, like Sam, are way too heavy for me to lug around. I'm not throwing my back out for these fuckers. I'm 34 years old, and I'd prefer not to be in a wheelchair by 45, thank you.
I wheel him to the door that leads straight to my basement and push him out of the wheelchair.
I happily watch as he tumbles down the steps, laughing to myself that if he were awake, that would've really hurt.
I should know, I fell down these steps once when I first moved in; I was drunk. I about broke my fucking neck doing it, too.
This is why I have a ranch-style house. The only stairs I'm willing to deal with are the ones leading to the basement, and only because I can't avoid it.
I get Sam stripped naked and strapped into the metal autopsy table in the basement and remove the duct tape off of his face.
I want to know when he wakes up, but I'm not sitting down here waiting.
Fuck that, I'm starving and I want a shower.
So, instead, I turn on the cameras, having my phone set to alert me if there's any movement.
I mean, he can't move much, just enough to alert the sensors, but it's good enough for me.
I head upstairs, stripping my clothes as soon as I enter my utility room. I am not walking into my house in these stinking ass clothes and risking my entire house smelling like stale beer, sweat, and rotten piss.
Honestly, I should burn them, but these are nice pants. I'll just wash them by themselves.
Hopefully, that'll do it.
I toss my clothes in the washer with a hefty pour of vinegar and probably too much laundry soap and just hope for the best.
I'll throw the whole outfit away if I have to, but I'd like to avoid it.
Next step, shower.
I make my way through my house on the way toward my bedroom, marveling at the beauty of my home.
I may live alone and have a lonely life, but this house is perfect for a big family.
Fuck, I even have a fireplace in the living room. Not many homes in Texas have one, but I like to be prepared, especially after that rough winter a few years ago when temperatures got into the negatives for a few days.
It was a disaster; entire cities had no power, people died, and everyone suffered.
I will not put up with that shit again. So, I took steps. My entire house is powered by solar and wind energy that I create, so I actually make money on my energy bill every month, but I also can switch to grid power.
I even have a generator that can run on gas in case an emergency arises.
See? Prepared.
My only complaint about this house is that the sun shines right into my bedroom windows and in my face at sunrise. It’s nothing curtains can't fix; I just keep forgetting to buy a set that will match the house.
It's also not that high of a priority.
I take an overly hot shower, scrubbing every inch of myself with soap and water a little too hot, but I need to get the stench of cigarettes, cat piss, and cheap beer off of me.
How the fuck did that house smell like cat piss when there wasn't a single cat in sight?
I checked!
I even opened a fucking can of tuna and hid outside to make sure a cat wasn't hiding because I was a stranger.
But just to be safe, I opened all the canned meat in the house and left the front door open. If there is some super secret cat, it will at least be able to get out.
After all, I'm not a monster, I'm not going to let an animal suffer when I can avoid it.
When I'm confident that I no longer smell like hot trash, I head out into my kitchen in clean clothes, ready to cook dinner. I'm not sure if I have the energy for this, but I've eaten a little too much takeout the last few days.
It's giving me a headache, and I feel sluggish when I go to the gym. So, I prepare myself some creamy balsamic pasta with feta and ribeye steak, pour myself a glass of bourbon, and have a seat at the kitchen table.
In moments like this, I like being alone.
I like the fact that I can eat what I want when I want. I like that I didn't have someone waiting for me at home, nagging me about where I've been and pointing out how badly myself and my trunk smells.
But it doesn't stop me from wondering what the woman from the cafe is doing right now…
She'd hate everything I prepared, but for her? I'd make whatever she wanted.
Even if it involved micro greens and tofu.
I get exactly one bite into my meal, tasting the rich and flavorful bite of the rare steak I'd made before the fucking monitor goes off that Sam has woken up.
Fantastic.
You know what? Fuck it, he can wait.
I savor my dinner with a show, seeing Sam squirm and yell on the monitor in a useless attempt to break free from the restraints I'd put him in, all while slowly drinking my bourbon.
I think this is better than anything I could've found on TV.
When I finally arrive downstairs, Sam has been screaming his head off for over an hour. His voice has become hoarse and thick and I can already see the redness on his wrists from thrashing against the restraints.
It brings me a deep level of satisfaction to see this man struggle, it'll be even better to watch him bleed.
I give him a warm smile when I see him, the same one I gave him when he answered the door at his home. "You're awake, good." I say calmly.
No surprise, this asshole immediately starts yelling. "Where the fuck am I? You won't get away with this!" He yells.
Why do they always say that?
Of course I'll get away with it, I always do.
I laugh, crossing my arms across my chest. "You're at my house. It only seemed fair since you welcomed me in your home that I welcome you in mine. Don't you agree?" I ask.
A surge of frustration fills me when this asshole starts yelling, pleading angrily to be let go.
God, it's so fucking pathetic when they beg.
You'd think waking up strapped to a cold metal table in a soundproof basement would give some kind of hint that you're not getting out of this.
I do have to admit, I live for the look on their face when they finally break. When that hopeful begging stops and they realize that their fate is already sealed.
"We're going to have a little chat, Sam. If you lie to me, you're going to regret it. I would advise you to be smart about this." I say calmly.
This man, this asshole, attempts to spit on me. He fails miserably, but the move pisses me off. A lot of them do that, too.
"We will try this again in a few hours, but you're smelling up my basement, and that just won't do." I say, wrinkling up my nose in disgust.
If he's going to spit on me, he's not going to stink up the place while doing so.
I grab the hose I have attached to the waterline down here; sometimes I need to wash this room, and it's easier if I don't have to do it with a fucking mop and bucket.
An easy cleanup is essential here.
I spray Sam down, not stopping until the thick brown water stops, and all I'm left with is clean water circling the drain in the middle of the floor.
"I'll be back." I tell him, walking away from him for a little while.
I am not willing to sit here and stare at this naked idiot on my table until he's willing to behave.
I probably should've left his boxers on, but in case he admits to having raped his daughter, I need them off.
I give Sam a few hours of silence while I work on a few things for work, just a few case notes and a handful of consultation requests, but it keeps me busy.
When I return downstairs, Sam seems more docile and immediately looks at me when I open the door. “Ask.” He says flatly.
I smile at him, taking a seat a few feet away. "Denise. What did you do to her? And don't lie to me." I remind him.
I don't know the whole story, but I know the small snippet I learned from the police report and Denise's consultation. Plus, I can read people well enough to know when I'm being lied to.
He huffs and stares at the ceiling while refusing to meet my gaze; I know he wants to pretend it’s from disgust, but this pig is terrified.
"I didn't do anything to her." He claims. So this is how we're doing things. Fine by me.
I stand up and head toward my little cabinet of toys, my favorite place.
“You know, I warned you not to lie. It wasn't wise to try me.” I say while pulling out a plastic coat, a pair of sterilized surgical gloves, and a few tools. “It's fine. I'll get to play, and maybe you'll learn the rules.”
“Fuck you! I didn't lie! You'd better let me out of here, or you're dead, do you hear me? Dead!” He shouts pathetically.
I do a little “tsk,” ignoring his whiny outburst. “Good luck with that, Sam.” I say with a chuckle.
I approach the table, doing a few slow circles around it while I debate how we start our little game. For each circle I do, I spin a scalpel between my fingers. I see Sam break a little more despite his fearless facade.
He's so close to cracking, but I know he won't until he bleeds.
When I reach the bottom of the table again, I push the end of my scalpel into the bottom of his foot. It earns me a loud howl of pain and Sam fighting in his bindings, but there's nowhere to go.
I drag the scalpel up the entire length of his foot, seeing the skin flay open and blood fill my table with each pulse of his heartbeat.
The thick iron smell fills the room, and Sam’s screams echo against the walls, ringing my ears the more he howls in pain.
"Try again." I offer.
It takes Sam an embarrassing amount of time to stop screaming, but by then, snot is coming out of his nose, and his voice is even more hoarse from yelling.
“Are we done with that little outburst? Can we try answering my questions again?” I ask calmly. “What did you do to Denise?” I ask again.
“When?” Sam asks.
This fucker.
I quickly stand up, grabbing my scalpel off the table, but Sam cuts me off. “No, no, no, please! What do you want to know?” He quickly asks.
“Everything.” I demand.
Sam sighs, collecting himself for a minute. Tears stream down his face; he's covered in a layer of sweat that has now spread goosebumps all around his body as he's calmed down. He's a fucking mess.
“Okay, so I might partake in the occasional drug use, but that shit ain't cheap!” He calls out.
I'm not even surprised that this fat fuck is a druggie, I just don't know how that's relevant to Denise.
Thankfully, Sam continues without me having to remind him. My patience for him is wearing increasingly thin the longer I sit here and watch him squirm.
“I owed my dealer some money, money I didn't have, but Denise had a fucking college fund!” He spits out.
No. I don't believe Denise killed herself over a fucking check.
I huff, standing up yet again and picking up my scalpel. “You'd better start connecting the fucking story before you're doing so with your own cock shoved down your throat.” I threaten.
Sam shakes his head no, taking a few steadying breaths. “Jeeze, you're violent. Fine! Fine! My dealer took the check, but he wanted more! He said it was interest for making him wait; he wanted Denise.” He answered.
I feel my blood boil, I feel my composure slipping away as the anger takes over me.
I stab my scalpel deep into his knee, basking in the shriek of pain that he makes. “Please tell me that you did not let your dealer fuck your teenage daughter for fucking drugs.” I snap.
When a painful silence fills the room other than Sam's grunts and whines in pain, I know the answer before he ever has to say it, but I want to hear him admit it. “Don't disappoint me, Sammy. Don't tell me you let that man fuck your child.” I warn.
“Of course I didn't! What kind of fucking animal do you take me for? Bitch heard the whole conversation, things got heated, and then things got a little violent.” He says through sniffles.
“Let me get this straight, Sammy. Your daughter understandably didn't want to be pimped out to some 21-year-old meth dealer, so you tried to kill her? Am I missing something here?” I ask sarcastically.
Truthfully, I don't care about the rest of the story. There's nothing he could confess that would make him any better in my eyes.
I pull the scalpel out of his knee, watching as blood pours from the wound with each beat of his heart, and lean down, getting in Sam's face until there's only a few inches between us and his disgusting breath fills my lungs. “You're a fucking pig, Sam. Do you know what pigs do?” I ask.
He quickly turns his head to stare at me, a pathetic look that's a mixture of regret and fear fills his face, but it's too late for that. He's too far gone to save himself.
“No, please. It wasn't my fault.” He whines.
“Pigs squeal, Sammy. You're going to squeal like a fucking pig.” I snap.
Sam bursts into tears, only further embarrassing himself.
I finally take my aggression out on this piece of shit, cutting away at him with my scalpel until the rage in my soul quiets down and it's peaceful in my head again.
Not that the room is peaceful.
Just as I expected, Sam squeals just like the pig he is, crying and screaming profanities and pleading for mercy with each cut, the mercy he will never get.
The room smells thick with blood, tears, piss, beer, and now vomit.
It's disgusting, but my head feels less cloudy, and I feel pretty satisfied with how pathetic Sam looks right now.
Every inch of his skin is either sweaty or bleeding and his skin is pale and cold from all of the blood loss.
I grin at my handiwork, admiring his beer gut, now with, “pig” carved into his skin.
Too bad I'll be the only one ever to see him in this state. He deserves to be left for display in the town square.
Sam throws up yet again, making me have to tilt the entire table forward to prevent him from choking on his vomit and solidifying the need to bathe this entire room in disinfectant.
Whatever. It's worth it.
But I wonder if I have enough bleach for this room. I should stop at the store on the way home from work tomorrow.
Fuck. Focus!
I need to put my energy into making sure Sam suffers as much as Denise mentally suffered.
"I just want you to know, all this suffering. This is revenge for making Denise kill herself; she didn't deserve to die. She was young, she was beautiful. She didn't do anything wrong." I shout at him.
I have a long night ahead of me. One I may actually enjoy as long as he keeps screaming like he is.
This is my favorite part of getting revenge on the scum of the earth.