Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

  The buff motherfucker pressed the shank harder; any harder and I was risking a punctured lung.

  I quit squirming.

  I could feel Goon #2’s erection pressing against my ass, and he was grinding it against me. "Let me do him first, Dutch."

  "Yeah, Ok." He wiped his mouth, and stepped back.

  The Goon threw me down face first on the bunk, and Dutch got right down in my face, his voice low and conversational again now that control was being reestablished. I felt the shank pressing into ribcage again. Instinctively I tried to pull away from it, but he just pressed it against me harder.

  "You fucking scream, you get the shank. You fucking yell, you get the shank. You fucking squirm, you get the shank. Maybe you live. Maybe you don’t, but it’s up to you whether you leave here limping funny with a bad memory or if they gotta carry you out on a stretcher. I suggest you cooperate. Now sit still like a good boy, and this will be all over soon." I felt the shank pressing into my side as my pants were yanked down to my ankles.

  This was way too much like being stuck in a closet. I half expected to hear the "shing!" of a windproof lighter being opened and lit, followed by the tinkle of a belt buckle being unbuckled.

  The reality was evident though. Even Joe Cool was babbling about a cock about to be rammed up my ass. Well, fuck me. Literally, dear mother of god, and there ain’t jack shit that I, Joe Cool, or SOB could do about it at the moment except ride this out, hardy-fucking-har.

  I clenched my jaw and screwed my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable. I felt my legs kicked apart. SOB reminded me that the military acronym for this is BOHICA. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again. I asked him why, for the love of fucking god, would he bring this up now? He just laughed hysterically as I felt the goon’s hand forcing the tip of his cock in between my ass cheeks.

  Joe Cool pointed out there would probably be less tearing and pain if I just relaxed. I wanted to scream out loud at him, "How the fuck do you expect me to relax in these conditions, and just what part exactly of having a cock involuntarily or otherwise rammed up my ass do you think I would find relaxing anyway?"

  SOB continued to giggle, 'Balls Deep' is the correct colloquialism, and that's what I was going to be facing. I was afraid that there was going to be no dignified way to take it like a man, I tell you.

  Dutch just smiled, and shucked his drawers too. He was sporting a monster, raging hard-on himself. I stared in absolute horror. He just laughed. "Gobble Gobble, mother fucker. You’ve got an oral exam to pass here in a bit, but you’ve got a free hand. Why don’t you latch on to this here jack handle and give her a few tugs while we’re waiting for him to finish up?"

  He reached down, grabbed my hand, and placed it on his cock, and when I tried to yank it away, he bore down hard on my hand, grinding the bones together. He pressed harder on the shank. "You want to think long and hard about doing something stupid, boy."

  Finally, I had enough. I saw the cat jump up on the bunk next to him, and I felt the click inside my head. I shoved. Hard. Pure adrenaline fueled instinct, and the whole fucking room dimmed and wavered around us.

  Dutch looked around, bewildered. I shoved again, and the floor opened beneath us, the bunk dissolving and we tumbled, in a freefall. Dutch yelled in surprise, twisting as he fell, his cock flapping freely in the wind. The Goon shrieked in fear, his arms pin wheeling wildly as we freefell into the darkness. I shrieked in rage and triumph.

  We landed on leaves, at the base of the goddamned shoe-tree. I was the only one that wasn’t shell shocked at this point with the sudden turn of events. I wheeled wildly, crab walking and scrambling across the leaves. I grabbed the toothbrush shank that had fallen free in the confusion and threw it deep into the woods. A small, but vitally significant step to even up the odds.

  The Goon was still shrieking like a little bitch, so I shimmied over, still buck-naked from the waist down. I grabbed his head and jerked it downward as I brought my knee up. His nose shattered in a gout of blood, and he fell over, limp and out cold.

  Dutch was up, wheeling about wildly, and charged straight at me. I ducked his wildly thrown punch, and I felt the gears within my mind engage again, a powerful, deep, and rusty engine turning over. I had no idea where we were going, but we went down again, with a powerful "Whump!" of a thunderclap. We didn’t fall this time, this time we rocketed downward.

  We landed again, and it was dark and cold. In the greyness around us, shapes shifted and slithered, not daring to approach us. I pushed Dutch away from me. His eyes were wide and round. I rocketed back upwards, leaving him behind, babbling incoherently to the things that slithered in the darkness.

  I stopped, somewhere between where the Goon was and where Dutch was. I waited. It was dangerous to leave Dutch there, unattended, but I needed him compliant. Vengeance is a motherfucker, and what goes around comes around.

  I popped back down, grabbed him, and rocketed back up. Joe Cool and SOB were both babbling nonsense, and even I had no idea how I was doing this, or exactly what I was doing. I was running on pure instinct and adrenaline.

  I arrived with Dutch back in the clearing, and the Goon looked grateful to see us. I thought we looked ridiculous, all three of us with our wangs hanging out. Circle jerk was over, but I finally had a plan.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  The guards looked into my cell, their eyes wide. I was back on my bunk, fully dressed.

  Dutch was going to town on Goon #1, while I stared at the wall. It had only taken one threat of a trip back to get him to quit bitching; it was quite surprising how much gusto he could take to the task with. Although in fairness, I don’t think the Goon was getting much out this.

  I thought this arrangement was rather justly fitting, but then again, these boys probably still have nightmares about me. Call me sick. I don’t give a shit. I wonder, though, do they still harass people that they think are weaker than them? That’s what I give a fuck about.

  The real tripsy ball-buster of a question though, if we accept the shoe-tree as a semi-known area of prior transit, and we posit that I can go there on purpose, since that’s what I just did—where the fuck else had I taken Dutch, and how the fuck did I get there? Heavy fucking shit and we can’t close that door and throw the brakes on that train of thought. The rabbit hole only goes deeper, my friend.

  I waved at the guards. It took a minute to get one of the guard's attention. "As long as you two are standing there jacking each other off, you guys mind getting these two the fuck out of here? Get them a fucking room or something. This might turn you two fucks on, but it doesn’t do jack fucking shit for me."

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  "Stand up."

  I turned, and looked out of my cell through the bars. Two guards were standing there.

  One was tapping his foot impatiently. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I don’t really give a fuck, so stand up or we do it the hard way."

  The lights flickered into life in my cell. I blinked hard, and sat up. The cat lay at the end of my bed. The cat was sleeping, and ignored the shifting of the bed as I struggled to swing my legs over the side.

  They unlocked the cell, and led me out. I was taken through a maze of hallways, and dumped into a small room with a table and a mirror.

  I sat at the table, and stared at the mirror.

  I vaguely wondered who was on the other side, watching me with impunity.

  I decided it didn’t matter.

  I waited.

  They waited.

  Maybe it was supposed to rattle me. This waiting, in a claustrophobic little room. No clock. No way to tell what was happening, or when it would happen.

  I didn’t care.

  I was trained in the School of Infinite Patience and Control.

  Waiting was child’s play.

  I didn’t fuss. I didn’t fidget. I stared at my reflection. Fuck ‘em.

  It turns out I wouldn’t have to wait long.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  "What?" I think
it was the first word I had uttered in two hours. My voice cracked slightly, and I was staring at Rob, wide eyed.

  Rob was sitting next to me in the interrogation room, and he was apparently miserable. The detective sat across the table, studying a file, and ignoring me.

  "It’s about Trish…."

  I shifted in the chair, and glanced at my reflection again. I turned to Rob.

  "What about Trish and the kids?"

  Rob looked at me, trying to control his emotions. He shook his head, and his mouth worked soundlessly. He couldn’t say it, and I couldn’t believe that something bad happened. I looked at the detective sitting across from me. He shook his head as well.

  I leaned back, then sat up straight again. "I don’t…I mean…what happened?"

  Rob shrugged helplessly. The detective leaned forward. "Ryan, we’re still investigating, but we have someone in custody. We’re doing everything we can to find them. He says the kids are alive, but won’t say where."

  I swallowed, and looked at our reflections in the mirror. "Find the kids? What about Trish?"

  I listened to the words I had just said, and I still couldn’t get my thoughts around it.

  I swallowed hard again, and looked at Rob, wide eyed. "Where’s my fucking family?"

  Rob just stared at the floor. The detective wasn’t looking at me as he shuffled papers.

  The detective cleared his throat, but didn’t look up. "We don’t know what happened to Trish. There’s a lot of blood, signs of a struggle. "

  "But…" and then my voice quit working. My mouth was moving, but I couldn’t say anything for a moment. I cleared my throat, still trying to wrap my head around the thoughts. "But you…you said it…you said it was me that…that was…God damn it!" I slammed the fist of my good hand against the table, and glared at the detective.

  The detective looked away, uncomfortable.

  Rob said, quietly, "Ryan. The prints from the Winter's house, and the stuff in the trunk of your car came back already. They’re not your prints."

  I blinked stupidly at Rob. Rob continued, "They…uh… had a match to the prints. They…well, they picked him up already. He…he told them…he told the cops about all of them. All of the families. Including your family, which they hadn’t known about yet."

  I nodded, feeling anger building within me. "What did he do to Trish, and where the fuck is my wife and kids?"

  Rob looked away, staring at the floor. I shifted my gaze to the detective.

  He stared back. "Ryan, it’s an ongoing investigation. We’re doing everything we can."

  I stood up, violently sending the chair skittering across the tiled floor. I kept my voice very low and controlled. "Detective, I’m sitting here in a jail, accused of murder and kidnapping, and the real culprit takes my wife and takes my children, and you’re going to stonewall me? Fuck you. You’re going to tell me. You’ve asked me enough times where to find the children. Now it’s my turn: where the fuck are they? Where the fuck are they? WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?"

  The door opened, and someone stepped through. I glanced up.

  He held a book in his hands. "I’m the chaplain on call."

  I stood up violently, knocking my chair over. I felt my vision narrowing as I stared at him. I pointed towards the door, my hand shaking as I stepped towards him. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Now."

  The detective stood rapidly, his eyes wide and bullshit with fear. It was clear to him that I was going to kill the minister. Not hurt him. Flat out homicide. Rob scooted his chair back against the wall, and stared wide-eyed at me. The detective looked soft, sitting there in his rumpled suit and crooked tie, but he moved briskly around the table, placing himself in between the chaplain and I.

  The detective suggested I sit down.

  The minister looked ashen. "I am only here to help."

  I stared at the minister. "You can do that best by getting the fuck out of here."

  Rob stared up at me. "Jesus Christ, Ryan."

  I looked down at Rob, smiling, my voice low and even. "I don’t think the minister appreciates that sentiment. However, I would suggest that perhaps the priest may have other work he could be performing elsewhere at the moment."

  I righted my chair with my good hand, and sat back down. I stared at the table.

  Rob and the chaplain were chatting furtively. I heard them mention distraught, and trying to help. The chaplain left quietly and in a hurry.

  Rob sat down, and the detective excused himself.

  I looked at Rob, tears coursing down my cheeks. "Well, fuck me."

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  The guard led me back to my cell.

  After the guard locked the door, he stared at me. "How do you like it?"

  I looked up at him. My eyes were still leaking.

  He smiled. "Serves you right, cocksucker. I think it’s bullshit they’re letting you out. You’re guilty, sure as shit. Maybe I’ll run into you on the outside. Maybe we can discuss this a little more personally then."

  He walked away, whistling.

  I lay down on the lower bunk again. The bear was still swinging from his noose tied to the upper bunk.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  I stood at the end of the pier, swaying, a half-empty booze bottle dangling from my good hand. Joe Cool and SOB had apparently abandoned ship. I hadn’t heard shit from either one of them. Some fucking help they were, right now. The sun had just slipped below the waves of Lake Michigan, and the few twilight stragglers still walking the break wall that jutted out into Black Bay steered clear of me.

  Glass bottles were banned in the public parks of Dark Harbor, but no one said anything. They only glanced at me, and looked away, pretending they didn’t see me. I didn’t know how much of it had to do with notoriety for my arrest and subsequent release, or how much of it was just ignoring another drunken asshole. Either reason was fine by me.

  I couldn’t go home. It was a crime scene, and I still had a protective order in place banning me from going within 100 yards of the house. It struck me as ridiculous, given that Trish and the kids were currently missing, but it was still valid. It would remain in place until I had a hearing with a judge. Rob offered to file an objection, but I had no intention of going to a hearing just to get the protective order lifted. I have had enough of the legal system at the moment, fuck you very much.

  My car was also impounded. While I couldn’t afford the impound fee, the fee was irrelevant. The police department had placed an evidence hold against it. The car was going nowhere anytime soon, even if I had the scratch to get it back.

  I sat down on the concrete edge at the end of the lighthouse pier, my legs dangling over the edge. The waves were at least four feet below my feet.

  I pulled out my cell phone, and looked at it. The display was blank, and I didn’t have a charger for the phone. The choice was very simple, as I stood at the convenience store earlier. I could buy a cell phone charger, but I had nowhere to plug it into, or I could buy a bottle of booze. I could not afford both. As far as I was concerned, that left a binary solution set with only one acceptable outcome, and I left with a bottle of cheap booze.

  I had made one phone call, as my cell phone chirped the low battery warning at me. I had no family left of my own, nowhere to go, and no one to turn to except Trish’s parents. The conversations went as well as I expected. Trish’s mother sniffed and informed me that it was my fault for what happened to her daughter, and that her grandchildren were missing. She further suggested I could best benefit society by drowning myself in Black Bay, and hung up on me.

  I tossed the phone into the bay. The final splash was small, and unimportant. It sank beneath the dark waters. I watched it sink, vaguely wondering how cold the water was.

  "Thinking of jumping?"

  I didn’t turn around to see who was talking to me. "Guess you didn’t hear. I didn’t do it. By the way, leave me the fuck alone. Also, you can go fuck yourself."

  "Where’s the cat?"

  I turned around t
his time, peering into the gloom, wondering who the fuck knew about the cat. "Oh. Fuck you too, Tom. Thought you were going back to Bloomfield Hills to go golfing." I turned back towards the fading red hue of sunset across the lake. Red at night, sailor’s delight.

  "Well, Ryan, it appears that you were who my employer was looking for."

  I glanced back at him. "How’d you know I’d be out here?"

  "We followed you from the jail. Wasn’t hard, you weren’t paying much attention."

  "Yeah, well I still say you can go fuck yourself. You told my wife about my past."

  "She already suspected something. She knew more than you thought she did."

  I shifted, uncomfortable with that thought. "Well, I’ll never know what she knew now. She’s probably dead."

  "I heard. I’m sorry."

  "Yeah, well I still say fuck you and your false sympathy. Haven’t I been through enough yet? What’s your employer got to do with me?"

  Tom walked over to the side, several feet down from me. He stared out across the bay. "Right now, I’m just a cog in a machine. A hired gun. I don’t know why my employer wants you. I know this, though. You’re a cog in a machine too—only the machine you’re trapped in is much bigger than mine is. I’ve seen things I don’t understand and things I can’t believe, but from what I’ve been told, you’ve been through much worse. I do know this: if you want answers," Tom jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "You’ll need to talk to Justin."

  I looked up at Tom, and then looked over my shoulder. I saw no one behind us. "There’s no one on the break wall."

  Tom looked over at me. "Limo. Up in the park."

  I peered up towards the park, but I had trouble focusing that far away. I could barely discern some parking lights that may or may not have been on a limo. "Oh. Ok." I turned out and faced the water, and sighed. I vaguely wondered who Justin was. I thought about the last few days, and decided it didn’t matter. I waved my hand absently at Tom. "You can leave now. Also, I told you to go fuck yourself."