Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “Relax,” Jim said, hoisting Caleb up. “You’re getting too wound up.”

  Amy was still turned over on her side, but she could see clearly. She knew that last knife would be thrown with serious intent, and she prayed with every drop of blood pulsating throughout her body that it too would miss. But what would follow after? The knives could easily be plucked from the wall for a second round, or…

  Arty steadied his breathing, gripped the remaining knife’s handle tight in his right hand, aimed it directly at Patrick’s chest, threw it hard enough to rock his own balance.

  And the knife buried itself deep into the drywall to Patrick’s right.

  Amy started to laugh. From her upturned, uncomfortable position, she laughed uncontrollably into her gag, and if her arms were free you can bet your sweet ass she would have pointed and mocked while doing so. Dying with one’s boots on? Hadn’t she been the one who silently hoped Patrick would abandon such bravado? So why was she laughing? Was she going crazy?

  Both Jim and Arty exchanged looks. They looked truly dumbfounded for a moment. This wasn’t right.

  Jim set Caleb down, walked over to Amy, and yanked her chair upright.

  Arty checked the television and saw their mother still asleep in the recliner. “Take her gag off,” he said.

  Jim shot his brother an uncertain glance. “Huh?”

  “Do it.”

  Jim took off her gag and Amy instantly spat in his face.

  “Yeah, that was a good idea,” Jim said, wiping away the spit.

  Arty went over to the green pillowcase and pulled something else from it. It was a bundle of thick lollipops fastened together with a rubber band.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to improvise again,” he said. He pulled the rubber band off the bundle, unwrapped one of the lollipops, and jammed it into Amy’s mouth. She gagged and tried to force it back out. Arty gripped her jaw and held her mouth shut, keeping the lollipop in.

  Patrick grunted to the side of them but Jim just walked over and slapped him. “Shut up, stupid.”

  Arty unwrapped a second lollipop. “Grab her,” he said, motioning towards Carrie with his chin.

  Jim grabbed the girl and brought her over to Amy and Arty, her feet dragging across the floor as she was being pulled.

  “Do you remember the candy, Carrie?” Arty asked, showing one of the lollipops to her. “Do you remember?”

  Carrie turned away and down, looking at the floor.

  “Do you remember when your mother told you that you weren’t allowed to have any candy? Who ended up giving you some? Who was the nice guy who gave you the candy?”

  Carrie’s eyes were still on the floor. Jim gripped her face, squeezing her cheeks, bunching the soft flesh together. He guided her face up and towards Arty.

  Arty gingerly placed the second lollipop into her little hand, squeezing it tight into a fist to imply that he insisted she keep hold of it.

  “But look at Mommy now,” Arty said. “Mommy is the one with the candy. Is that fair?”

  Amy spat out the lollipop. It landed and stuck on the top of Arty’s foot. She laughed again and said, “You didn’t give her shit. You traded it for a doll, you faggot.”

  Patrick mumbled something behind them.

  Arty closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. When he opened them he looked at Carrie. “Mommy’s making this very difficult isn’t she?”

  Jim still had hold of Carrie’s face; Arty still gripped the little fist that held the lollipop.

  “Why don’t we see if we can give your mommy another lollipop?” Arty asked. Despite his attempts at calm, his tone was becoming increasingly agitated. “How does that sound, Mommy? Does that sound fun to you?”

  “Why don’t you shove them up your ass instead?” Amy said.

  Patrick grunted again. He was either asking his wife to stop antagonizing their tormentors, or cheering her on.

  Arty closed his eyes again and breathed through his nose. He acted as though the comment had never been spoken. “It’s a game, Carrie,” he said. “A fun game where everyone wins. How does that sound?”

  Carrie looked at Arty, her cheeks still bunched in Jim’s grip. Arty gestured for his brother to release his grip. He did, and the little girl’s face glowed red with the marks from Jim’s fingers.

  “Do it, Carrie,” Arty said.

  Carrie kept staring, her eyes unblinking, dazed. Amy went to speak, but Jim instantly slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Carrie…do it,” Arty said.

  Arty slowly let go of the little girl’s fist, and Carrie dropped the lollipop to the floor.

  Arty shook his head and immediately picked up the candy. He didn’t bother to seize Carrie’s hand again. Instead he jammed the lollipop into Amy’s mouth himself.

  Something snapped in Carrie and she started to cry again.

  “Oh you want to try it now, do you?” Arty asked. “Too fucking late.”

  He unwrapped a third and jammed it in. Then a fourth. A fifth.

  Amy gagged wildly, her cheeks bulging. Patrick threw an absolute fit behind them.

  “Jesus!” Jim said. “Look at the mouth on her!” He turned to Patrick. “Hey, man, you wouldn’t mind if I took your wife out of here for a little alone time, would you?”

  Patrick’s face was a deep purple in its fury, snot and spit spraying from his nose and mouth. He struggled so hard against his binds his chair bounced.

  “Thanks, pal,” Jim said. He patted Patrick on the head. “I promise I won’t tear it up too bad.”

  Arty let out a long, wonderful breath. His faithful brother had revived the game.

  Jim left the lollipops in Amy’s mouth, but unfastened her from the chair. He re-tied her hands together in front, but left her legs as they were, wrapped in a tight bundle at the ankles. Amy’s panic only made her gag harder on the candy still jutting from her mouth.

  Jim reached forward, jerked her out of the chair by the hair, and hoisted her over his shoulder. Amy wriggled like mad, managing to spit two of the lollipops from her mouth. She hissed a wet, indecipherable curse and bucked harder, but Jim only held tighter; she was going nowhere.

  Before leaving the bedroom Jim gave Amy a hard slap on the ass, looked over his shoulder at Patrick and said, “Don’t wait up, stud.”

  52

  The bedroom door across the hall was open a crack, so Jim Fannelli nudged it all the way open with the toe of his shoe, his hands pre-occupied with the squirming Amy Lambert over his shoulder.

  Once inside, Jim used the same foot—his heel this time—to shut the door behind him. He immediately threw Amy onto the only bed within the room’s modest interior. The second she hit the mattress, Amy attempted to spring back up, but with both hands and feet bound she only managed to pitch herself off the bed and into a resounding face-plant on the carpet floor. The three remaining lollipops jabbed into the back of her throat on impact. She gagged hard, nearly vomiting.

  “Whoops,” Jim said.

  Amy rolled onto her cheek and managed to spit out the remaining lollipops. She looked up in Jim’s direction. “I’m gonna watch you die, you motherfucker. Do you hear me? I’m gonna watch you fucking die.”

  Jim made a sad face and began playing an imaginary violin. He then strolled over, snatched hold of her hair, and yanked Amy to her bound feet as though she was a piece of luggage.

  Amy cried out in pain then instantly spat in Jim’s face once upright. Jim closed his eyes and wiped the saliva off his cheek.

  “That’s twice you’ve done that now,” he said. “I’m beginning to think you really don’t want this—”

  Amy spat on him again. Jim dropped his head, paused, then whacked Amy hard across the face, the impact of the blow shooting her backwards onto the bed in a dazed heap.

  “You’re making me feel like an abusive husband,” he said. He made a stupid face, stuck his belly out, adjusted his groin, spoke in an ignorant drawl. “I dint wanna hafta do that shit to ya, darlin. But you d
one brought that shit on yaself.”

  “You’re sick,” Amy said.

  Jim shrugged. “And?”

  • • •

  Arty heard the commotion from across the hall. Moments later, he heard Jim’s palm cracking the side of Amy’s face. When silence followed he looked at Patrick and said, “You think that shut her up?”

  • • •

  “Rough or gentle?” Jim asked.

  Amy, fetal on the bed, said nothing.

  “Is this gonna be rough or gentle?”

  Still nothing.

  “We can’t wake my mother, Amy, so I’d appreciate an answer. Gentle and we can try the whole trust thing; rough and I have to gag you again.”

  Amy rolled onto her back, titled her chin in the air, and let loose an almighty scream. Jim pounced on her and slapped his hand over her mouth.

  “I guess that means rough,” he said.

  Amy tried to buck him off but Jim clamped down harder onto her mouth, pushing her head deep into the mattress.

  “And by rough I mean painful, Amy. I can get exceptionally creative when I want to.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “So you have a choice: you can either lie back, shut your mouth, and enjoy it…or we can see how many of Arty’s lollipops I can fit up your snatch.”

  • • •

  “Well I guess that first whack didn’t shut her up,” Arty said. “She seems quiet now though. I wonder what they’re up to.”

  Patrick’s head was down and didn’t move after Arty’s comment.

  “Are you fading on me, big man?” Arty asked.

  Patrick gradually lifted his head and stared at Arty. His mask of rage was still evident, but there was a tint of fatigue to it now. If you coupled that with the abundance of wounds—the swollen eye, the egg on the forehead that had since turned purple, the cuts and bruises framing it all—then Patrick could have been a dead ringer for a prizefighter after twelve grueling rounds.

  “You’re looking a little weary.” He got in Patrick’s face and studied him. “Can’t say I blame you though. It must be eating you up inside to think about your wife and my brother going at it in the other room.”

  Patrick mumbled something through his gag. Arty patted him on the head and said, “Good idea; I’ll go check on them.” He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, only to return a second later with a grin. “The door’s shut. The door’s shut and they’re quiet. I guess she finally decided to play the game.”

  Patrick dropped his head again.

  “At least she decided to join the game,” Arty said, strolling to the far end of the room. “But your kids?” He huffed. “Caleb? Carrie? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Arty looked down at the two children who were huddled together in a corner. Carrie’s thumb was back in her mouth, and Caleb was curled into himself and no longer looking at his father. Both children were shells.

  “Kids? Are you with me?” Arty asked. He turned back to Patrick. “I guess not. It’s a shame too. We went through a lot of trouble planning this. I wanted to include everybody; not just you and Amy.”

  Arty headed back to the bedroom door and opened it for another look. The door across the hall was still closed.

  “Don’t be mad at Jim, Patrick,” he said after shutting the bedroom door behind him. “He can’t help who he is. I personally don’t approve of his need to have most women we take. I feel it cheapens the game. But what are you gonna do? He’s my brother and I love him.” He then burst into a random cackle as though remembering a punch line to a recent joke. “He sure is a horny bugger though, isn’t he? Like a rabbit on Viagra my brother is.”

  53

  Amy had stopped fighting. She lay beneath Jim, his hand hovering over her mouth, ready to clamp back down in case she decided to scream again.

  She had no such intentions. She now had a plan.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Jim appeared shocked. He even said, “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” Amy said again. “I’m very scared. I won’t fight you anymore. Just please promise me you won’t hurt my children or my husband.”

  Amy knew this attempt at bartering was futile given what she had seen from these men, but it helped support the idea that she was willing to be cooperative with her captor, let him think that her gumption had finally been stripped away, leaving nothing but a desperate naiveté. She needed to be careful though. If she appeared too desperate, too naïve, too willing…

  “I promise,” Jim said. He was wearing a smile that revealed his lie to such a degree it looked as if he wasn’t even trying to humor her. She pushed her anger aside, remained focused.

  “Can you sit up a bit please?” she asked. “I’m having trouble breathing with your full weight on me like this.”

  Jim didn’t move. He studied her.

  “Please,” Amy said again. “I won’t scream or run—just as long as you keep your promise.”

  Jim continued to study Amy. He squinted, cast her a sly, sidelong glance. Then, with a quick burst, said, “Sure,” and hopped off her, rolling onto his feet beside the bed.

  “Thank you,” she said. She sat up onto her knees and inched closer to Jim who had now relocated to the foot of the bed.

  He watched her as she approached, a slight twitch to his manner as though perhaps she still had one good outburst left in her. But Amy was determined to portray the role of the passive hostage, willing to do whatever necessary to ensure the safety of her husband and children. She lowered her head and inched closer, the crown of her hair now touching Jim’s chest. She stayed there for a few seconds, inhaled deep, the exhale choppy with fear, intentionally so. “Remember your promise.”

  She didn’t look up, but could feel Jim’s leer as he repeated his vow. She nodded into his chest and slowly lowered herself towards his navel.

  With slow, calculated movements, Amy began working at the button on his jeans. Her wrists were still bound together, but this did little to impede her movements; she was managing fine, all things considered. She opened the button on his jeans. Paused. Performed the choppy breathing again before proceeding to the zipper. She made her hands tremor as she touched the metal. She prayed he was buying it. Prayed she looked like a terrified woman at her wits’ end, resorting to sexual favors in order to save her family.

  Not like a woman who was planning to bite her captor’s dick off.

  “What are you up to down there?” Jim asked.

  Amy said nothing. She pinched the zipper’s tip and started sliding it down.

  “Ahhh…” Jim said. “Good girl.”

  With the zipper down, Amy attempted to grab both sides of Jim’s jeans in order to pull them to his knees. The binds on her wrists prevented her from doing so.

  “I think you might have to…” she said, her crown still in his chest, refusing to look at him.

  “Help?” he said. “I’d be glad to help, lover.”

  Jim grabbed the edges of his jeans and cinched them downward. He wore no underwear and was already fully erect. The initial sight shocked Amy, despite her violent objective. Her choppy breathing was now equal parts act and real.

  “You like?” he asked.

  Amy said nothing. Her breathing was enough. Had she said yes it would have been too much. Too unbelievable for her to actually like what she saw. It would never sell. So she kept her head down, letting her calculated breaths become her words. He could have his pick. Were they breaths of desire, or breaths of fear? She knew his ego would choose desire. Scratch that. Fear. This man almost assuredly got off more to fear. And if Amy was to find even the tiniest morsel of joy in this situation, it would be that whatever fueled his sick desires was ultimately irrelevant. It would not stop her. Her objective was the same.

  Let him think I’m afraid. Let him think I’m aroused. Let him think whatever the hell he wants. It doesn’t matter. I’m biting that thing off and spitting it back in his fucking face.

  She steadied herself, pulse h
ammering her chest. She lowered herself a few more inches. She was moving in for the kill. Her stomach churned, adrenaline teasing nerve-endings without remorse. Bile rose in her throat and she winced it down like cheap whiskey.

  Here we go.

  And then Jim spoke and she flinched, nearly crying out from being startled out of her zone.

  “Wait,” he said. “I want you to take your shirt off. I wanna see those titties you wouldn’t show me in the supermarket.”

  Amy tried to swallow. Her dry throat refused. She coughed lightly to clear it. His penis was still hard, only a few inches from her mouth. Should she lunge for it? No. He would flinch at her sudden movement and pull away. She needed to ease into it. She needed to be the cat slinking along its belly towards its prey.

  “I can’t,” she said, still looking at his penis, unable to look up. At this stage she feared her eyes would give away her intentions. “My hands are tied.”

  Jim stroked her hair, increasing the pressure with each glide of his hand. Before long he had removed the band on her ponytail, her hair falling around her face. He stroked some more, tucking it back behind her ears as if trying to give her profile to a camera in the room.

  “We can manage, lover,” he said. “Pull your shirt over your head and down your arms. You won’t need your hands for what your about to do, will you?”

  Amy sat up, trying to erase the doubts sprinting throughout her psyche. She needed to stay quiet and strike without warning. She needed to be the cat.

  Still avoiding eye contact, Amy obeyed without thinking. Her shirt was off and resting along her forearms in one swift movement. Her breasts were out now, but still covered by a black bra.

  “Nice,” Jim said. “But you know the bra is gonna have to go too.”

  Amy made eye contact without intention. His question was preposterous. “What? I can’t reach behind my back.”

  “Pull your straps down. Pull the whole thing down to your waist,” he said.

  Amy lowered her head again. She searched hard for the right response. “It’ll look…strange,” she said.