by Greg Barth
Diesel Therapy
Copyright © 2015, Timothy Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Mike Monson and Chris Rhatigan
Edited by Rob Pierce and Chris Rhatigan
Cover design by Dyer Wilk
Preface
Diesel Therapy is the second volume in a series of novels I’ve written that feature Selena. This synopsis of Selena, the first volume, will be kept brief and contain a minimal number of spoilers in the event you should want to go back and read Selena as well.
At the beginning, we find Selena, a 29-year-old woman, enjoying a life of over-indulgence. She makes her living dancing at a local strip club and prostituting herself when given attractive opportunities to do so.
After a night of debauchery, Selena lifts a CD from one of her dates on her way out the door. She does not know the CD contains stolen information and has been promised to a prominent member of a local crime syndicate.
The criminal organization tracks Selena to her place of employment, The Lollipop Lounge. She is overtaken by the thugs, brutally beaten, and raped.
After extensive reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation, Selena returns to her father’s home in Eastern Kentucky—a place that she has not visited in over 15 years.
Being home brings back memories she has suppressed over the years with alcohol and drugs. Selena was sexually abused during her pubescent years by her father, uncle, friends of theirs, and another man named Magnus.
She asks her father to teach her to shoot. He modifies a couple of 12 gauge double-barrel shotguns for her and demonstrates how they operate. She spends the rest of her time at home drinking, partying with friends, and practicing daily with the shotguns.
Selena returns to the city where her attackers are still at large. She hunts down the men and murders them with the shotguns. A couple of her victims threaten that the crime boss, Crazy Joey Faranacci, will not rest until he has gotten his hands on Selena.
She hides out in a roadside motel in a small town. Little does she know, the motel is a front for a whorehouse with connections to Crazy Joey.
When she escapes from the motel, one of Faranacci’s deadliest enforcers, Ragus Breed, is on her tail. Ragus catches up with Selena in the remote mountains of Western North Carolina and puts several bullets in her, leaving her for dead in the wilderness.
Selena survives the gunfight and crawls to a cabin on the mountaintop. She meets Todd, a former combat medic who lives alone in the wilderness cabin and suffers from PTSD due to his wartime experiences. Todd nurses Selena back to health and teaches her wilderness survival.
Ultimately Selena is found and captured by one of Faranacci’s men, Frankie White. Frankie delivers Selena to Faranacci’s offices located in the back of an adult entertainment establishment. She is taken to a small room with soundproof walls and a drain on the floor and handcuffed to a wooden chair in the center of the room. However, she manages to escape.
Once free, Selena overcomes Faranacci in hand-to-hand combat. As Faranacci’s life fades, a police officer arrives on the scene, and Selena is taken into custody.
Diesel Therapy picks up the story from there. I hope you enjoy it. After all, therapy is always good, right?
-- Greg Barth
Author’s note
Everything you are about to read is fiction.
Everything, that is, except the therapy.
“Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do”
Voltaire
O NE
Harding
U.S. ATTORNEY Albert Harding squinted down through his bifocals. His lips moved, forming silent words, as he reviewed the paperwork in front of him. He flipped pages as he skimmed through the copy.
He frowned. The lines on his forehead deepened. The gray in his hair seemed especially prominent of late. His mother and his grandfather had gone completely white-headed before they turned fifty. At forty-eight, Harding was well on his way there himself.
“Christ, they aren’t asking for much, are they?” he mumbled. His upper lip pulled back in a way that reminded people of Elvis Presley when Harding had been a younger man and still in law school. Nowadays, with the graying hair and his middle-age spread, it put people more in mind of Dick Cheney.
An ardent professional, Harding never removed his suit jacket when in his office. He wore a bright red tie over his crisp, white business shirt.
Harding removed his bifocals and placed them on the desk in front of him. He rubbed at the tension lines on his forehead.
The next page he flipped to was the mug shot of the defendant. He pulled this page free from the rest. He didn’t loosen the binder clip, and the top corner of the paper ripped away. He squinted and leaned in close to the image. He looked into the woman’s eyes in the picture. He set the rest of the copy aside.
“So what do you think, Scott?” Harding said.
Assistant Attorney Scott Howard sat on the opposite side of Harding’s desk. Scott was a good twenty years younger than Harding. His hair was dark and full. His forehead had not yet developed the lines and creases that years in the office stamped on a man.
Scott had the build and vitality of a man that ran three miles before breakfast each weekday morning—and six miles on Saturday. He had the humble arrogance of a man that would never think of running even a single mile on a Sunday.
“Clearly it’s too aggressive,” Scott said. “They’re asking for the world here.”
“They know there are things that we might not want aired, and they’re exploiting that. Overreaching, yes, but still—it’s smart.”
“Those things will come out anyway,” Scott said.
“I don’t care about mistakes made by corrupt local law enforcement. I’ve got room in my prisons for those bastards too. I’m just trying to think what’s the best play here. I couldn’t give two shits about this whore. It’s all about who she’s associated with.”
“We could brace her. Shaft her until she’s ready to break.”
“We could. Might be a way to bring down the big boys.” Harding studied the mug shot of the woman in front of him. Would she break that easy? Hard to say. Something in her eyes gave him pause. “Of course she says she doesn’t know anything, so there’s that.”
“Reject the deal, and we’ll find out.”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen this type before. It might be too early. If she thinks there’s no chance at having a life now, she may just shut down. I’m considering a different play. What if we give her some hope?”
“I don’t see how that will help.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. We give her some hope—put her in a comfortable facility, make her think there’s a little light left at the end of the tunnel. Clean her up. Get her thinking straight. That way, when we threaten to take it all away, she has something to lose. Something important.”
Scott shook his head. “I don’t see it. How could you take it away?”
“I know all the Chief Security Officers in my prisons. I’ve spent years in this district developing those relationships. What we do is we put her in an impossible situation. One she can’t win. We layer the trap so any decision she makes is the wrong one. You see, Scott, these SO’s, they’ve all
got a problem child in their system. Somebody that’s giving them heartburn. I work it out so they take care of my problem, and I give them a way to take care of theirs. Everybody gets what they want.”
“You’ve done this before, I take it?”
“Trick is, you have to find a way in. String them along. Make them think the person they’re being loyal to is the one betraying them. Nobody stays faithful under those conditions. She gives her life for this bastard, then he screws her over. Look at her eyes here, Scott. She’ll get pissed and come running to us. Mark my words.”
“So what happens if she’s too smart? What if she just doesn’t go along with it?”
“Then we give her the treatment.”
Scott nodded. “Could work.”
“The treatment always works. Of all the things I’ve taught you, never forget this, Scott. The treatment always works.”
“It’s a long play.”
“You don’t rush a case like the one we’re building on Malucci. I don’t need much more. A few more facts, a little testimony, and we’ve got enough to indict.”
“I’m warming up to it a little.”
“You agree we should take the deal then?” Harding said.
“Just playing devil’s advocate here, sir. What if she really doesn’t know anything? Let’s say she never had anything to do with Malucci? Maybe she wasn’t some assassin used by one side of the house to take down the other. What if she’s just some cheap, junkie whore that killed a bunch of lowlifes? If this wasn’t a cleverly orchestrated coup d’état and just some pissed off girl on a rampage, what then?”
Harding’s mouth tightened. He crumpled the printout of the woman’s photo in his hand. “Then we take it all away from her anyway. Regardless of what we agree to today, within one year this bitch will be rotting in maximum security for the rest of her life where she belongs.”
“Then we’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll call her lawyer.”
T WO
Selena
WHEN I REGAINED consciousness, I was in pain. I assumed that the surgery had gone well. Anytime you go under for surgery, waking up afterward—even in pain—is the first good sign.
I lay there on the firm mattress looking up at the ceiling and thinking about the part of me that hurt the most—my upper chest.
I was on a gurney, on top of the sheet, my body covered by nothing but a loose-fitting hospital gown. The curtain that divided my gurney from the larger recovery room parted and a man in green scrubs entered. He closed the curtain behind him. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, of average height with a chubby build. He wore a dark goatee on his chin and carried a tray that had a styrofoam pitcher, paper cup, and a smaller, shot glass-sized cup of pills.
“You’re awake,” he said. “That’s good.”
I cleared my throat. He poured me a cup of water. I reached my hand out to take it, but my reach stopped short. I was handcuffed to the bed rail. I tried the other hand, but it had an IV tube sticking out of the back of it.
“Let me help,” he said. He held the cup in front of my chin and tilted it so I could take sips.
I tried raising my head up from the pillow. The movement electrified the pain in my chest.
“They get the bullet out?” I said.
“How the hell should I know? They don’t tell me anything. Just be glad they’re trying to get the bullets out of you instead of putting them in you. That’s how I look at it.”
“The perks of being in prison,” I said.
It had been quite the experience. So far I’d spent a couple of days in county jail. I was then moved to a maximum security induction holding prison. I was that special. My attorney had cleverly avoided me getting sentenced to a high security, full lockdown federal corrections facility for my longer stay. She did some magic and worked it out so that I had a better place to stay.
And while that sounds nice and all, here I was with this fucker. Prison was still prison, whatever you called it.
He checked the plastic bracelet on the back of my hand. He then checked a printout that lay on the tray of medicine. “So, Inmate 54177-225, I have some pills here for you. Looks like they want you to not be in pain and not develop any infections.”
“That’s thoughtful,” I said.
“I think so too,” he said.
“I’m sure they have the world’s top surgeons working here.”
He leaned closer and spoke with a soft voice. “I have a message for you too. From your friend outside.” His breath was unpleasant.
“I don’t have any friends outside.”
“You better have at least one. If he starts thinking you’re not his friend, there’s no telling what kind of funny ideas he might get.”
“Sounds threatening. I think we have very different ideas about what friendship is,” I said.
“He’s the best friend you’ve got, and you need to get it through your head.”
“Just tell me the fucking message and give me my pills.”
“He wants you to know that he’s got your back and reminds you to have his. He doesn’t want you to worry about how things are going to turn out for you. He has it all under control. He appreciates you not cutting deals with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A trusting gesture like that on your part has bought you some good will. He can make your stay very comfortable.”
“He’s that worried, huh? Doesn’t sound at all like the guy I know.”
“No. He’s being kind to you. I think he likes you. But he could and would end it today if he thought you were not his friend. But he needs something from you in return. Call it… a gesture to show your sincerity.”
“What do I owe him for this goodwill?” I was tired of talking, I just wanted this fucker to shut up.
He shrugged. “Beats me. I suspect he’ll have an occasional favor to ask while you’re inside. Think of it as a job. He’ll get a message to you from somebody inside if and when needed. Probably won’t be me. When he asks, whatever he asks, you do what he says. Then he knows you’re loyal. That’s it. That’s the message.”
“My work ethic’s not so impressive. I only have experience flipping burgers and giving lap dances. Not sure how either of those skills will help in here.”
“Oh, you’ve got more talent than that. And he knows it, too.”
This whole thing sounded fishy to me. He was talking about Pete Malucci. I didn’t know Pete that well, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of person that sweated this much about all the shit I didn’t know about him and his operation. And I couldn’t imagine him needing me to do any work for him while in prison.
“Whatever. Time for my pills, mister nurse.” I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue.
He stroked his goatee between his fingers. “You still haven’t learned how things work around here yet, have you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Honey, you’ve got to earn your pills. I do something for you, what will you do for me in return? That’s the way of this world. That rule only intensifies when you’re behind bars. You have something somebody wants? You barter it. Nobody inside squanders anything of value.”
I glared at him.
“Oh, you had the right pose. Mouth open, tongue out. We’ve just got to get your head in the right position, that’s all.”
My upper lip curled. My glare hardened. “I’m not sucking your dick for an aspirin.”
He laughed. “Honey, you’ve been out a long time. How do you know you haven’t already?”
“Haven’t already what?”
“Sucked my dick. Just because you’re unconscious doesn’t mean your mouth don’t work.”
“Okay. The Hippocratic Oath. That’s how I know.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s for doctors. Nurses don’t take ’oaths like that. We don’t get paid enough to take any oaths. Especially in here. We need perks from people like you just to keep going every day.”
“I don’t even know what you’ve got in that cup. It’s not gonn
a happen.”
“I can get you a whole lot better than prison issue aspirin. I’ve got some good stuff right here as a matter of fact.” He shook the cup of pills. I could hear them rattling together inside the paper cup. “I can get you pretty much anything you want. Nobody questions me when I walk around with pills in hand.”
“So I take it you haven’t heard the story about what I can do with my teeth? Or do you just want a demo? It’d be like sticking your dick in a blender.”
“Oh, I’ve heard. But you won’t. Think about it. You’re not going to have many opportunities to be with a man again. Not ever.”
I laughed at him. “Um... sorry, man. You know, I’ve given this some thought already. While I’m down, I’ve decided that I’m gay for the stay. I’m off the pipe until I get out. So you’ll have to wait.”
He chuckled. “Gay for the stay? Just listen to you. You have no idea, girl. No idea. You know how long your stay’s gonna be? This isn’t a temporary situation for you. El-wop, baby. L.W.O.P. Life without parole. Your stay is for the rest of your natural life. This may be your last opportunity. You might want to think about that before you go all—quote, unquote—‘gay for the stay.’”
“Last opportunity ever to be with a man? At least I’ve got something good going for me then. So far I have to say this prison thing’s not so bad. And you might want to check my sentence again. I’m not el-wop. They don’t do much parole in federal prison, I hear. That’s more of a state thing.”
“Close enough, gay girl. You fuck up once, and you will be. You been with Chav yet?”
Chav was a fellow inmate. She ran the place from the inside. She had dark hair that she kept buzzed down close on the sides like a crew cut. She was tall and built more like a man than a woman, covered in tattoos. She looked like a soldier in a lot of ways, but I had no idea if she had served in the armed forces. She had thick, strong shoulders and muscular arms. She kept strong by doing daily calisthenics. She was taller than the other inmates. She had a scar on the front of her throat and spoke with a coarse whisper. Rumor had it she had a clit as long as the average man’s penis, and she had dibs on the cherry girls that she favored. She was recognized by everyone as the alpha female, and I had no interest in upsetting the order of things. If she was on top, then she held the scrutiny of the CO’s and administrative staff. Which was all fine with me. I wanted to be off the radar.
