Mr. Snuff

by Jon Athan

  “But, you know about the business. You know it was a snuff film.”

  “Yeah, and I know who it was made for.”

  Scott shoved the sheet of paper into the briefcase, then he skimmed through the stack. He whisked sheets beneath others as he sought the elusive information. With glowing eyes, he retrieved another piece of paper with a black-and-white photo and snippets of background information. The information included a name, a home address, and a phone number – a gold mine.

  Scott passed the paper to Russell and said, “This man, James 'Jimmy' Lambert, ordered a video from Mr. Wu's service. Your daughter matched his specifications. I think, no, I'm convinced he ordered your daughter's execution for his video. He didn't know it would be your daughter, but that's what he wanted. He wanted a girl like her to die for his pleasure.” As Russell nodded, Scott explained, “Unfortunately, my associates can't help much more on that front. My associates won't confront Mr. Wu and his business. They're not looking for that kind of trouble and they want nothing to do with his business. You understand? If I had muscle, I swear, Russell, I would be the first one barging into this man's house. I'd give him a...”

  Russell neatly folded the paper into a square, then he shoved it into his coat pocket. Scott watched him with a furrowed brow. He was baffled by Russell's calm demeanor. He recognized the eerie serenity – the calm before the storm. Scott could forecast the violent tempest, he could foresee the inevitable path to bloody vengeance.

  Russell said, “Don't worry, I understand. I can find him. I can find all of them. I'll handle this...”

  Scott raised his brow and tilted his head. He asked, “You're going to handle this? You?”

  “Yeah, I can handle this. This is about my daughter, my family. I'll handle it. I just need one more favor from you now.”

  “What?”

  Russell glanced out the passenger window and said, “I'm going to need a ride home. I need to pick up my hammer...”

  Chapter Five

  The Man with the Fatal Fetish

  A soft drizzle befell the lavish neighborhood, pouring onto the palatial homes and soaking the kempt lawns. The friendly neighbors rushed to their fancy sedans, seeking shelter from the rain in their expensive vehicles. The stay-at-home wives and husbands waved from the security of their porches, then they scurried back into their homes – some worked to acquire more riches, other stayed to tend to their wealth.

  As the vehicles departed with the sunrise like a military convoy, Russell nonchalantly strolled down the sidewalk. He donned a black leather jacket over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, and black steel toe boots – his signature outfit. He stopped in front of a grand two-story brick and stone home, gripping the gate as he inspected the house.

  Russell nodded and whispered, “Hello, James...”

  Russell tugged on the iron gate, but to no avail – the partition was locked. A lock was not a dead end, though. In one swift movement, he vaulted over the gate. He patted his jeans, then he moseyed up the decomposed granite walkway. He was impressed by the luxurious home, but affluence did not awe him. Wealth did not change his opinion of a man.

  Russell knocked on the forest-green door and patiently waited. A second turned into a minute in the blink of an eye. He could hear shuffling and muttering inside the house – the muffled voice of an anxious man. Russell couldn't help but smirk as he imagined the unnerved man fidgeting behind the door. As his finger hovered over the doorbell, the door cracked open a mere inch.

  James Lambert peered through the crack, adjusting his navy tie and using his foot as a makeshift doorstop. James stood five-eight with skinny limbs and a paunchy belly – skinny fat. His blue eyes were hollow and devoid of hope. His thinning black hair was combed over the bald spot towards the center of his dome – the attempt was modest but futile. He wore a white button-up shirt, navy trousers, and black socks. He was barely getting ready for his day.

  James furrowed his brow and asked, “How did you get up here? What do you want, buddy?”

  Russell clenched his jaw as he gazed into James' eyes. He was rendered speechless by the confrontation. He had envisioned himself slaughtering the man in a meticulous fashion. Yet, his blood boiled from the fuming rage he harbored within. James was living peacefully, unperturbed by his role in Carrie's death.

  James puckered his lips, then he said, “Listen, I don't know what you think you're doing here, but you need to get the fuck out of here. You understand? This is private property. That includes solicitors and bums. So, get...”

  Russell interrupted, “Are you James Lambert?”

  James slowly nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah... I'm sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” He weaved and bobbed his head, trying to glance over Russell's broad shoulders. James asked, “Did someone send you here? Is that it? If they did, just come out and say it. Stop standing there like a fucking moron and speak.”

  Russell said, “An angel sent me to your door today. She wants us to have a word. Is anyone else home? A wife? A son? Maybe a daughter?”

  “I see, I see. You're one of those guys. Very persistent and annoying... Let me guess, a former crack addict saved by God, right? Now you're here spreading the good word and saving others. Is that it? Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Okay? And, my wife? She's probably out somewhere banging a pool boy or the pizza guy, whatever the fuck turns her on. Kids? My kids get flushed down toilets, okay? You get me now? I'm a bastard and no God can rescue me. I'm proud of that. Now, get out of here. Beat it.”

  Before James could slam the door, Russell planted his foot in the doorway and his forearm on the wooden barrier. James furrowed his brow as he gazed at Russell, baffled. Russell returned the gaze with an unwavering deadpan stare. James nervously laughed as he hopelessly tried to shrug off the danger.

  James stuttered, “You–You're a persistent one, aren't you? Hmm? Look, I don't mind calling the cops if you...”

  Russell interrupted, “I've got something you want to hear. Let's make this easy and talk like men, James. You don't want the cops to come around here snooping, prying into your personal business. You know better than that, don't you? Come on, let's have a chat.”

  “No, no, no. Fuck that. Go talk to your priest, motherfucker. I don't know you, buddy. Get off my property before I get my gun. You've got a minute, alright? A minute.”

  As James shoved the door with all of his might, Russell shook his head and muttered, “Shit... I wanted to do this the easy way...”

  Russell gritted his teeth, then he kicked the door open. James tumbled to his buttocks as he was overwhelmed by the intruder's brute strength and shocked by the intrusion. Russell stepped into the home, then he glanced over his shoulder. The loud bang was drowned out by the soft drizzle and the prying eyes were preoccupied with housework and red wine. The coast was clear.

  The vengeful father shut the door behind him, then he glanced around the entrance hall. The blue walls were framed with elegant white molding and the hardwood floors were pristine. To his left, an archway led to the living room. To his right, there was a staircase leading to the second floor. There was another archway at the end of the hall, but it was not significant to Russell's crusade.

  Russell turned towards James and said, “I hope no one else is home, James, because this is going to hurt...”

  James crawled in reverse, slipping and sliding as he glanced around the hallway. To his utter dismay, there were no viable weapons in sight. A flimsy picture frame could only cause so much pain; using an umbrella on the intruder would be like swinging a twig at a tree trunk. From the ground, James gazed into Russell's daunting eyes.

  As his bottom lip quivered, James stuttered, “Wha–What do you want from me? What? You–You here to rob me? Is that what you want? Money? I've got... I've got money, just don't hurt me. I'll give you anything, just don't hurt me.”

  Russell did not respond. He breathed heavily as he towered over James, analyzing every nook and cranny on his countenance. Russell was fi
lled with disgust. He was revolted by the man's fear. James trembled like a frightened pup. The man shook and squirmed like Carrie in her snuff film. The resemblance was uncanny – fear was universal.

  As he scowled, Russell reached towards the back of his waistband, then he retrieved a wooden-handle framing hammer with a steel head and straight claw. James shuddered upon spotting the common household tool. In James' teary eyes, the hammer looked like an instrument of torture – his wicked imagination ran wild.

  James asked, “What are you going to do to me?”

  Russell inquired, “Where's your bedroom?”

  “I... I... Wha–What are you going...”

  “Where's your goddamn room?!”

  James pointed at the ceiling and stuttered, “The... The first room to the–the right...”

  Russell glowered and said, “Good. Get up.” As James crawled in reverse and stammered, Russell shouted, “Get up! Don't make me do something I'll regret, you rat bastard! Don't push me! Get up and move!”

  ***

  James stuttered as he shook his head and waved his arms, pleading for mercy without saying a word. Russell grabbed a handful of James' thin and slimy hair, then he tugged with all of his might. James yelped as he helplessly scratched and slapped at Russell's wrist. The stairs creaked as Russell dragged James up to the second floor.

  As the pair approached the top, James shouted, “Help! Help me! Call 911! Help! Call the cops! Call the...”

  Apoplectic with fury, Russell violently pinned James to the wall. James frowned and squirmed as he gazed into Russell's bestial eyes – the man was no longer human. Russell cocked the hammer back above his head, then he struck James. James' nose was immediately crushed by the hammer's face. He coughed and sputtered as his eyelids flickered from the devastating blow. Russell clenched his jaw and pushed James into the bedroom.

  Russell sternly said, “Keep your mouth shut, you piece of crap. You only talk when I let you talk, you understand? If you run your mouth again, I'll cut your tongue out and shove it down your throat. That's a promise.”

  Russell inhaled deeply as he attempted to compose himself. The fury was difficult to tame. He glanced around the bijou room. There was a large king-sized bed with an elegant frame and crimson satin bed sheets towards the center of the wall to the left. On the right, there was a six-drawer dresser with a spotless mirror; farther down the same wall, there was a door leading into a bathroom. The surprisingly simple chamber had navy walls and hardwood flooring like the rest of the home.

  James stumbled through the room, then he tumbled onto the bed – like a drunk arriving home from the bar. Dazed by the hammer to the head, he indistinctly murmured and slowly turned towards the door. His nose was swollen, sliced, and bloodied. Blood leaked from his nostrils, pouring out like an open faucet. More blood streamed from a laceration on the bridge of his nose. The blood streamed down his lips, then plopped onto his shirt and slacks.

  Russell strolled towards the dresser and said, “James Lambert... James Lambert... What do you do for a living, James?”

  Slurring his words like a belligerent drunk, James asked, “Wha–What... What do you... What do you do? Huh? What...”

  Russell opened a drawer, then he shuffled through the clothing. He responded, “Me? I'm a freelancer. A contractor, I suppose. I do anything that pays. I've worked as a fisherman, I've worked in construction, I've worked as a door-to-door salesman... Hell, I've even slit throats and dumped bodies in rivers for the mob. Anything that pays, James, anything that pays. So, what do you do? How do you make your living?”

  Teary-eyed, James fiddled his thumbs and shook his head. He could not muster the courage to respond. He was petrified and perplexed by the unexpected home invasion. He could not decipher the honesty in Russell's words. The possibility of facing an enigmatic man of Russell's caliber was rattling. He wasn't certain, but he felt his deeds had finally caught up to him.

  James said, “I... I'm a security salesman. I sell systems to... to keep people like you out. You know, they'll probably come here or call...”

  Russell interrupted, “No one's coming. Don't bother threatening me. Your phone would have been ringing by now. Your only hope would be your wife, but, as you said, she's probably out fucking the pool boy and the pizza guy. Right?”

  James despondently stared at his lap as he whimpered. He nodded and responded, “Right...”

  As he tugged on the final drawer, Russell said, “You're good at hiding your dirty deeds. I was hoping to find a personal collection, but I've got nothing.”

  “Personal collection? Collection of what?”

  “Don't act stupid. It won't help you now. I know about the snuff films, James. I know about your special order.”

  James' eyes widened with fear as he repeated, “Snuff? You–You know about the...”

  Russell planted his palms on the dresser and loudly sighed. He explained, “My daughter was the... the 'star' of your personal video. She was slaughtered on camera to fulfill your sick fantasy. Tell me, James, why'd you pick my daughter? What was it about her? Talk to me.”

  As tears streamed down his bloody cheeks, James dug his fingers into his hair and said, “It was... It was an impulse thing. It was... I didn't pick your daughter, sir. I didn't pick her. I asked for a random girl that–that looked like one of my coworkers. That's all. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would actually happen like this... I'm sorry.”

  Russell shut his eyes and whispered, “If it wasn't my daughter, it would have been the next man's...” He turned towards James, then he leaned on the dresser. Gently tapping the hammer on the tabletop, Russell said, “Tell me about the business. Where were you going to pick up the video? I was told a man driving an expensive car was in possession of your video. Was he bringing it here? Or were you that man?”

  James slumped his head down and gazed at his groin. The blood continued to drip from his fractured nose. His slacks and shirt were spattered with blood. He was lost in his thoughts, pondering the most appropriate response. A wrong answer could lead to another hit – it was not a risk he was willing to take.

  James shrugged and said, “It wasn't me. I don't know anything about that.”

  Russell softly hit the hammer on his palm and said, “Don't make us do it the hard way...”

  “I... I really don't know anything about that. I was supposed to pick up the video at a video store. AJ's Video Store. There's... There's a backroom to the backroom, you know? You just go in there and tell them your name. If you don't have a special order, you can go into the room and pick out any other video you want.”

  “AJ's Video Store? That little piece of shit store is renting out snuff films? Why?”

  “I don't know, man. It's the economy or some shit. They've got to stay afloat somehow, I guess. Whether it's selling imported porn from Japan or snuff films, they're going to try to stay in business and make a buck. It's business. I don't know, though. I don't do it often. I swear, I'm not a regular or anything like that...”

  Russell shut his eyes and shook his head. He had unraveled a significant clue to the puzzle. Carrie's coffin rested on James' delicate shoulders, but her barbaric murder was spread across several culprits. Her execution was linked to a network of savage killers. James was a mere stepping stone to his true objective – Mr. Wu.

  Russell sighed, then he said, “Tell me about Wu.”

  Like if he had heard the Devil's name, James slowly lifted his head and gazed at Russell – awed and baffled. His eyes were brimming with tears and his bottom lip quivered. His entire body shuddered uncontrollably. Russell could see the fear running through James' timorous body. The trepidation was blatant.

  In a dubious tone, James repeated, “Wu?”

  Russell placed his hands on his knees and leaned towards James. Without a blink or shudder, Russell sternly demanded, “Tell me about Wu.”

  “I can't... I–I won't... You don't... You don't understand what you're getting yourself into, you–you can't ju
st go after Mr. Wu. It doesn't work that way. I mean, I... I couldn't tell you about him if I knew anything. Please, just let it go. Let me go. Let it all go.”

  Russell tapped James' moist brow with his hammer and said, “If you don't tell me how to contact this man, I will bash your head in. I've already got some work cut out for me, so don't think I won't crush your skull. Tell me about Wu, James, and I'll make it easy for you.”

  James sat in silence as he deeply ruminated. Russell watched as he patiently waited. Before he could spew another demand, James burst into a nervous cackle. Tears gushed from his eyes and blended with his blood. He couldn't help himself. The anxiety and fear were overwhelming.

  Russell asked, “What's so funny?”

  James did not respond. His derisive laughter gyrated into Russell's ears, mocking his resolve. The chuckling was insulting – an intangible backhanded slap. The distraught father could feel the frustration building up in his limbs. The urge to strike was fueled by the snickering. With sharp eyes, Russell glared at James' left hand.

  Russell grabbed James' wrist, pinning his hand to the firm mattress. James did not stop laughing. Russell lifted the hammer over his head, then he clobbered James' hand. He struck the skinny hand with all of his might – seven consecutive blows. James screamed with each hit, bawling over the thudding from the hammer. The bones were crushed and blood jetted from a grisly laceration across his hand. His hand was ravaged by the attack.

  James wheezed as he held his hand to his chest, chuckling through the pain. He said, “Kill... Kill me...”

  Breathing heavily, Russell stepped in reverse and asked, “What did you say?”

  “Kill me... Kill me, motherfucker... You know, I think... I think it's better that way. Yeah, kill me. Make it quick. If this is all you can do, it's nothing compared to what he'll do to me. You'll break my bones, right? You'll crush my skull with your hammer and I'll... I'll be dead after a few hits. That man, Mr. Wu, he'll skin me, then he'll roast me in an oven while I'm still alive. So, kill me. You'd be doing me a favor. Please, kill me.”