Friday, October 18, 2013

Quinn Madsen

“Here we are, sir,” Doorknob announced, approaching one of the many wooden stands that lined the grid arrangement.  On the stand was what appeared to be similar to a hospital patient’s chart.  Glancing at it briefly, he said, “Quinn Madsen.  Days one through nine, removal of all body hair with tweezers.  Day ten, three hours of having to sneeze without being able to do so.  This is your boy.”

A few feet behind the wooden platform, Quinn Madsen was chained to the ground.  Three pit guards, armed with tweezers, were busily plucking hairs from various parts of his body.  It seemed like such an inadequate punishment for someone who’d helped bludgeon me to death.  The square space for his torture was designated by four short stakes, which had ropes tied between them a few inches off the ground. 

I stepped over the rope.  “Guards, I’m going to need to talk to him.  Take five.”  Slightly confused, the pit guards backed away from him but remained standing at the edges of the square, anxious to resume their torture as soon as I was finished.

I stood over Quinn, as he struggled, whimpering and naked, against his restraints.  “Do you know who I am?” I asked him, holding my dagger above him ominously.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you remember me?” I thundered.  “The kid you beat to death?  The kid whose skull you split open with a hoe?  Do you remember me?”

Horrified and confused, he squinted at me.  “Jason?” he asked incredulously.

“Yep,” I said.  “Jason. The new fucking king of Hell.”  Gripping the dagger above my head with both hands, and summoning all my anger over my sudden and unwarranted demise, I lunged down at him and plunged the dagger into his stomach with all of my enhanced strength.


I wanted to make it hurt as much as it possibly could.

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