Today while going to visit my sister for her birthday I found my niece, she’s only thirteen, was standing out on the porch crying with her hands over her ears. When she saw me she leapt into my arms and told me what was going on inside. Her dad was beating my sister because dinner was late. I called my friend who lived a couple of blocks away. I sat her down on the steps and told her to wait for him, I told her I would handle this.
There was always a fear of this, but never a mark to prove it. When I walked in and saw him towering over her, fists clenched t-shirt bloody, something snapped. It was his knee. That happens when a wrot iron fire poker, shaped like a bull leg, slams into it. He barely had a chance to scream before I kicked his jaw in.
I know, why not use the same weapon? Well I wanted to feel his pain. I buried fist after fist into his scumbag face. That friend I called, he pulled me off. Which was fine because I wanted this to last a very long time. I turned around to find my friend’s wife was taking care of my niece and sister. Let’s call my friend Rodger. Well Rodger and I took hold of this vile excuse of a man and dragged him into my car. I sat with him in the back while Rodger drove.
I knew the perfect place to take him. After half an hour of driving we pulled into the, well let’s call it the Old Man’s farm. The Old Man was already waiting for us out side. He cursed the cad under his breath as we took him into the barn. His wife, The Old Woman, brought us lemonade and plastic sheeting. She was too good to curse but gave my brother in law one or two words of disappointment.
You see I never knew he was beating my sister, he never knew my line of work. I thought it was time I introduced him to my business. He sat there, on the cold hard ground, watching me spread the plastic and making a ten by ten clean room. Rodger came back from my car with a heavy duffle bag. The first thing we did was put together my carbine fiber restraint table, he looked confused. Then he watched as we placed collapsible containers under the tables many drain holes, the Old Man was nice enough to line them with plastic. I think he started to catch on. If that didn’t do it, the specially modified briefcases with a myriad of torture devices certainly did. You should have seen how wonderfully large his eyes became.
He could struggle as I lifted him up and placed him on the table. He just hurt himself when I restrained him. The table is my own design, all of the bindings that hang under the table are adjustable. This way I can cuff his wrists behind his back and underneath the table, leaving me his entire torso to work with. Gags are for beginners, I have an insulated glass box that goes over his head. This way his screams are but a hum and he still has the ability to breathe through his mouth. You never know when you might break a nose severally enough to render it useless.
The box is large enough to be used a ready table and heavy enough that he cannot disturb it too much. I place all of the tools I will be using onto it, allowing him to see them. I warn him that if he just so happens to knock one of them over, I will use the fallen tool first. Obviously I put all of the meaner looking ones at the very edge.
I let him stare at his fate for a full hour. I used this time to send another text to my sister.
Hey, I’ll be over in a little bit. I cought traffic on Jeferson. How’s the party?
I only waited for a minute before she responded.
Not great, my bastard of a husband took off again. He’s probably dunk with another slut.
Looks like that’s my cue.