“Please, do be considerate. This warehouse makes every little move you make echo,” I taunt.
“Son, what is this?” he demands, anger trembling in his voice, as he regains more consciousness. I don’t answer. Instead, I take another drag of the cigarette and let it hang out of my mouth as I raise my fist, crashing it into his pudgy face. He lets out a pitiful wail as I continue to pound my fists against the flesh on his face, causing his once-olive skin tone to become a shade of murky crimson.
His wails increase in volume with each hit, making me thankful for the warehouse’s secluded location. His threshold for pain has never been as high as mine. Can’t blame him, he is a cold-hearted prick who didn’t have to live through losing all that I have.
I show no mercy by giving him a break between swings. As soon as I am done with one punch, I immediately go into the next. Just warming up for the finale,his final act.
When I decide he is banged up enough—for now—I finally let up. But not for his sake. No, my cigarette is dwindling down to the filter, and I wouldn’t want to risk burning my lips. Oh no. These lips must stay in pristine condition. How else would I be able to taste every delicious morsel ofmi reina’sbody?
He grunts as he tries to move both hands, trying to loosen the restraints. I notice one of the ties is beginning to come undone, so I take the dwindling butt out of my mouth bringing it to his hand.
I dig the tip into his flesh, twisting it for good measure as he roars in pain.
Now that I have him distracted in his increased anguish, I run to my tool bag on the other side of the tarp and grab the nail gun.
My father’s moaning ceases as he sees the nail gun in my hand, as I walk back to where he is restrained. He mutters something in Italian, as he tries to further loosen that pesky restraint that won’t cooperate.
I click my tongue as I quicken my pace, raising the nail gun in the air.
“Son!” he attempts to yell, reeling from the pain as I bring my hand down, crashing the gun into his hand. Pressing the trigger, the quick and precise swish of the machine sends a large metal nail into his arm, pinning it to the metal armrest of the chair.
“Just for good measure,” I say as I swiftly bring the nail gun to the other arm, repeating the same motion. Muffled screams and inaudible attempts at words drip from my father’s mouth as the blood oozes from his flesh upon impact. I bring the nail gun down, admiring the pain I have inflicted on this sorry sack of shit.
His head hangs as he wallows in the agony that is surging throughout his body.
Glancing down at my watch, I see that I am ahead of schedule somehow.
“You know, Father, today has me feeling rather exhilarated since everything I have desired is finally coming to fruition,” I say, condescendingly as ever to my father, whose head is still hung low. “Because of that, I’m feeling generous. I will give you a few moments to recoup so you have your energy to do what you’ve refused to do … answer to me.” I walk over and kick his shin. “Then, we will pick up where we left off.”
I use the time to put away the nail gun and tidy up a bit before I approach him once more. As soon as his time is up and my feet crunch closer to him on the tarp, he begins to come to.
“Son, forgive me!” he cries out once more, the desperation and pain intermingling in his tone.
I hate when he calls me son, he is nothing but a sperm donor to me, and a treacherous one at that.
“It’s a little late for forgiveness.” I circle around him in the chair as he is trying to flinch his way out of the restraints. “Besides, what should I forgive you for, exactly? So many sins on one man’s conscience. Forgivemefor not being able to keep up,” I say. He is so desperate for me to release him that he doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. Instead, he clings on to my words intended to mock him, once more pleading for mercy.
I chuckle, running my now throbbing hand through my semi-slicked back hair. The mixture of sweat and blood isn’t enough to keep the single strand of my black hair from getting in my face. I shake my head, attempting to move it, trying to collect my thoughts. I have waited so long for this moment, to look him in the eye, to speak my piece.
“Please, Son, I beg you.”
Ignoring his plea, I walk back to my little bag of tricks and sift through my options, trying to choose the next contender to inflict lasting pain on him.
“Please, Son, I beg of you. You can’t do this,” he pleads once more.
Clicking my tongue with my back turned to him, I raise one hand, signaling him to give up his pitiful begging.
“You know, Armando, a supposed wise man once told me that Moretti men do not beg, and they certainly do not stoop so low as to beg for forgiveness.” I stop for a moment, sorting through my bag before continuing my spiel for him. “I believe it was the same man who also said that Moretti men show no mercy, no matter what. Truly wise words, wouldn’t you say?” I smirk, as I settle on my tool of choice for ending the motherfucker. A wooden bat wrapped in spiked chains, with nails poking out.
Bat in hand, I rise and redirect my attention to him. “Do you know who is responsible for ingraining in me such poignant words?” I jest.
He shakes his head, shocked that I would use his own motto against him. The look of betrayal on his face I must admit is pure bliss.
“I said that, but I certainly think that being your father, I am an exception to the rule.”
“Are you though?” I ask, as I begin to walk toward him.
I admire the sharp metal nails scattered throughout the wood. Lifting the bat in the air, I swing it to practice. Fantasizing about how exhilarating it will feel to have this wreck his flesh.
