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“Comfortable?” I asked the asshole, cocking an eyebrow at him from just inside the doorway.
He glared at me from where the boys had tied him to an old wooden chair one of them must have pulled up from the kitchen. Or maybe the basement. The legs looked like they were covered in dust.
“You’re going to die,ese,” he spat.
I shrugged. “We’ve all gotta die someday, my friend. Some of us sooner than others.”
More glaring. Maybe he thought it made him look intimidating.
“What’s your name?” I asked, pulling out the Zippo and pack of cigarettes from my pocket. It was a nasty habit, one I’d get around to kicking one of these days, maybe when shit calmed down—as if that would ever happen.
Not surprisingly, all the asshole did was glare at me as I lit a smoke and flipped the Zippo closed. He seemed to be paying close attention to the end of the cigarette, watching it grow redder as I inhaled.
“All right, no name, huh? I guess I’ll call you Fred.” Why Fred? Fuck if I knew.
“So, Fred, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said as I dragged the old rocking chair over in front of him and sat my ass down. “You never did quite tell me what you were planning to do to Greta if I hadn’t been there.”
It would probably piss off the crazy girl to know I was asking, but my clubhouse, my prerogative.
He watched the end of the cigarette as I took another drag real close to his face. “I told you,” he hissed, “el jefesent me to give her a message.”
I nodded. “Of course. You did mention that part. But in my experience, mostmessengershave a way of drilling theirmessageshome.”
Once again, he just glared at me.
It seemed I needed to be speaking in a different kind of language.
I grabbed the Zippo from my pocket, flipped it open, and flicked the wheel, producing a decent size flame.
He seemed to try to draw into himself as I brought it close to him, but the boys had tied him down so well, he didn’t even budge an inch. Nice job—I’d have to mention it to them later.
In the meantime, I ran the flame along the underside of Fred’s arm nice and slow, singing the hairs and scorching his skin while he screamed like… well, like someone was burning him with a lighter flame.
When I reached his elbow, I snapped the Zippo closed.
“Feeling any more talkative, Fred?”
More glaring. More silence. I don’t think poor Fred was getting the message.
So, we did it again, running the flame up the underside of his left arm this time—just to even them out. This time, I let the edge of his short sleeve catch fire, watching it for a moment before I clamped my hand down over it to pat out the flames. No sense in burning down the clubhouse just to teach Fred a lesson.
I let him scream and gasp for a while, finishing my smoke and putting it out in the ashtray someone had helpfully left on the floor by the bed.
“Next, I start getting creative, Fred. I think now would be a good time to talk to me.”
He heaved a shuddering sigh, and though he was still glaring at me, I could see his jaw loosening, finally resigning himself to the conversation.
“El jefegave no instruction. He said to use my imagination,” he said.
Yeah, that’s what I thought. No decent fucking messengers left in this world, were there? “And I bet you have quite an imagination, don’t you?”
He glared. He didn’t look like the brightest lightbulb, but even stupid men could have vivid imaginations.
“How many men came with you?” I asked.
“None,” he said way too quickly.
I shook my head slowly, disappointed. “I thought you and I were starting to get somewhere. But lies, Fred?”
