Pop Goes the Weasel

63

Cold. Freezing, freezing cold.

Simon Booker’s eyes crept open, briefly flickering closed once more as the harsh light of the naked bulb assaulted them. His head was so foggy, he was so confused. What the hell had happened to hi-

There she was, watching him. Angel. With the iron bar. Now it slowly came back to him, jagging sharply as the memories flashed through his mind.

He was weak. His face was sticky with blood, his mouth horribly parched. But still he tried to get up. Only to find he was held firm. Looking around he saw his arms were tied together with thick green wire and secured to the wall behind him. He was naked and stretched out on the mattress, his clothes nowhere in sight. He tried to shout at her, only to become aware of the tape stuck firmly over his mouth.

‘You pathetic little shit.’

Simon Booker jumped as her venom broke the silence.

‘You sad little lowlife.’

She was walking towards him, the iron bar still in her hand. She tossed it from hand to hand.

‘Did you think you could trick me?’

Simon shook his head vigorously.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

He shook his head even harder.

‘Trick me, then attack me?’

She swung the bar down as hard as she could on to his kneecap. He screamed, the duct tape enveloping his agony, making it hard to breathe. Now she brought it down on his other kneecap, the bone crunching on impact. Simon howled once more, trying to turn his body from the blows that rained down on his legs, his thighs, his chest. Again and again and again. She paused briefly, shouted something unintelligible, then swung the bar between his splayed legs to connect with his groin.

He screamed fit to burst, as tears flooded his eyes.

‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ she bellowed at him before laughing. ‘Oh boy, you are going to pay for that. I’m going to send you back to your frigid wife in pieces, right?’

The tears were pouring down his face now, but they seemed to have no impact on her. She raised the bar to strike his face, then suddenly paused, reining in the tempest of violence that threatened to overwhelm her. Breathing heavily, she turned and put the iron bar in her rucksack.

The respite was brief, however, as she now drew a long knife from her bag. Feeling its blade with her gloved finger, she turned to her victim. Marching over, she held the blade to his throat. He prayed for her to do it, to end his suffering right now. A little more pressure would sever his carotid artery and that would be that.

But Angel had other ideas. Raising the blade, she crouched down, rocking back and forward on her haunches. A smile danced around the corners of her mouth.

‘You’ve paid for a whole hour, so we might as well have a little fun, mightn’t we?’

And with that the butchery began.