Author's Note: This story has been a long time coming. I've been working on it for a few months now, and it's probably the most sadistic thing I've ever written. The next chapters will be just as bad, so consider yourself warned :]
I don't own Death Note, as I'm sure you are well aware, and I (very unfortunately) don't own Brad Pitt either, but allll the others are mine. The idea for a Mello mafia story came from the movie Snatch, even though the plot has nothing to do with Snatch, that movie just made me evil heh. Go watch it if British people and Brad Pitt are your thing.
To conclude my rambling before I allow you to finally get on with life and read the story, THANK YOU EternityEchoes for your helpful beta-ing!!
Now, you may continue.
Average people were afraid of spiders, or heights, or even things like numbers and storms. Mello had never been considered an average person though.
Mello was afraid of the garbage disposal units in kitchen sinks.
Ever since he was little, they had always freaked him out. They whirred and roared like monsters, chewing up everything you dropped down in them with no remorse. Whether it was an accident or not, the garbage disposal didn't spare anything that fell into its depths.
Mello had started out merely disliking the noise the garbage disposal made, but over time he grew to dread it. Out of all of the kids at Wammy's House, Mello was the only one who always ate everything on his plate at mealtimes. He didn't want to leave anything for Roger to feed to the beast. And whenever Roger and the help began cleaning up the dishes, Mello always made sure he was on the far side of the house, never closer to the kitchen than was absolutely necessary.
It was an average day in Mello's mafia life when he decided it was high time he conquer his fear.
* * *
Malachi Swanson was the under boss of a rival mafia sect that had recently taken up residence in Los Angeles. They were impinging on Mello's sect's territory, and nobody was happy about it. Just to keep things from getting too snarled in his head, Mello had started separating mobsters into the red group-his sect, and the blue group-the other sect.
On the day of one of the biggest unlicensed boxing matches they had ever held, somebody robbed the red group's bookies. All of the bet money was stolen. They were furious, and there was no doubt in anybody's minds that it was the blue group's doing.
So like any enterprising mafia sect, the red group kidnapped a member of the blue group-namely, Mr. Swanson- to give them the answers they wanted.
It had been left up to Mello to break Malachi Swanson. So far no dice.
Crack! Mello brought his gun down across the man's mouth. Malachi spit out a mouthful of blood and an incisor.
"Where's the fuckin' money you piece of shit?" Mello said calmly, wiping the butt of his gun off on Malachi's trousers. Malachi smirked but said nothing. This time Mello brought the gun down on his eye. There was a sickening crunch and a moan as brow-bone buckled inward.
"Swanson, I'd suggest you tell me what you know, or it's very likely that you will end up singing your swan song." Mello's teeth clenched in frustration. A dry chuckle escaped Swanson's throat.
"Swan song? Kid, tell me you didn't learn how to be a mobster by watching the Godfather."
This time it was a fist, not a gun, and it came down on his collar bone.
Swanson gasped and retched. All that came up was bile; there wasn't anything left in his system. The last punch had knocked his chair over, so now Swanson was on his side in a pool of his own blood and vomit. Still, once he got his breath back he chuckled.
Mello was beginning to get very pissed off.
"Mr. Swanson, you greasy little pissant, you are trying my patience very dearly. Do not underestimate my ability to cause you unimaginable pain. Just tell me what I need to know so we can all go on about our merry business with no more damage to your charmingly disfigured face."
"Greasy little…? Y'know what kid? Fuck you. Shoot me!"
Mello sighed and rolled his neck to the left, trying to do the breathing exercises L had taught him when he was younger to help control his temper. Shooting this disgusting creature was starting to sound too tempting. He needed him alive and cooperative. As Mello rolled his neck back to the right, his eyes alighted on the basement's industrial-sized kitchen sink.
"No, I don't think I'll shoot you Mr. Swanson. I think I've got a much better idea."
Mello doubted Malachi would be capable of running very far due to his current injuries, so he untied him. He yanked Malachi to his feet by his hair and dragged him over to the sink.
Malachi wasn't sure what the leather-clad psychopath was doing. Mello turned on the cold tap. Then he flicked the light switch next to the soap tray. A rumbling started up from deep within the bowels of the sink. It began as a gentle groan then turned into a whirring roar, as though a beast had come to life in the plumbing. Malachi visibly paled at the noise. Mello stared at him calmly, masking his inner quaking with cool bravado. Mello dropped a whole apple into the dark hole. The roaring grew louder, more violent.
"Do you know what that sound is, Mr. Swanson? That's the sound of your career with the mafia getting pissed away and gobbled up. Because really, what use does anybody have for a one-handed, brainless fuck such as yourself?"
Malachi licked his lips nervously. He twitched. Then he composed his face, and took the bait.
"Kid, I have both of my hands."
Mello's answering grin was a terrible sight, marring his normally beautiful face. He leaned in until his nose brushed Malachi's ear.
"You may have both hands for now," he whispered "but if you don't tell me what I need to know in the next nine seconds, you'll have to learn to function with a hook in place of your right arm."
Malachi gulped and offered Mello a weak smile.
"Why nine, kid? It's not a very round number."
"I like the number nine."
"Oh."
"Nine." Mello grabbed Swanson's wrist.
"Eight."
"Kid, don't do this, I don't know nothin' about who robbed your bookies!"
"Seven." Mello pulled Swanson toward the opening in the sink.
"Six."
"I really don't know anything! Even if we're the ones who did it, they don't tell me nothin!"
"Oh, we've researched you heavily Mr. Swanson, and we know that isn't true. You're the direct underling of Jesse Ryker. You're the first person to know when he so much as spits. Five."
"You got to believe me, kid!"
"Four."
Malachi whimpered.
"Three." Mello placed their hands directly under the spray of the tap. Malachi's fingers now dangled hopelessly over the garbage disposal.
"Two."
"Alright! I know who robbed your fuckin bookies!"
"One." Mello left their hands by the disposal and faced his now-compliant stool-pigeon expectantly.
"It was a group of Ryker's guys. They heard about the match and figured robbing a coupla bookies would be easy money."
"I need names, Mr. Swanson."
"I don't know who they were kid."
Mello applied pressure to Malachi's trapped wrist. Malachi yelped like a beaten dog.
"I-I-I think it was Marty Jun. And Ryker's son, Solomon. They came up wit the idea, and they're the only two that executed it. Marty owns a pawn shop over near Beverly Hills, on Parker Street. Sol's here and there, but mostly every night you can find him hitting Sunset Strip with Brad Pitt. When Brad's in town, of course."
"Thank you for telling me, Mr. Swanson. I'm glad you and I could finally come to understand each other. Let me just call my friend Vincent and have him come escort you out."
Malachi sighed in relief and attempted to extract his wrist from his captor's grip. Mello continued to hold him tightly. He snapped his phone shut and turned back to Malachi.
"Vincent will be down in a moment. In the meantime, I think you need a little lesson in manners, Mr. Swanson. When your host or hostess asks you a question, it is always polite to immediately give them an answer. Forcing them to ask again is very rude. In the future, you should always remember to be more compliant. I'm going to ensure that next time, you are far more eager to lend a hand."
Mello shoved Malachi's hand in to the still-grumbling garbage disposal.
Malachi's fingers were partially numb from running under the cold water for so long, but that didn't stop him from feeling it when the blades made contact with his skin.
"Fuuuuuuck!! Jesus Christ stop!"
Malachi's words trailed off into an agonized scream that sent shivers up Mello's spine. Blood spattered the inside of the sink, deep crimson drops tempered by bite-sized chunks of flesh and bundles of nerves. Malachi's body convulsed, and he vomited in to the already soiled sink.
Mello only arranged his hold on Malachi's wrist so that he wouldn't be in the blade's way as well, and shoved Malachi's hand in farther. The garbage disposal whined and groaned as it chewed up finger bones, knuckle bones, wrist bone.
Phalanges, carpals, metacarpals. Malachi got steadily paler, but he still continued to scream and curse Mello.
Mello was so intent on the screaming mobster, he didn't hear Vincent open the door. Vince Burdette had been working for the mafia for over seven years, but he had never walked in on a scene quite like this one. Kudos to the little blond for creativity. He had to shout to be heard over the buzzing of the sink and Malachi's shrieking.
"Hey boss! You want another minute?"
Mello looked over his shoulder at Vince.
"No, I think we're done here. He's told me what I need to know."
Mello released Malachi from under the stream of water and cracked him on the top of the head with his gun. Malachi dropped straight downward. His chin hit the countertop, his teeth clacking together like castanets. Something pink flew out of his mouth and landed with a splat on the floor. It was the tip of his tongue. Malachi heaved and choked, but all that came up was bile. He was screaming and clutching the bloody, mauled stump of his right arm. Mello stepped over the man writhing on the floor and crossed to the open door. He stopped by Vince.
"Don't kill him, alright Vincent? He's more useful to us alive, particularly now that his…cooperation is ensured. Just send him on home to Ryker and thank him for the lovely evening."
Vincent was confused. "Y'don't want me to kill 'im? But then Ryker will know we're after his guys."
"Yes, and he'll know that he picked the wrong city to settle in."
Mello looked back at the quivering lump of flesh that was Malachi Swanson.
"You know Vince, I can see why people like those garbage disposal things. Terribly useful, aren't they?"
And with that, Mello walked out of the basement trailing his fingers behind him, leaving bloody waves across Vince Burdette's white shirt.