Until Someone Gets Hurt

"This next game should be really easy." Paul sat at the head of a polished, dark wood table. A man and a woman sat on either side of him, a young couple in their mid-twenties, tied to their chairs. They stared silently into each other's tear-stained faces.

"It's like a quiz show. About each other. Since you two know each other so well and all—I mean you seemed to be pretty intimate earlier—this should be a breeze." He looked at Peter, who was sitting on the other end of the table with a tennis racket in his hands. "They should have no problem, right Tom?"

Peter shrugged, nodding.

"We caught them fucking, they should be well-acquainted, don't you agree?"

Peter gave his small, eerie smile and nodded again.

"Fantastic. Now." Paul held up his hands, each one with a plastic drivers' license between a thumb and forefinger. "We'll start off easy. The first one to miss a question loses. And the loser—well, you don't want to be the loser," he said, chuckling in an ironically cheesy way. "Ladies first. Lisa, what is this young man's first name?"

"John," she said quickly.

"Well, all right! Point for you. Now John, don't look, but what color are Lisa's eyes?"

Instinctively the young man looked up from the table, for a split second. Paul clenched his jaw.

"Come on," he said gently. "What did I just say? You're not allowed to break the rules. Peter, penalty for Johnny."

Peter scooted out his chair and stood. Paul hid a dark smile behind his glove. He'd always liked Peter's unflinching willingness to commit violence, the way he never wavered in his careless attitude towards killing. But the best thing about Peter was that no matter what, he'd never leave. No matter how offended and whiny he got, there was definitely a robotic quality to him, an unparalleled obedience. And he was still, always, learning.

"I didn't see," John begged, eyes shut tight. "I didn't, I'm sorry."

The frame of the tennis racket slamming into his shoulder ripped a shout from the man.

"Answer the question now."

"Blue, they're—they're blue, I remember," he stammered, a laugh shuddering out of him in desperate relief.

"That's correct, but watch it. One more rule broken means one more penalty, and that means you lose.

"Lisa, it's your turn again. What is this young man's middle name?"

The woman sniffed, shaking her head. "I'm—" She looked up from the table to Peter, who stood with the racket resting on his shoulder. "Um—Michael?"

"Oh, Lisa, you're just guessing," Paul said. "John, tell Lisa your middle name."

"It's Robert," he choked. Lisa barked out a sob.

"Like the Kennedys," Peter said quietly.

"What?" the bound man asked.

"John and Robert, the Kennedys."

"Jesus, Tubby, now is not the time—"

"I was named after them," John said, tone tinged with desperation. Sometimes their victims used crap they'd heard on TV. Like that if the killers feel connected to you, get to see you as a person, they won't kill you. But Paul never saw anything less than a person. A disgusting, lying fake of a person. They were all acting their way through life, caged by rules imposed on them by society. If he ever became like that he'd kill himself.

"My mom wrote a book about the Kennedys," the hostage said, words spilling out frantically. "She-she got it published a week before I was born, and she—"

"As riveting as that is," Paul interrupted, "I think we're getting off the point. Lisa just lost."

John set his jaw, breathing hard. Lisa began to sob.

"Oh, don't cry. For god's sake. What fun is a game so cut and dry? There is a chance at redemption. If Johnny here doesn't get this next question correct, then you, Lisa, will have another chance. If you blow it, you lose for sure."

Peter dropped into the chair next to John, sniffing. He set the racket on the table in front of him. Paul glanced over one of the driver's licenses, then folded his hands and looked at John.

"What year was Lisa born?"

"Oh fuck, I—" John sighed shakily, hanging his head. "This is fucking ridiculous," he hissed.

Paul leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "What is?"

"You—you're fucked up, you're both fucking crazy."

"Is that your final answer?"

Their victim shuddered against his seat. "Nineteen…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Eighty eight."

Paul sat back in his seat, tapping the licenses against the table. He looked at Peter and lifted his eyebrows. "What do you think? Twenty-three, twenty-four?"

Peter turned his gaze to Lisa, his lips turned up slightly at the corners. "Yeah," he said softly.

"What year would you say, Tubby?"

Paul slid his tongue across his teeth as irritation crossed Peter's face. "Don't call me that," Peter snapped, with all the empty force of a puppy. Paul kept a straight face while Peter blew out a breath and said, "I don't know, eighty-seven?"

"You're both wrong." Paul beamed, looking from Peter to John. "The correct year is nineteen-eighty-nine! Which means that Lisa is back in the running. Lisa, your redemption question has two parts." He held his breath for a beat. "What is John's mother's name, and what is the title of the book she wrote?"

"Ha!" Peter bit his lip, snorted.

Lisa let out a growling scream, rocking violently against the duct tape that held her against the chair. "Get me out of this goddamn chair!" Tears slid down her red cheeks. "I'm not playing!"

"Just guess," Paul said, throwing up his hands. "It can't—" He flinched, mouth snapping shut as the woman next to him spat in his face.

Peter's smile fell and he looked at Paul, who wiped his face with gloved fingers.

"Jesus, Lisa," Paul muttered. "We were having so much fun."

"Just kill me," she sobbed.

Paul stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor. "Wouldn't that be nice?" He gripped the frame of the chair she sat in, tipping it back. Her legs flailed out, shins slamming against the table before the chair crashed to the floor. The loud smack of her head on the ground made John scream. Peter stood slowly, tennis racquet in hand, eyes on Paul.

"I'm sorry," Paul said, smoothing his hair out of his face. "I thought we were having a nice time, but evidently we're not wanted. We'll give you some time to cool down. Tom?"

Peter set the racquet down on the table and followed Paul out the front door.