A/n: proof that werewolves do not have a monopoly on obsessive inner monologuing. yes more graphic stuff, even if some is implied. not for the squeamish or those who do not wish the Blond One to be too brutalized.
Chapter Ten
Joe had long since lost track of time. He'd also lost all sense of feeling in his wrists and shoulders, while his back was on fire. His throat was raw and dry as he had not received any water, let alone food, since he was taken downstairs after his meeting with his 'host'. He had no idea what day it was, let alone what time. In other words, he was feeling pretty damn crappy. His mental status vacillated between despair and exasperation. It just didn't seem fair, you know? He had no idea who this Vincente character was, other than one scary SOB. And yet the guy was willing to kill him. And he had the strangest feeling it wasn't your usual revenge thing either. None of the usual 'I am gonna make your daddy pay for what he did to me' theatrics. Oh sure, Fenton's name had been part of the conversation, but Joe was quite convinced that if he had slept through the alarm, or not gone downstairs at all, or waited for the cops to show, he would not be literally hanging around at the moment.
He would have sighed if he could take a deep enough breath. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that. (This is no lunger funny. Frank, where the hell are you?) Joe pleaded for the Nth time since his ordeal began. He still wasn't convinced Frank wasn't so wrapped up in his own problems that he'd take the time to find him. (This is what I get for asking him to back off. Literally left hung out to dry. You, Joseph Aaron Hardy, are a complete idiot sometimes, you know that?)
If he had any tears left, Joe knew he'd be weeping. It was small consolation that after that first session with the Mazzolas he'd been left alone. (Once was plenty, thankyewverymuch. Who the hell uses a freaking cat o' nine tails anyway?) The problem with being left alone is now he half convinced he had been abandoned and left to die. Okay, two thirds convinced. There were still vague noises coming from outside his cell. At this point, Joe wasn't sure if he preferred being left alone, or another visit from his jailers. He couldn't decide which was worse, being abandoned, or being tortured.
The noises grew louder and more distinct. When he heard the click of a key in the lock, Joe tensed. (Please let it be room service! I could really go for a ham sandwich right now. Or roast beef. Roast beef's good. With Mom's homemade Russian dressing. Lettuce and tomato. Slice of cheese. Potato chips. The rippled ones.) He groaned and would have drooled if there was any saliva to be found. He was facing away from the door so had no idea what was coming. Could be a bullet to the back of his head. Or another 30 lashes. He wasn't so far gone as to delude himself that it was a rescue. For one thing, he figured Frank would be all Big Brother-y and scream out his name when he saw his predicament. Equally possible was Dad bursting in with guns a blazin'. (Yeah. Who am I kidding?) No, the more likely scenario was he was about to get the crap beat out of him again. (Maybe I'll get lucky and it will only take 10 minutes to pass out this time.)
He could hear two sets of footsteps behind him but deigned to acknowledge their presence, feeling decidedly antisocial at the moment. In front of him was an old rickety table that had been dragged in before and had once held a variety of whips that had been used on him previously. Luigi lumbered into his eyeline carrying a car battery. (Oh hell. So not liking the implications of that.) The man heaved the battery onto the table, which wobbled slightly before turning around and grabbing Joe by the hair and pulling his head up and looking intently at his face.
"Thought you might want to know. Heard from our contact at the Bayport Precinct. Seems the only person who has the info the Boss wants is currently occupying a bed in the CCU at Bayport General and is heavily sedated. Apparently this heart attack was pretty severe." The words were spoken matter of factly, no malice or cruel glee in the tone. But the words struck Joe's own heart as he understood just who exactly the swarthy man was talking about. He couldn't help it, he groaned as the information sunk in. (Dad? Nononono please no.). In the back of his mind he was vaguely aware of the distinction between CCU and Morgue but that was of very little consolation. His only hope now lie with Frank, who had not exactly been his usual Big Brother Self lately. Once upon a time, if anyone had suggested that Frank would abandon him for any reason whatsoever he would have denied it vehemently before decking them for even suggesting such a thing. Today? Not so much.
Luigi seemed to gain no satisfaction or pleasure in delivering such an emotionally crippling blow, but neither was he inclined to offer sympathy or condolences either. He left Joe to his own devices once again, but returned within minutes. This time he carried a long stick like object with a bronze tip and a large coil of electrical wire.
(Screw it. Gonna die anyway, what else is there to do but go down swinging?) "What the hell is that?" Joe rasped out, his voice still hoarse from his earlier screaming and continued lack of water.
"This?" Luigi asked, holding the device under Joe's nose. "Called a picana. Dom picked it up in Buenos Aires or something a few years ago. Nasty piece of work, too. You thought yesterday was bad? You ain't seen nuttin' yet, kid." the voice held a trace of Joisey accent that would have had Joe smirking any other time. He turned away and began attaching the wire to to both the picana and the car battery.
Joe decided to go for broke. "Howsabout some water before we get better acquainted with each other, hmm? Wouldn't want me dying of dehydration too soon, would ya?"
Luigi gave a small chuckle, showing those tobacco stained teeth. "You got balls kid; I give ya that. But if I were you, I'd be careful what I wished for. Might backfire on ya."
Before Joe could ask what the hell he meant with that comment, he was doused from behind with a bucket of ice cold water. As Joe sputtered, gasping for breath, Dom came around from behind with the now empty bucket. Dom didn't talk much, but he wore the same carefully neutral face as his brother. (At least they don't gloat) Joe thought with a mental snort of derision.
"Told ya." Luigi smirked. "Ever been electrocuted, kid?"
All Joe could do was shudder, both from the shock of the ice cold water and the realization of what was about to happen. (Frank? Needing a little help here, Big Bro. I hate that I am doubting you. I never used to. What the hell happened between us?) No answer was forthcoming, and Joe had to suppress a sob of despair as Dom came nearer with the picana.
It was beyond excruciating. The ice cold water served to conduct the electricity easier and the chills he got from being soaking wet didn't make things any easier. He couldn't even scream it hurt so badly. Mercifully, it also made it damned hard for him to breathe so he actually passed out from lack of oxygen after about 5 minutes. They left him alone after that, for who knows how long. Joe spent the time in a daze, not really coherent and too far gone to care. His thoughts, when he was cognizant of having any, seemed to dwell on death. He relived Iola's murder a hundred times, each one bringing a fresh wave of loneliness and pain. His Aunt Gertrude's stroke when she was in her 80s. His father's heart attack(s). His own brushes with death as a teenager, and once while on the deck of his ship when a Helicopter landed wrong. Frank's close calls.
Frank. It always came down to Frank. Big Brother Extraordinaire. Best Friend a guy could ask for. Confidant. Protector. Pain in the Rear. A little slow sometimes, especially with the saving of his favorite little brother's sorry behind. (Assuming I am still your favorite. I'd give anything f you were to come barreling through the door right now. I don't give a damn about Mike either. You wanna keep mum, that's fine by me. Just get me the hell OUT of here. I will never ever ask you to tell me what happened. I can't hold out any longer. I can't do this any more. Frank? Are you there?)
Unfortunately the sound of the door opening that intruded upon his bleary internal musings heralded the return of the Mazzola brothers and not his own sibling. Joe could no longer keep up the snark, internally or otherwise. He was finished. No hope, no faith, no belief that he was the world's luckiest SOB and would survive. This time nobody said a word. Luigi ripped the shreds of his flannel lounge bottoms completely off and exposed all of Joe's attributes. Joe couldn't even muster up any mental shame. Not that it looked like the Mazzolas were interested in that sort of thing. Or were they? Funnily enough, with all the other physical abuse they'd left his face pretty much alone after the initial 2 slaps in Vincente's office so he could see all too well when Dom hooked the picana up again to the battery and aimed it down there. Dom spoke up, casually, as if he were discussing the weather. "The guy I got this from had a few favorite spots. Bottom of the foot, a woman's nipples, a man's..." and he touched the live device to the most sensitive part of the male anatomy.
Anything Joe had felt before paled in comparison. Not the first beating with the cat o'nine tails and other whips. Not the earlier session with the picana. Not any other punishment or infliction of pain in all his 20 some odd years of life. Getting shot? 3 times? Felt like a damned paper cut compared to the utter agony that ripped through his entire body. He twisted so hard that he dislocated his shoulder trying to evade the device. All it took was 15 seconds of contact. He didn't even have time to make so much as a whimper before he passed out again. Luigi slipped Dom a c-note and said "Dayum. I coulda swore he was tougher than that. I was sure he'd last 30 seconds minimum."
Dom just chuckled as he disconnected the wire and tossed the picana back on the table. "Check his pulse."
Luigi pressed two beefy fingers against Joe's neck and felt the thready pulse that was skittering along irregularly. "Meh. He can give his Old Man a run for his money on the heart attack front I think." He stood back and critically looked at the silent figure still gently swaying in front of him. "Should I cut loose his legs? Or let him down? That shoulder is grossing me out."
Dom shook his head. "Nah, leave him. He won't notice. Besides, I'm hungry."
Joe Hardy was left alone to his fate.
A/n: Yes there is such a thing as a picana. luckily the last recorded use was in the early 1930's. at least officially. and yes Frank does his Big Brother Hero thing next chapter. You may begin rejoicing now. Hopefully it will be up by the end of the weekend.