Part 6:

Lessons in pain

Frank

I had just signed my own death-sentence. The very nano-second I had spoken to Max, a punk had sped off like his life depended on it. And it did. Rumor had spread like flames in a pool of gasoline and soon we were surrounded by bloodthirsty thugs lusting to rend out flesh from the bone.

DeZantes' boys.

"Got your knife?" I asked

"Got it" He flipped it deftly in his hands.

We were in a corner of the courtyard, concrete wall behind us and a sea of prisoners in front.

"Let's do it!"

We charged into the sea of bodies like a tornado of blades. I gouged the eye of the first, yanked the blade free and kicked the body away from me, toppling over three others. I slashed the femoral artery of the next, and even before the blood could hit the ground the next had my blade searing through his intestines. Their warm blood cascaded on me, thick sprays of crimson straining my clothes and skin, spreading a sick heat all over my body.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Max, and he was holding his own very well. Two goons had their throats slit before they could blink, and he grabbed one of the falling bodies, using it to ward off an incoming fist. He fung it away, and using the momentum of his rotation he jammed the blade into the temple of another, and as he was crying blood, Max had already disemboweled the next.

His eyes were unblinking, completely focused on the battle, his face was frozen in an almost bored expression, as if he didn't care whether he lived or died. He moved with a grace I could never hope to match, like a ballerina on a scene, raining blows with surgical precision, as if he had all the time in the world to think up just the right way to slice, effectively disposing the all adversaries with clinical effectiveness. His dance of death showed me one thing; he was not one to be crossed. With almost complete disregard for his own safety he baffled the enemies with his reckless daring, yet it all came together in a well-calculated, bloody manner.

Ten were down in fifteen seconds. The cracked concrete beneath out feet was flooded in warm blood. The mooks backed up with fright shining out their eyes. They had not expected us to be armed. Too bad for them. We sped through the doors into the prison, knocking over some stunned bozos on the way.

Why weren't the guards here? Did DeZantes really hold so much power? I heard yelling behind us, the mooks had chosen to resume their pursuit it seemed. Max was tackled by a particularly large brute, sending them rolling, and before I could help him a muscular arm had found its way around my throat. They flew on us like vulturs on a carcass, screaming with glee. Fists and feet was all I saw, feeling my already bruised body being beaten like a bad step child. Darkness began seeping into my peripheral vision.

I knew nothing more. Except one thing.

They didn't stop.

Max

A bulldozer.
That was probably the first thing that came to my mind watching Frank tango with the goons. He threw them left and right, using his tremendous strength combined with years of experience to completely obliterate his opponents. The knife in his hands was a blur, slashing and stabbing with robotic precision, leaving cruel, maiming gashes in its wake. He was used to this, I could tell. His dead eyes were ablaze with hatred, fuelling his body the kind of power no other sane man could ever comprehend. Yet for all his rage, w still stood no chance, and before long I was brutally tackled to the ground and subjected to severe skeletal manipulation, making sure I stayed.

Time to take another beating.

Strange, the prospect of pain didn't seem to frighten me anymore. Most people would crumble in the face of what was about to happen. But then again, I'm not most people. Allow me to re-evaluate my situation. I'm sitting, legs spread, in the opening of a cell, facing the door, which, if closed, would cause fifty plus pounds of metal to unite themselves with my genitals in a very unpleasant manner. Which was just what the four goons surrounding me where planning to do. They all wore the same sickening smile; like The Joker just before he blew up Gotham. Only, this wasn't a comic. No Batman was going to swing down and rescue me from certain death. There never had been, and there never will be, stuff like that belongs to people with hope. Hope and I were not on speaking terms. Like Luck. Down the hall, the goons were still taking turns kicking Frank. He laid still. Too still. The rhythmical sounds of shoes hitting flesh sounded like the prisoners' blood-soaked applause to vengeance.

Then one big mook took hold of the bars and send the cell door my way. The dull metal glared at me mercilessly.

SLAM

Trying to explain the pain of simultaneously having your face and privates destroyed by a freight-train of solid metal is by all accounts a waste of time. It's impossible. I've been through almost every type of pain this miserable existence had to offer, but this was defiantly ranking top-five. My teeth rattled loosely in my skull, my brain felt like it was trying to burst out, and fire was spreading from between my legs, scorching my stomach from the inside. My vision swam and everything was blurred. In the distance, I heard a mocking voice.

"Ready for Pain, Payne?" He grinned sadistically.

"You play you pay, bastard" I managed while drooling blood.

That only made him smile more, putting his blackened teeth on full display. He drew back the door and prepared to punish me again. I closed my eyes. Why couldn't they just kill me? After the second hit my entire body was numbed my flames. I didn't even feel the third. A was in another dimension of pain, my entire body feeling like one big, raw abrasion. Only the hyena-like laughter could penetrate the fog of pain. Sneering fiends playing their sadistic games, death hanging like a carrot on a string; the blissful reward. All you'll ever want but always out of reach.

The things I would do for a painkiller right now.

Amidst the muted laughing, muffled yelling could be heard. I faintly saw as Falzon marched into the scene with his praetorian guard behind him, looking furious. Not surprised, but furious.

"I said I needed him alive…"

There voices were distant. Like they were a million miles away

"But the boss said…"

A shook my head, trying to make the mists of pain and nausea dissipate. The voices were a little clearer.

"I don't care what DeZantes said! I need Payne alive. If you don't like it, feel free to discuss it with the guards"

The goons looked at the heavily armed guards with fright, Biggs standing like a front-figure, obviously basking in the joy of flaunting his primal need of bullying those around him.

"You can't just do that. DeZantes specifically ordered"

I spat out a large wad of blood. The fires had lost their sting, and now all that remained was a dull throbbing. I rose on my trembling legs, vertigo ravaging my brain. The voices were clearer now.

"This is MY prison, and I do whatever I like"

He turned to me, his steely eyes shining with frustration.

"Now follow me Mr. Payne, we have something to discuss."

He handed me three very familiar white capsules. Painkillers. I downed them instantly, savoring the sharp tang of the numbing medicine. Falzon turned towards Frank, who was lying limply on the concrete, blood seeping from nose and mouth.

"I don't need him. Biggs, take care of him"

A sadistic smile spread on his chunky cheeks. My voice constricted in my throat, vocals knotting together, forbidding me from voicing my protest.

Indeed, Falzon and I had something to discuss"