We picked him up at an old run down watering hole, passed out on a bench in the back of the joint. Dreaming of discarded pictures of loved ones and drugs he can no longer afford, no doubt. We tell the bartender of our malicious intentions in detail as we drag him to his feet, as it is already clear that he has no capacity for human compassion, only a strong urge to be rid of such an unsightly display.
“You know we intend to inflict such scars on his person that would make a civil war surgeon blush, right?” I chuckle over my shoulder while Jim and I shift his dead weight between our shoulders and drag him towards the door.
“All I know is he likes to scream in his sleep, and don’t give a rat’s asshole where he pukes. Just get him the fuck out and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you when the cops come looking.” Bartenders in this city could always be counted on to look the other way when a crime against morality has unfolded before them.
We drag the man through the door, into the harsh sunlight of the outside world. The smell of burnt cigarette butts and cheap liquor follows us all the way to Jim’s old gray pickup truck where, with much effort we manage to sling the man’s dead weight into the back of the truck.
“You know,” I say to Jim as we climb into the cab. “We should get paid for this sort of thing.”
“Oh, we’ll get paid. As soon as I publish our findings the world will adore us many times over.” He recites his justification, as he has done hundreds of times before. Somehow he still believes we are involved in the glorious pursuit of truth, whereas I have always known, from the start, that what we do has no justification. Sadism is simply the only thing that can make me feel like a kid again. In this way, I suppose I could be considered the sane one of the two.
We say nothing on the ride to my place, each of us formulating in our heads what new and exciting techniques we will employ once we’ve gotten him into the sanctity of my garage. I run a quick inventory of all the tools I have stored in there, and which ones I have yet to use in ways tools are not meant to be used. Jim starts whistling the beginning of Vivaldi’s four seasons, but as always he doesn’t have the range or the skill to give it justice, and it comes out sounding terrible. But I don’t mind because it lets me know that he’s in particularly high spirits, and almost certainly willing to try new things.
Once we reach my house we drag the man from the truck feet first, being extra careful to not let his head smack against the pavement, as had transpired with our last subject, who consequently never did wake up. We haul him into the garage, and as soon as the garage door closes behind us, we begin. We start by stripping him completely naked and supergluing his hands to his knees. He’s still quite unconscious at this point, and I decide that it would be in our best interest to shove a toilet brush up his ass. Jim performs the insertion, causing the man to stir for the first time in his deep state of unconsciousness. When the deed is done I can’t help but laugh at seeing that Jim pushes it in so far that only the brush end protrudes, giving off the appearance of a crude sort of rabbit’s tail.
“I dub thee Peter.” I merrily comment towards the shivering mess of pale, dirty flesh huddled on my garage floor. Jim bursts into uproarious laughter.
“Like the rabbit.” he manages to enunciate between guffaws.
“Like the rabbit.” I confirm. But already my attention has shifted towards the display of power tools on the far wall. I scan the rusted paraphernalia for signs of inspiration, and find it in the form of a hedge trimmer.
“Time to wake up our subject.” I inform Jim as I pull the piece of machinery down from the wall. Jim stands over the man and unzips his pants, I can’t help but emit an appreciative laugh towards his genius as he emits a stream of bodily fluids onto Peter’s head. Slowly, he gains consciousness, and immediately a mixed expression of terror and confusion fills his eyes as he realizes that he is in a stranger’s garage, covered in a stranger’s urine. His confusion and fear only multiply when he realizes that his hands are now one with his knees and that there is a cleaning implement lodged in his anus.
Jim finishes his stream and zips up, retreating to the back wall to observe and take notes while I approach the subject.
“Now then,” I begin to instruct Peter, holding the hedge trimmer unpromisingly close to his skull. “I want you to recite the Gettysburg Address backwards, flawlessly, or I will give your protective membranes a trim.” Suddenly his expression of blind terror and complete bewilderment is replaced with a perplexingly smug look. He clears his throat, and without further hesitation, begins the recitation.
“Earth the from perish not shall, people the for, people the of government that and – freedom of birth new a have shall, God under, nation this that…”
“Well I’ll be damned,” I say as he continues to recite the address as if he had been practicing it for months. I look back at Jim and he can only offer a shrug. “We may have just caught ourselves a savant.” I laugh at the irony of the situation as I retreat to the back wall where Jim is standing, scribbling notes furiously in his pocket notebook, for a brief conference.
“What do you suppose we do?”
“Well,” he looks up from his notebook at the spectacle, and a concerned look crosses his features. “We can’t very well trim his membranes now, a deal is a deal.”
“Understandable, what new course of action do you suggest?”
“Well…” he surveys the garage in quiet contemplation.
“…Note little will world the. Detract or add to power poor our above far, it consecrated have, here struggled who, dead and living, men brave the…” Peter continues the flawless recitation in a droning voice.
Suddenly a look of immense inspiration fills Jim’s eyes, and he utters to two most beautiful words in the English language: “Belt sander.”
I laugh and clap Jim on the back, before approaching Peter once again at his spot on the floor. “Jim what would I do without you?” I ask as I pull Peter up by the hair, now finished with his impressive demonstration, and once again filled with insurmountable fear.
“I don’t know, teach young children?” Jim jokingly replies, once again scribbling in his notebook, as I pull Peter towards the belt sander.
“No, I was thinking I’d be better suited for…” I pause as my concentration turns towards the task of opening Peter's mouth and forcing him to bite the edge of the sander. “…Dentistry.” And we both burst into child-like laughter as I flip the switch to full power.
