I Love to be Mutilated: Lombardo (R)

A venomous sky pours out a gushing storm with the fierceness of a despot. I listened to the outside, it was so loud. The room was all obscure and dark, a horrible stench fouled up my nostrils in such a way it almost made me gag. The piss stained cloth covered my eyes so graciously for my own convenience they told me.

I was told not to talk or my tongue would be cut off and mailed to the father. If I so much as tried as tried to escape and punch someone, my hands would be lacerated and used to make me beg for them back. If I ever ran away or kicked anyone the wrong way they would be chopped off and boiled so that some ravenous cannibals in a nearby island could enjoy a feast. Human thighs are a delicacy I'm told. They already bet my eyes in some gamble for another man's nine wives and a keg of beer. I'm expecting them to be torn out without an anesthetic, like every other operation they do here anytime now.

I've been fucked up for at least three days now. A couple of my fingernails have already been torn off, but my spirit is still strong. I've been tied up to this chair and whipped; I've been sweating gallons of sweat from the vigorous and arduous stress they cause me by interrogating me. I'm so thin now; I'd actually call this torture an improvement on my physique, the best dieting a person could get in three days. I'm naked and sweating with tender scars decorating my flesh.

The man who's been here watching me and drinking, I can tell because of the alcohol smell he always carries with him they call him Lombardo. I don't know if that's his real name but it sounds more like a medical term to me. So far he seems to have a limited vocabulary and incessantly asks me the same question. I smile to myself, but I won't tell him. He isn't getting shit from me.

He tells me there's three of him each worse than the last, but as far as I know and the way he's been grilling me for answers isn't so far doing so much for him. I was made for shit like this. Where I came from I trained for this kind of procedure. "Never Break" was the motto of our organization when it came to bull like this. My sleep schedule consists of nothing but five minute naps because every time this bozo right here notices I am asleep he slaps the fuck out of me and whips me with a lion's whip. He treats me like a fucking animal, but in my opinion he's the one that belongs in the zoo the way he smells every time he comes near me with that freaking extendable lasso that hurts like a mother fucker.

"Lombardo." A man calls him out of the room. My chest lumps up with a kind of relief that you can't get from the real world, because this seems to me to be some kind of fucked up world, like a fantasy, nothing is real here, the pain, the smell, the whole damn situation can't be real. In my world if it's not real it doesn't exist. At the same time, however instinct takes a hold of my mind like a wake up call from hell knowing full well that it's not over, don't even think for one single second that they've given up and called it a "mission complete" this is real, and isn't going to to go away. Not yet.

It's been hours and hours since he left it seems and I can't seem to tell because I doubt there are any windows in this discordant room. All I've been doing now to pass the time is harangue myself to death in my own mind; I speak senselessly of doubt and mixed hope. I dream and have nightmares at the same time. All they give me to survive and lengthen my agony is three gallons of filthy foul tasting water everyday. Being naked all I do is piss and piss sometimes; I sit in my own filth and sleep in it. They don't give a damn apparently, Lombardo told me it was good for me to sleep in my own excretions when I complained the first day. He threatened to make me cut of my penis the next time I complained. That's probably the only thing I'd care about getting out here alive with.