Philanthropy Pt. 04

Shanti slipped around her door and took aim, but Peter was too exposed and obscured in the dark of the van's interior. She cursed and moved forward, but halted when automatic fire danced across the asphalt at her. She dived behind the car door as bullets traced up the door. The van on the right peeled out with smoking tires and she heard the one on the left start up. She watched, helpless, as the van carrying Peter slid the side door closed and raced after the other van.

Shanti jumped into the driver's seat and saw the instrument panel lit up with every red symbol available. She pressed the gas, and the car died with a shudder. Steam rose thick and furious from the front of the car.

"Fucking piece of shit!" she screamed and slammed the steering wheel.

Peter was gone. She had failed him again.

* * *

I woke shivering uncontrollably against an unbearable cold. I found myself curled up in the foetal position and trying to stay warm. I glanced at myself and saw I was dressed in threadbare white clothing; just a t-shirt and pants tied with a string. I glanced around the small room I was in and saw everything surrounding me was white: white panelled walls, white panelled ceiling, and the floor was white panelled. The only object in the room was a white plastic pot placed in the far corner. My shivering was painful, and my muscles were severely cramped. My feet and hands were numb.

The last thing I remembered was the sharp pain of a needle piercing my neck and then nothing.

I tried to sit up, but my limbs were locked rigidly in place. Painfully, I moved my hands and arms and felt cold air rush in to chill the exposed areas of my body. I kept at it, willing my limbs to move, and glanced around as I did so. I could see I was inside a large windowless commercial fridge or freezer. I spotted the large whirring ventilation fan set high on the back wall and felt the frigid air streaming from it. My breath plumed in front of me.

Over the course of several painful minutes, I worked my limbs until I was able to stand. I went to where the door was and could see no way of opening it from the inside. The cold was unbearable, and it hunched me over in pain.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" I called out. My voice cracked.

Hearing no response, I called out again and again until I was hoarse. I moved around and tried to get my circulation going. After several more minutes, I felt a tingling in my fingers and toes, and I kept at it. Soon I could feel my limbs and I was much more limber. I banged on the door and cried out again.

After an hour, I found I had to keep moving. The moment I stopped, the cold would quickly seep in. It was a constant battle. And I was losing. I rubbed my face and felt a days' worth of stubble.

I found after a time that having everything in my view being this pristine white colour was fucking with my eyes. I found it hard to focus, and I felt dizzy at times. It felt like snow blindness and I developed a headache. I kept my eyes closed as much as I could and paced inside the eight by twelve-foot room.

I settled into a routine of pacing and relaxing. I could feel my energy fading fast. I kept on calling out and banging on the door. Exhausted, I settled down in the corner across from the door. The location offered the least amount of wind from the ventilation fan. My thin shirt and pants were all I wore, and they offered no protection or warmth whatsoever.

I heard a loud click and hum sound and looked up, and suddenly overly loud music started blaring in the room. I recognised it at once. It was 'Friday' by Rebecca Black. The insipid and vapid music blared in the confines of the room. I covered my ears, but it did nothing to help.

It played nonstop. I screamed at it. I sang along with it. I wanted to find Rebecca Black and shove the song down her fucking throat. I remembered she made millions from it and cursed her.
I paced when I could and struggled to stay warm. Hours passed.

I lost track of time. I had no way of gauging it. I had no idea how many hours or days I had been locked in here. I was very thirsty and starving, and I estimated it to be at least two days. I used the small plastic pot to relieve myself. Thankfully, I only had to pee. I was getting very weak and I no longer shivered against the cold and knew that was a bad sign.

I thought about Shanti and worried about her. My last glimpse of her was seeing bullets crunching into my car. The bullet proof glass hadn't held up long and the hood of my car had been peppered with holes. I hoped she was okay and set my mind to accepting that she was and out there worried about me. Looking for me. It gave me hope when all seemed hopeless.

I worried about Amanda, Imani, and Amber, too. The Carvers had come after me, and I knew they were more than capable to also go after my friends. All of this was my fault. They were in danger because of me.

I replayed the attack over and over in my mind and pretended to come up with alternate endings; where I stayed in the car, or did something about the guy on the ground pointing a pistol at me. It was fantasy, but it kept the obnoxious music a little further out of my mind and kept my mind off the cold. I tried Tai Chi, but my limbs were too numb and my muscles too rigid.

I didn't know how much more I could take. It was surprising just how effective the white noise, the freezing temperatures, and loud music was in fucking with me. I could feel myself losing my grip on sanity. I would offer anything to escape the torture; for torture was exactly what it was.

The first time the door opened, I merely sat there staring at the open space, hoping it was a rescue. Beyond the door I could see sheets of thick plastic suspended like curtains, and beyond only blurry darkness. A man dressed in tactical gear entered and watched me for a moment. He held a white paper towel in his hand with a small mound of cooked white rice on it, and he held one of those half sized water bottles in the other, already opened with the cap missing. He placed them down and exited, closing the door behind him. A breath of warm air flowed over me and dissipated just as quickly as it arrived. I longed for that feeling of warmth, already a distant memory.

My hunger drew me from my sitting position and I painfully extended my numb limbs and crawled over to the rice. My hands wouldn't work properly, and I ate the rice like a dog. The rice was cold but delicious. I swallowed it all, checking for any stray grains, and considered eating the paper towel. I put my mouth around the top of the water bottle and tipped my head back and sucked back the ice-cold water. I could feel the rice and water hit my empty stomach and felt a little better.

Then cramps hit my stomach. I resisted the need to puke and clamped my mouth shut and swallowed reflexively. It went on for a long time and I lay on my side moaning with the discomfort. Finally, it subsided, and I crawled back to my corner and lay shivering. The food and water provided little sustenance and seemed to have added to my hypothermia. I closed my eyes and for the first time since the music started; I fell asleep.

I woke sometime later and looked around. The paper towel and water bottle were gone. I spent time working on moving my limbs and was finally able to stand in an awkward crouched position. A cramp hit my stomach, and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom really badly. I made it to the far corner, pulled my pants down to my knees and squatted and evacuated painfully over the empty chamber pot. I shit what looked like deer poop. Small, hard balls of shit that sounded like ball bearings hitting the plastic. I peed and saw my urine was thick and yellow. Not good signs.

My bowels felt better, and I walked around and tried to limber up and get warm. Eventually I was moving better and feeling returned partially to my hands and feet. I tried to determine how long I had been here. It felt like days, but it could have been hours. Or a week. I had no idea. I found myself humming to the music and had to force myself to stop. I entertained myself on thinking of ways of making Rebecca Black's life miserable. Again.

I was sitting in my corner, holding my hands in the bends of my knees and with my feet under my ass. I was starting to imagine I looked like Jack Torrance from the movie 'The Shining' sitting frozen in the hedge maze. In my mind Shelley Duvall was replaced with Rebecca Black and I was cheering Jack Nicholson as he broke open the bathroom door with an axe. Then the music stopped.

The sudden absence felt like a massive void I would fall into. It was almost physical. Then the door opened. I looked up blearily and saw Brad Carver standing there, wearing a parka, mittens, and a nice warm woollen toque. I wanted his clothes. He was grinning at me and looked far too pleased with himself. Two goons dressed in tactical gear stood behind him, watching me. Their eyes looked oriental. And they carried automatic rifles. I could see the beginning of a cast on Brad's right arm at the wrist between the mittens and his parka.

I wet my mouth and opened it. "You didn't, perchance, bring me a double-double, did you?"

"Peter Chase, I can't begin to describe just how pleasant it is to see you like this."

"So, no? You forgot my coffee?"

"Always so funny. Always with the smart remark," he said and walked closer to me. The two goons shadowed him, watching me intently. When Brad got about three feet from me, he crouched down to look at me. "Anything more to say?"

I shook my head.

"I have some questions for you. Depending on how you answer will determine just how long you remain in here."

"Perhaps a donut? Maple glaze." I hated how my voice shook with the cold.

He ignored me and smiled. "I have some questions for you. Question I need answers to."

"Okay. First, the man has to like the woman. When he does, his penis grows bigger and harder. Then he puts his penis inside the vagina of the woman and ejaculates semen. That semen enters the egg of the woman and impregnates her. That's how babies are made."

Brad chuckled. "First question. Who is Amanda Bradley and why did you send her to my Dana?"

"That's your first question? Ask your daughter."

"Oh, I did. But I need to hear your answer. She just thinks you were being nice. I know better. You're Peter Chase. Billionaire. You have money and influence. No one just offers help to someone without wanting something more. What is it you hoped to accomplish sending her to my Dana?"

I watched his eyes. He was serious. He couldn't comprehend that I would simply send someone to Dana who could help her image. He was all sorts of paranoid. "You are fucking nuts. Dana needed a makeover. That's it. I knew Amanda and put them in touch."

He chuckled. "Paranoid? No. I've survived for years because of my attention to details. The small details often overlooked by others. No, you sent Amanda my way to search for something. What was it?"

"You are seriously fucked up. This is all because I put your daughter in touch with a makeover specialist? Really? You beat me up, almost killed Amanda, and then sent killers to kill me? Jesus Christ, dude, you are seriously messed up."

Brad reached over his shoulder, and one of the goons handed him a police baton. Brad hefted it with his left hand, feeling the weight. I watched it closely. Those could seriously fuck you up. "One more time, why did you send Amanda to Dana and what were you looking for?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, you paranoid fucktard. You were nothing to me. Just a couple of tenants. I didn't even know you were those Carvers. I was trying to be nice... FUCK!"

Brad had swung the baton and struck my right shin with it. It sounded like wood hitting wood. I stared at my leg and waited for the pain to hit. When it didn't, I realised my lower leg was numb. I could see the glee on Brad's face and so I hammed it up and screeched with imaginary pain. Thank God he was right-handed and couldn't swing worth shit with his left.

"Moving on. Second question. Where did you get all your money? There's little on you. I want to know the source."

"Software. I write software for the highest bidder. Have all my life."

"Software? You expect me to believe that?"

"Yes, because it's true. I write software, algorithms, source code, applications. All ahead of its time and unique."

"And you made billions doing that?"

I had. Mostly. Phil Monday had been the closest to guess the truth. When I went after people, I drained their accounts and took the money. Some I gave away, sure. But mostly I kept it. Easily three quarters of my wealth came from that. I'm not Robin Hood. I don't steal from the rich and give to the poor. No, I steal from the assholes and keep it to myself. My first million I made with my software. I wrote code that watched trends and transactions and alerted me to stock deals. Kind of like insider trading, but the insider was my code. No way was I telling that to Brad Carver.

"Yes. I'm smart. Very smart. I find companies that need specific software to solve specific problems. I solve it for them and sell them the code. Its quite lucrative. I've a large following on the dark web. I'm the best there is."

Brad watched me closely and then weighed what I had said. I looked at my shin and saw the large bump forming there. Thank God he hadn't broken it. I was in trouble. A big huge steaming pile of shit trouble. Hmm, that would be warm. Maybe I could tauntaun the pile by crawling inside.
I knew already I had said too much. If Brad was smart, he would see the benefit I could be to him and his business with the LTG. I was probably exactly the type of guy they wanted working for them. But Brad wasn't smart. He was a third-rate lawyer who did the dirty deeds the LTG needed done. He proved it when he asked his next question.

"Who is Imani Jones to you?"

"My lawyer."

"And how did you gain her as your lawyer? She works for EDM. They don't handle personal legal issues. It's all corporate."

"Amber referred her to me. Remember her? She couldn't be my lawyer after she took her job as the Crown Attorney."

"A position she won't hold for much longer. What does Imani do for you?"

"Didn't you see the lawsuits we filed against you?"

The baton swung again and hit my other shin. I yelped and cried and put on another show. I didn't feel a thing, and that worried me more than a little. Just how long can your limbs be numb before they don't recover? I had no idea. My performance seemed to have fooled Brad.

"Amber and Amanda," smiled Brad, his teeth perfect and white on his wide fuckface. "They'll soon be dealt with. We fucked up with Amanda. Those detectives fucked up. They will all be dealt with, I promise you. Who knew Amanda was a former drug addict? A long history as a teenager. She escaped once, but not twice. As for Imani, her time is up. We deal swiftly with those who cross the organisation."

"The LTG," I said, and regretted it.

Brad looked furious. He hefted the baton and then changed his mind. He stood and turned to the goons. "Get the telephone," he ordered. The goons nodded and one left. Brad turned back to me and stared down at me. "The LTG, funny you should mention that. I think you know much more than you are saying. Time to find out."

Who says get the telephone? I wondered. It's like saying, go round up the horses. Time to go downtown and catch a moving picture at the theatre.

A few moments later the goon returned carrying a strange device. It was a wooden box the size of a shoe box with two brass bells on it. Bells that look like half spheres. Wires ran from the box and I could see a little turn handle on the side. He placed the device on the ground near me and opened it up. Inside were old electronics. The goon untangled the wires.

Brad crouched down again and watched the goon. "The Tucker Telephone. Originally from Arkansas, at the Tucker State Prison facility. Used up until 1968 on inmates. This is nothing more than an old-fashioned crankshaft telephone, but modified to produce electricity when cranked. Mr Chin here will attach the ground wire to your big toe and connect the hot wire to your balls. Then I'm going to crank the handle and send electric shocks through your body, effectively electrocuting you."

Brad chuckled. "I love this thing. The Tucker Telephone was eventually banned in the '70s. But I got one. It's one of my favourite devices. So simple and elegant. It always produces results."

To my horror, I was too frozen to fight off Mr Chin. He wrapped a bare wire around the big toe of my left foot. Then he took another wire and reached between my legs with it. He spread my knees and then wrenched the pants apart at my groin, easily tearing the material. My poor little cock was suffering massive shrinkage. It didn't phase Mr Chin, and he quickly wrapped the bare wire around my penis and balls. I couldn't feel it. I protested and pleaded, telling Brad I knew nothing.

He chuckled and held the box on the ground with his right hand. I could see his arm cast better and saw a "I love you daddy" written in Sharpie by Dana on it. It even had a drawn little red heart. I watched Brad take the little crank handle in his left hand and he gave it one quick turn.

My world exploded in excruciating pain. I imagine you've been zapped by a live wire once. That's 110 volts with about fifteen amperage. It hurts like fuck. But it's quick, and unless you are stuck to it, it passes quickly. That one crank of the handle sent a constant surge of electrical pain into my cock and balls. It travelled up to my stomach and across my abdomen in waves of pure pain. I screeched and pissed myself. I lost all control of my body and despite the frozen nature of my posture; I stretched out in agony and felt muscles tear. That was one crank.

I lay whimpering and crying and shaking. My arms wouldn't move, and I couldn't claw the wire from my genitals.

"Let me be honest with you. I have no intention of letting you live. You are going to die in here. I need answers from you, but honestly, if I don't get them, it won't matter much. You're just some stupid fuck that thought it would be fun to fuck with me. There's a price for that. You might think it extreme. I don't. I think this is fun. The LTG hates little fucks like you. Poking into their business. Looking into their business. You've crossed into my world, bucko. And you will die for it. Slowly and painfully. I can keep you alive in here for months. With useless limbs, but a strong core, alive and well. I'm gonna cook that prick right off you first. Takes a while, but I figure your cock will fall right off in about a week.

"You're not my first. I've done this countless times and pride myself in the application. This little telephone?" he patted the box for emphasis. "It's my pride and joy. Let me give you one more crank for the road. I've places to be right now, lucky you."

"No! Please! No more!" It embarrassed me to hear my voice pleading, but at that moment I would do anything to not feel that pain again.

Brad chuckled and then turned the crank twice.

* * *

I woke crying. I could still feel the pain in my genitals, but it was fading. I was on my side and could smell vomit and piss. I could hear Brad talking to someone in the room, but the ringing in my ears drowned it out. I managed to reach between my legs and felt my cock and balls. The wire was gone, and my junk felt intact. I couldn't stop crying and great racking sobs broke from me.

Brad came over and crouched down and looked into my eyes. "See you soon, Peter Chase. My friends here have a special device they are going to hook you up to. Its another wonderful invention. It's called the Tiger Bench. Used by the Chinese communist government against the followers of Falun Gong. You'll be placed on a bench, sitting up with a board against your back and head. Your legs will be bound tightly to the bench, with several leather straps, and with bricks to lift up your ankles. The strength in your legs will keep your legs straight. This goes on until your knees eventually give way and snap, leaving you disabled for life. Not that you're long for this world. Goodbye, Peter Chase. See you tomorrow."