Acid Story

Hydo-koric. It was definitely hydokoric acid. He said it like a hundred times. I wrote it: hydo-koric in my own handwritin’. I recognize my own handwritin’. You recognize your handwritin’ ? I do. Now fuckin’ do it. We need it tonight. Cause we got your friend comin’ in. You know what that means right? So fuckin’ do it. No questions asked nerd.

The owner of the voice hung up the phone. He had been tasked with two things that afternoon, and only having finished one, he was becoming worried about time issues. He had five and a half hours to figure out the second part of his assignment. Five and a half hours to figure out how to tie up four people so they could be thrown into a Jacuzzi and “not splash around too much”. The owner of he voice was more than a little worried.

How you gonna throw people in a pool they ain’t splash around?

He said it out loud, to the smoggy, saturated air of Providence, Rhode Island, from his spot perched high above the city commons. He was on the penthouse deck of a building he’d helped his boss take over not three months ago. He himself had stuck a loaded Smith and Wesson .38 in the owners mouth right in the spot where he now sat, giggling at the memory. The owner of the voice had used one of his favorite lines, asking the struggling, terrified guy:

If I was to let you go, would you suck my dick?

The guy nodded. They always nodded ! That was the funny part.
Then he asked, with the whistle still jammed up against the back of the guy’s throat:

Not just today, but like, every time I see you from now on. Every day till the day you die, you gotta sweah-da-fuckin GOD, you’ll come find me, suck my fuckin’ dick until I nut right down your ‘troat, then you gotta say “thank you,” and get the fuck outta my sight until I need you to suck my fuckin dick again.

The guy’s nodding and going “Mmmm Hmmm…Mmm Hmmm…Mmm Hmm…”. Just like they all do at this point in the joke. He’d removed the pistol from his face to facilitate the oath, instructing the guy:

Get on your knees. Now say it. SWEAR it. Say, I’ll suck your dick everyday until I’m dead

I’ll do it, I’ll….Yes I’ll suck your dick everyday!!!

And SWALLOW!!!

And swallow, yes I swear I’ll swallow. Please!

You promise!

I promise I promise…

The guy had looked up, right at his face with hope in his eyes. They all look up.

OK.

He said, bringing the .38 back into the guys mush.

I’ll think about it...

And then he pulled the trigger. That’s how his boss had come to own this place. He’d scored more than a few "attaboy"s from the guys that had been out on the deck that night, and the old man himself had promoted him the very next morning, Now he was in charge of everything, sitting at the Boss‘s right hand. Gladiator Assassin had started ten months ago, and though they hadn’t won it yet, he knew they would. Providence was owned by the organization. The game, the contestants, the buildings and the streets under the sway of his people. All that force and brain power working on just one problem meant - to his logic - that the cash would be found and divvied sooner rather than later.

Waiting on the big day - he had to admit - had been relatively free and easy. Killing was what he loved, and what he was best at. Since the organization had gotten rolling there was always lots of people to kill. He forced himself to cut the nostalgia and focus on his problem. The boss would be there soon, and he wouldn’t tolerate mistakes.

His name was Orson Breakfast, and he had almost five hours left to live.

***

Yeah do you believe it? Fuckin “Hydokoric”. Guys a fuckin’ cinderblock. Obviously it’s hydrochloric. What would the boss want with…I don’t even know if there is such a thing as hydokoric acid. No. No, that’s what I thought. So how long? Hmmm. How bout two hours. He was wrong but he was very tense. That means the old man’s coming in tonight. Yeah. Ok I’ll look out. Thanks. Yeah I know it’s a lot. Just don’t spill any. Right. OK.

Mark Stefano hung up the phone still nodding and giggling to himself about Breakfast. What the fuck? The guy was barely literate and yet there he was. And here HE was, trying to pull together orders given incorrectly with hardly any lead time. Par for the course with this crew. He’d joined in with the gang just weeks after getting to Provy and the incompetence on display, even from the start, had proved historic in scope. They were, however, killing everybody in sight and seemed to be running in great numbers. Mark didn’t know where the cash was hidden, but he had a good idea he’d have to be alive to find it. Since most of the people who’d taken up against the organization were now not living, he thought his best interest was probably in sitting still, not making waves.

He was one of many middle aged dudes who’d found their way to Provy as an alternative to killing themselves after the giants had murdered their families. He was also one of the many who’d found a whole new reason to live in the multi-billion dollar prize hidden in the shit-hole called Providence. He kissed the right asses the right way, did right by the bosses, and waited for an opportunity he knew was coming. In the mean time he flowed work items (like “hydokoric” acid) for the old man

He made his way downstairs in the humid hell of the emergency stairwell cursing Providence, the old man, the game, Orson, and whoever else he could think of. He had to move twenty blocks in fourteen minutes, so he’d have to run.

***

The old man had arrived, as usual, exactly the minute he’d said he would. Orson Breakfast had heard the chopper blades only seconds before the old man’s immense red helicopter pounced up onto the rooftop helipad. As usual, the chopper pilot had come in from below, staying out of the closed airspace above Providence and running along the streets like a noisy red car. OB watched as his boss hopped out and mock-ducked his way out of the rotor wash, tuning to do a little wave at the pilot. When the pilot saw the gesture, he blasted off again, tipping down and out of sight with a typhoon wind and ear-piercing rotor beats.

The old man. Here. Now. Standing with his face right in OB’s. His eyes locked like laser-guides with his own. He was smiling broadly.

OB! Good to see you buddy. Everything ok?

You got it boss. The mopes are all in the bedroom with Stef. We got…

The old man kept talking as if Breakfast hadn’t ever started:

Let’s get started shall we? I’ve got only hours. Gotta be in Washington by 9:30.

Orson with a half-hearted double take:

Wow. Washington. Ain’t that giant country Mr. Hoth?

Stannis Hoth regarded his man like a boxer staring at an opponent while the ref explained the rules.

That’s exactly right OB. But what am I if not a giant?

Orson didn’t get the bosses meaning at all, but he nodded and smiled like he did. Always good to keep things flowing and positive around the boss.

OK now, enough tea-talk. Where’s this gentleman who has our money?

***

Stannis Hoth wasn’t born a rich man. He had no rich uncles or grandmothers to bequeath him any sort of estate. He had not married into money, and he had no rich friends growing up. Despite all these truths, Hoth had made himself a millionaire three times over by the time he’d been old enough to take a legal drink. He’d made the bulk of his fortune, initially, on the strength of only one invention and then traded, bargained, begged, and - yes - sometimes killed to get the rest. He was good at buying. More importantly he was good at selling. Those two qualities, combined with a sociopathic disregard for others, had gained the old man a net worth of almost 275 billion dollars.

Which is why nobody understood why he’d entered the Gladiator Assassin contest in the first place. He was worth more than the prize many times over, and the risk of getting killed was far greater than the possibility of success. Why then, take life in hand and dive into old Providence?

He never told them the truth back, saying instead how he “wasn’t worth as much as everybody thinks,” and that “the experience will be worth more than any prize.” The first was a straight up lie, and though there was some truth to the second one, it was far from being the motivating factor in his participation.

A few moths before GA had been set to begin, the studio that produced it, run by a very old friend of his named (), had asked him for an investment of 3 million dollars to help offset staging and production costs. In return, his company, Sectronic, would get free advertising on all GA materials, and be a presenting sponsor of the televised series. Since he’d agreed, he figured if he actually went and won the damned thing, he’d increase the value of the sponsorship package 20-fold. The old man had said “no” to a great many things and a great many people in his time, but never once had he refused a bargain. He would win the game, and thus receive all sponsorship rights for free. It took him two days to figure out a fool-proof method of triumph, and another day to have his helicopter cleared to drop him inside the walls of Providence and onto the battlefield of Gladiator Assassin.

***

They were seated in front of the Jacuzzi, duct taped onto light patio chairs and tied with tuff, hempy-looking rope. The mother, completely naked, brown hair in a mess from sleep-loss and beatings. The boy and girl, both 11 years old, both with blonde hair, both clothed in jeans and white t shirts. They all looked dazed and discouraged.

Sitting opposite them was the old man, taped and bound like his family, the man called Justin Rose. The night-fighter. The shadow man. He’d been a thorn up the ass of the Hoth’s organization in Providence since almost before the organization was an organization. He’d terrorized their search efforts. He’d fucked with their procedures and their personnel. He’d killed fourteen of the old man’s guys, the fuckin’ knucklehead.

You killed fourteen of my guys you fuckin’ knucklehead!

Mr. Hoth said it with a weird, almost friendly tone of voice. The prisoners all began to let some hope creep in. Justin Rose had planned to remain silent, but who knew? Maybe the old man was impressed with the body count. Maybe he wanted to get him on the payroll, run him on missions. A can’t beat ’em / join ’em type of scenario. He answered:

Well I didn’t kill them all at once. You make it sound so, I dunno, impressive.

Woah! He speaks! Hey OB, he fuckin’ speaks!

OB, guarding the patio slider forty feet away without missing a beat:

He speaks!

Hoth came back to the conversation.

So I have you now. And I have your children. I have your wife. The question is, what do you have?

Rose was smirking even trying not to smirk. The girl whispered:

Daddy.

Hoth turned reflective. He was staring at the girl, but still talking to Rose:

I need you to tell me what those fuckin’ jerk off twins told you. I need to know about the money.

Rose started nodding halfway through the spiel like he’d heard it all before.

I told you, I don’t know about the money! Our car broke down! I din’t even know about this game I swear! Please let us go you’re making a horrible mistake I…

Hoth’s movement was so quick, the event was complete before JR even knew it was happening. At the word “Please” the old man had sprung from his chair. By the time Rose hit “horrible” Hoth was standing behind the little girl. Right before “mistake,” he picked up the girls chair-back and dumped her into the whirlpool.

JR had been expecting water. The child hit the liquid, and seconds later the hard truth was apparent. The bubbles turned red, then orange, then blue black. She never came back up. The screams from mother and brother were animal sounding. Awful, hopeless, anguished. They were the cries JR had heard in Afghanistan.

After what seemed like hours, Hoth spoke again:

Mr. Rose, I simply don’t have time tonight. Tell me the information or the next splash will be your son.

The woman started wailing louder at this. Her moans and screams drowning out all other noise on the roof. She was twitching and shaking. Trying against logic and physics for some miraculous reprieve. It was wrenching and awful for Rose just watching her. He’d started soft encouragement (“shhhhhh, ok ok. It’s gonna be ok baby shhhhhh…) when again, the old man sprung up. The woman was still freaking out when he dumped her into the disintegration bath.

The woman did resurface, although JR and the old man found themselves wishing she had not. She had tried to jump out of the tub, but her legs and feet were being burned to jello by the acid so the jump was lopsided and ineffective. She did tilt a bit though, and on the way down whacked her head on the hard cement coping edging the bath. Instead of a solid wet “thunk” though, the report was squishy and prolonged. The head hit the side, and separated at the jaw. Half of the womans head rolled out onto the brick-walk still full of acid and burning with a smelly, steaming Hisssssssss.

They watched it degrade and collapse and then shrivel to almost the size of a golf ball with her lips twitching and the mouth opening and closing till it wasn’t a mouth any longer. The black goo that had been her head was steaming in the sun and smoking an acrid black smoke. Rose stole a glance at the boy and was relieved to see that he’d passed out.

***

It was the training that come to him then, like it always seemed to when the chips were real and down. Twenty years killing people for the government was no small time and no small commitment, he liked to remind himself. The training bubbled up because that’s what killing means on the special forces: staying alive. The first and last thing they teach you is that you must do whatever it takes, whenever it takes. The key - they stressed - is surprise. A captor has a set of beliefs based on the fact that he IS the captor and, thus, in charge of the destiny of you, the captive. Do something to fuck that way of thinking up and you’re halfway home. “Just think dude, they’re gonna kill you, prolly torture you as well. Do you really want your final moments directed by this fuckin dooshbag?? You’re already fucking dead so whom shall you fear?

Whom shall I fear?

He said it out loud, interrupting Hoth, who’d been gassing on again.

…And so I’m sure you understand my position and…

He struck then, shifting his weight forward and falling to his knees inches from the side. He dipped both arms to the wrists in the bath. As his body burned and hissed and bubbled away, he found himself noticing that the slider door was open and that OB wasn’t anywhere in sight.

***

It hadn’t hurt at the beginning, not as much as he’d expected anyway. It took only four seconds for the acid to burn the rope but during that time, some of his feet were burned away as well. That hurt. He screamed, but he took his legs out and turned with both hands reaching for Hoth’s chair. Hoth was reeling from the act, but he came back to reality quick-fast. He kicked JR in the head as he turned, and the force of it almost toppled him backwards into the hungry liquid. Agonized, and full of pain-adrenaline, JR countered the force the way he’d been taught: absorb and strike back with more force. He took the kick with his head giving backwards on impact. The instant caught Hoth off guard, un-weighting - for a moment - his patio chair. Rose grabbed a chair leg with both bound hands, yanking, spinning and pulling all at the same. The old man didn’t have time to scream, not at first. Instead he curled into a defensive cannonball like to ward off the soaking. He hung for an instant, balled and flying over the evil fluid. By the time he splashed down in, Rose was already crawling and clawing for the low brick wall lining the roof. He gained it just as OB yelled out:

“What the fuck!? Mr Hoth…Mr Hoth!!! I’ll kill you fuckeeeeeeeeeeer!”

But JR was already climbing the wall with his arms alone. He got to the top, turned towards the boy and saw him still sleeping away. Muttering a little prayer of thanks, he flopped over and fell twenty feet to an unused drainage surface he’d known was there. The pain hitting the bottom was like pure fire consuming him. His feet, he felt, were soaked full of the acid from the pool. They burned and melted.

***

Up on the roof, the sleeping boy was about to have some luck. OB, looking over the edge where the night-fighter had dropped, assumed the guy was somewhere splattered in the street. He didn’t know about the drainage surface. He did however, know that his boss was dead. In the pool, alone except for a few pieces of bone and tissue, was a pair of Bruno Mallis made of snake skin. The sight triggered something in OB, and suddenly he wanted very much for the kid to be dead. He turned to menace the boy, growling:

You dirty little fuck-nugget. I’ll dip you in this shit like a donut…

But when he moved he was still staring at the boy instead of the puddle where the boys mom had been. He stepped into the puddle, slipped, and then one of his legs was bubbling red / orange in the pool. He screamed. Not yelled. He didn’t let out a fearsome klaxon wail. Didn’t let fly an urgent, pained howl. He screamed in a high pitch voice for as long as he could, inhaling back three times and starting again before it was all said and done. He’d been barefoot, and so by the time the foot had stumbled in, had actually touched the shelf in the liquid, it was mostly gone. After that the acid ate the jeans and the lower leg in short order, it melted and gave way and OB plopped down with his balls on the pools edge. He tipped then, landing on his back in the shit. The pool closed over his face, and as the boy regained consciousness ( a full hour later) he found himself alone and bound on a deck with an empty pool.

A familiar voice from behind him said:

What the fuck happened here?

Then he blacked out.