I climb up the little rope ladder again and head back to the kitchen area, this time rummaging through the cupboards. I ignore the canned goods and snag the large tub of salt before opening the cupboards under the sink.
“Bingo.”
I grab the bleach and head back down to the hole, whistling a merry tune.
I add the salt and bleach to the rest of my haul and stand with my hands on my hips as I take him in, wondering where I should start.
“Now, I know this is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.”
I cough and adopt a deep voice. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
I thought that was a pretty good impression of a badass. Very Stallone circa the Judge Dredd era.
Luke spits at me, his spittle landing on my arm. I guess he wasn’t as impressed. The philistine.
“Oh goody. I was hoping you’d pick the hard way.”
I pull my knife from his leg, wiggling it around accidentally-on-purpose as it slips free from his flesh.
“What happened to all the missing girls?” I ask, my voice no longer holding a hint of joviality.
“Fuck you.” He has become a man of few words.
I pull back my arm and punch him in the face.
“What happened to all the girls?”
“Suck my dick, bitch.”
I sigh. “That little old thing is barely worth sucking, but let’s get a good look at it, then I’ll decide.”
I hold my knife with my teeth and undo the button on his pants before lowering the zipper and slipping my hand inside.
“Now, where is he? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
He struggles in the chair, but he’s not going anywhere. Despite his jostling around, I manage to get his pants and boxers down to his thighs.
“Not much to work with, but that’s okay. I can be inventive. Now let’s get this pesky shirt out of the way too, shall we?”
I use my knife to cut his shirt to ribbons without being careful. A little cut here and there won’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
“There, much better.”
With the tip of my blade, I point it at his chin.
“Let’s try an easier question. Who are you working for?”
A slight jolt lets me know I’m right. I wasn’t sure if Luke was calling the shots or if he answered to someone else, but now I am.
He glares at me defiantly, like a little boy trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes.
I shake my head and tut, bending down to pick up a pizza cutter, keeping my knife in my other hand.
When he sees what I’ve picked up, he laughs until tears run down his face.
He is an attractive guy, minus the teeny dick and the fact that he’ll be dead in a few hours. I can see why so many girls have fallen for his charm. His twisted little lies lure them in, and he feeds them to the fucking wolves as a thank-you.
“Are you laughing at my pizza cutter? How rude,” I lightly admonish. “I’m improvising, remember? You should cut me some slack. I’m usually more prepared for my torture sessions. I mean, a little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”
“Are you for fucking real?”
I grin evilly. “You tell me. See, I saw the pizza cutter and chuckled myself, so I get it. It’s blunter than a spoon, but it did get me thinking. And, Luka, when it comes to thinking, well, I can go a little cuckoo. See, the cutter made me think of pizza. Pizza made me think of pepperoni, and pepperoni made me sad because I can’t have any because I’m stuck down here with you.”
He looks at me like I’ve flipped my lid.
I trace the cutter over his nipples and feel him tense.
“But then I took your shirt off, and I was stuck with inspiration. I mean, come on. Tell me these don’t look like little disks of pepperoni?” I laugh as he bucks.
“Take a deep breath for me. This is gonna sting.”
Tossing the pizza cutter aside, I bring my knife to the edge of his left areola and dig the tip in.
He screams before I’ve even really gotten started. I roll my eyes and cut a little deeper, gripping the nipple with my other hand, wishing I had some pliers right about now.
I shut him out, singing sweet but psycho as I cut through his skin like butter.
“Ha, not too bad.” I hold up the skin in my hand and show him.
“See what I mean? It totally looks like pepperoni.” I grin as he pukes and passes out.
With a sigh, I toss the skin and reach for the hose, blasting him in the face and cleaning the vomit off him.
I watch it all drain away before approaching him again.
“Fuck you—fuck you—fuck you,” he screams.
“You sure do have a limited vocabulary for a teacher, dude. Now hold still.”
I go back to singing, and this time when he passes out, I leave him that way until I’ve finished, not wanting him to puke on me. I can handle most bodily functions without batting an eye, but chunky puke? No siree.
Once I’m done, I stand back and look at my handiwork and wince. That has to hurt like a bitch.
Oh well. With a shrug, I blast him with water again and wait for him to talk to me when he wakes up.
“Now, let’s try this again, huh? Who do you work for?”