Post by Silumas on Dec 13, 2015 22:09:20 GMT -5
"So, you think I'll be ok, Dr. Sacrimoni?" said John Fletcher, local accountant in Threadneedle. He had been in a four car pile-up two months ago that had caused him serious spinal injury and whiplash. Paul Sacrimoni, M.D., Chief Neurologist at Threadneedle General, was his primary physician since the accident and had helped him make a remarkable recovery.
John Fletcher was not a small man. More than four hundred pounds had been involved in that accident, and most of the staff had thought the man would never walk again. Everything about the man was large and ostentatious. From his weight, to the dozen tattoos across his arms the man seemed more biker thug than corporate accountant. The spine had several fractured vertebra, with damage to the brain stem. Not enough to cause him fatal harm, but it seemed quite unlikely the man would ever be self-mobile again. Thankfully, Dr. Sacrimoni was not only one of the best physicians in the Archipelago, he was one of the best neurologists in the world. Repairing and restoring dead nerves was his specialty and he had made a lot of the impossible happen over the years.
"No doubt about it, Mr. Fletcher," said Dr. Sacrimoni jovially. The doctor seemed the opposite of the mountain in front of him. His frame was lean, well exercised, with a face that seemed chiseled from stone. He was not tall, standing several inches under six feet, but his sharp image, excellent grooming, and charming looks made him the life of most parties. Today, he wore slacks, a red and white shirt with a gold pattern across it, and the expected lab coat. He held a clipboard with the man's chart on it.
"Now, Mr. Fletcher, we need to discuss this great joy of eating and fear of exercise you have going on here," spoke the doctor with a wink and a pat on the arm.
"I know," said Fletcher gruffly, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye, "I know. Been eatin' off that list your hot nurse ga..."
"Nutritionist," corrected, interrupted Dr. Sacrimoni. "DR. Thatcher is a very talented physician specializing as a dietitian." He spoke with candor and a smile. He was making sure the man gave appropriate respect without insulting him in the process.
"Right, that HOT doc you sent me to gave me a diet plan and I've been following it," Fletcher laughed sheepishly as he spoke.
"Well, good. Keep following it, and not only will you be off that cane in a couple months, you'll be running circles around your peers at the office. How is life at Autoparts Unlim..." Dr. Sacrimoni started to ask before he was interrupted himself.
The door to the exam room opened and a man dressed not at all like a nurse walked in. He was dressed in jeans, a plain white tee, with a leather jacket. His hair was slicked back with far too much product. He stood like a soldier, not like someone who belonged in a hospital, let alone barging in on appointments.
"Uhh...Hey Sacks...err Dr. Sacrimoni," the man stuttered through his name, "There is uhh...an emergency situation, that...uhh...needs your attention right now."
Paul Sacrimoni gave the briefest of sighs before turning back to Mr. Fletcher, "My apologies, John. I'd love to catch up again some time, but apparently my attention is needed elsewhere. The nurse will be by shortly to see you out."
John Fletcher stood up slowly, obviously in a bit of pain, and used a well made cane to keep himself upright. It creaked under his weight, but held, and the man began hobbling out of the room, "Not a problem, Dr. Sacrimoni. I'll see you again in a month, right?"
"That's right, just confirm the appointment with reception and we'll get you in tip-top shape before you know it!" Paul said with a warm smile.
The next few minutes went quickly as Paul and the Not-Nurse left the hospital. He had traded his lab coat for a retro trench coat. It was a dark brown, with leather straps designed to hang off dramatically, without serving a lot of function. When they reached outside they went to the Not-Nurse's new-ish Cadillac sedan and it sped off away from the hospital and towards the warehouse district.
"You know, Christopher, that I do not like being interrupted with patients," Paul said harshly. His previously plucky demeanor had been replaced by a somber, stoic, and stern facade. He gave the Not-Nurse Christopher a harsh glance.
"It's Chris, for the hundredth time, and Mess' schedule doesn't really give a shit what you like," he spat back, though a darting glance and quick gulp revealed his daring was short-lived and unwise.
"Just get us there, and quickly," Paul gruffly rumbled, "Christopher."
It took about twenty-minutes to get away from downtown and to what appeared to be an abandoned industrial lot. A storm was blowing in from the coast and the distant rumble of seaborne thunder could be heard as Paul stepped out of his vehicle. The buildings were rundown, and some where even crumbling. On the backside of one building a police cruiser could be seen. As the pair stepped out of the vehicle the officer inside gave Paul and Chris a polite nod before staring out back towards the street. Purposefully turning a blind eye as they walked inside.
A man could be heard moaning in pain, accentuated by short yelps and cries. It was a few doors in before Paul could see the source of the anguished sounds. A lanky man hung by his wrists in a darkly, red-tinted room. The man was nude and wet with blood and sweat. Several deep gashes, ghastly burns, and bruises covered his body from head to toe. The red glow was from a rack of car batteries wired in sequence, connected to jumper cables held by some form wrapped in shadow. The form was about to apply the metal nodes to the man again when Paul called for him to stop. The man, now revealed to be a middle-aged man with bloodied sleeves, peppery hair, and a rough face, stepped back.
"Well...well....well," Paul spoke and his voice echoed through the concrete room, just as the clack of his designer boots added to the already greatly imposing atmosphere, "it seems, James, that you are not being cooperative."
James Candolanna, a mid-ranking member of the roughest criminal organization in Threadneedle, the same one Paul Sacrimoni ran the day-to-day operations of, began bemoaning his current situation in Italian. The Cosa Nostra was alive and well within the Archipelago, and one of the primary families of the islands resided in Threadneedle, run by the mysterious Messachaia, commonly known as Mess to those that knew of her. Paul served as her second, and usually was the only one outside of his bodyguards that spoke to her. Mess was a strange creature, difficult to understand when he was a she or a he. One that that was not a mystery about her, however, was that he demanded loyalty.
It had become apparent that James, or Jimmy Fast, had been feeding intel to a rival family on the comings and goings of important cargo important to Mess and their crew. In a quick capture of him, they had brought him here to extract exactly who he was giving that information to so that the Family could snatch up some revenge.
"Pa...please," Jimmy began to beg when he snapped out of his Italian rankings, "please mister Sacrimoni, I..."
"Doctor, dammit," Paul spat, "why is it so hard for you morons to understand that I earned the honorific? I am a doctor, you are a moron, or I guess mister in this case."
"Doc...doctor Sack. Please..." Jimmy stammered on, "they...they'll kill me if I tell you anything."
"See," Paul began, "was saying doctor so difficult? Do you know what kind of doctor I am? I am a neurologist. That means I specialize in the nervous system of the human body. Do you know what the nervous system is, Mr. Candolanna? It is how the brain receives pain responses from your body."
Paul began to pace around Jimmy deliberately, each step taking the exact same amount of time, "Now, you say they will kill you if you tell me. If you tell me to whom you were betraying us. We are also going to kill you. If you don't tell me, I am going to kill you slowly, and as painfully as I know how. And please, remember I spent twelve years in school training and learning how to exact as much pain as possible from the human body without killing you. If you will tell me who you have been whispering sweet nothings to, I will make your end quite pleasant. Have you ever fucked a model, Mr. Candolanna?"
Paul waited for the shocked and confused man to respond to the negative before continuing, "See? This is how I can help you. If you will just tell me who you have been talking to, I will get one of the lithe, gorgeous women of the Garment District aspiring to model in the fashion capital of the Archipelago to give you the night of your life. You will fuck, and fuck, and fuck, and fuck until you just can't take it any more. Then, you'll pass out from exhaustion. While you sleep off the most magnificent sex you've ever had, someone will sneak in, and put a bullet in your head. No matter what you choose, Mr. Candolanna, you are going to die. Your choice now determines how."
Jimmy broke down crying for a few minutes with the realization that no matter what he does now he is going to die. Paul, and the rest of the Mess crew, waited patiently and calmly for nearly a quarter-hour before he had finally composed himself.
"You...you mean...you mean I'll die in my sleep if I tell you?" Jimmy finally said, his mind finally focusing on the task at hand.
"Yes," was all Paul said as he still circled the poor prisoner.
"Michael Scraggimi," Jimmy finally spat out, his strength gone, shoulders sagging.
"Scrags, eh?" Paul said with a nod, seeming suspicions confirmed, "Christopher, call that photographer friend of ours, have him send a couple gals to the penthouse. Our friend has a date. And, get him down from there, he will," Paul chuckled lightly, "need his strength."
As the shadowed man began to let Jimmy down, the group of them laughing and chuckling as the old friends they had been. Chris hung the phone up and nodded to Paul, "The girls are on their way."
"Very good," Paul said as he nonchalantly pulled a fourty-five from the back of his pants, put it to the back of Jimmy's head and pulled the trigger. The bark of the weapon silenced the room and all eyes were on Paul, wide and frightened, as Jimmy fell to the ground lifeless.
"I will be needing help with my bath anyhow," Paul said, referencing the aspiring models he had had sent for Jimmy supposedly.
"I hope this will serve as a lesson to all of you," Paul said around the room, "You owe Mess loyalty beyond reproach. And you owe me the courtesy of respecting my education. Do not call me anything but Dr. Sacrimoni. Understand?" Everyone around the room nodded their assent quickly.
"Chris, get me Mess on the phone. I need to let them know I have the name they have been wanting," Paul said as he began walking to the exit, Chris on his heels. They reached the outside and noticed the cop was gone. Instead, there sat a black limousine with an obvious bodyguard standing by the backdoor. The rain from the thunderstorm was coming in droves, drenching the landscape and everyone in it.
"Never mind," Paul said wearily, suddenly exhausted, "they are already here."
He walked towards the bodyguard and gave him a curt nod. The mountain of a man opened the door and Paul made his way within.
"Good evening, Mess, I have good news," Paul said in a monotone, even voice, "It's Michael Scraggimi."
Paul turned to look at Mess to gauge their reaction to the news, and to give the unspoken question of why they were there.
John Fletcher was not a small man. More than four hundred pounds had been involved in that accident, and most of the staff had thought the man would never walk again. Everything about the man was large and ostentatious. From his weight, to the dozen tattoos across his arms the man seemed more biker thug than corporate accountant. The spine had several fractured vertebra, with damage to the brain stem. Not enough to cause him fatal harm, but it seemed quite unlikely the man would ever be self-mobile again. Thankfully, Dr. Sacrimoni was not only one of the best physicians in the Archipelago, he was one of the best neurologists in the world. Repairing and restoring dead nerves was his specialty and he had made a lot of the impossible happen over the years.
"No doubt about it, Mr. Fletcher," said Dr. Sacrimoni jovially. The doctor seemed the opposite of the mountain in front of him. His frame was lean, well exercised, with a face that seemed chiseled from stone. He was not tall, standing several inches under six feet, but his sharp image, excellent grooming, and charming looks made him the life of most parties. Today, he wore slacks, a red and white shirt with a gold pattern across it, and the expected lab coat. He held a clipboard with the man's chart on it.
"Now, Mr. Fletcher, we need to discuss this great joy of eating and fear of exercise you have going on here," spoke the doctor with a wink and a pat on the arm.
"I know," said Fletcher gruffly, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye, "I know. Been eatin' off that list your hot nurse ga..."
"Nutritionist," corrected, interrupted Dr. Sacrimoni. "DR. Thatcher is a very talented physician specializing as a dietitian." He spoke with candor and a smile. He was making sure the man gave appropriate respect without insulting him in the process.
"Right, that HOT doc you sent me to gave me a diet plan and I've been following it," Fletcher laughed sheepishly as he spoke.
"Well, good. Keep following it, and not only will you be off that cane in a couple months, you'll be running circles around your peers at the office. How is life at Autoparts Unlim..." Dr. Sacrimoni started to ask before he was interrupted himself.
The door to the exam room opened and a man dressed not at all like a nurse walked in. He was dressed in jeans, a plain white tee, with a leather jacket. His hair was slicked back with far too much product. He stood like a soldier, not like someone who belonged in a hospital, let alone barging in on appointments.
"Uhh...Hey Sacks...err Dr. Sacrimoni," the man stuttered through his name, "There is uhh...an emergency situation, that...uhh...needs your attention right now."
Paul Sacrimoni gave the briefest of sighs before turning back to Mr. Fletcher, "My apologies, John. I'd love to catch up again some time, but apparently my attention is needed elsewhere. The nurse will be by shortly to see you out."
John Fletcher stood up slowly, obviously in a bit of pain, and used a well made cane to keep himself upright. It creaked under his weight, but held, and the man began hobbling out of the room, "Not a problem, Dr. Sacrimoni. I'll see you again in a month, right?"
"That's right, just confirm the appointment with reception and we'll get you in tip-top shape before you know it!" Paul said with a warm smile.
The next few minutes went quickly as Paul and the Not-Nurse left the hospital. He had traded his lab coat for a retro trench coat. It was a dark brown, with leather straps designed to hang off dramatically, without serving a lot of function. When they reached outside they went to the Not-Nurse's new-ish Cadillac sedan and it sped off away from the hospital and towards the warehouse district.
"You know, Christopher, that I do not like being interrupted with patients," Paul said harshly. His previously plucky demeanor had been replaced by a somber, stoic, and stern facade. He gave the Not-Nurse Christopher a harsh glance.
"It's Chris, for the hundredth time, and Mess' schedule doesn't really give a shit what you like," he spat back, though a darting glance and quick gulp revealed his daring was short-lived and unwise.
"Just get us there, and quickly," Paul gruffly rumbled, "Christopher."
It took about twenty-minutes to get away from downtown and to what appeared to be an abandoned industrial lot. A storm was blowing in from the coast and the distant rumble of seaborne thunder could be heard as Paul stepped out of his vehicle. The buildings were rundown, and some where even crumbling. On the backside of one building a police cruiser could be seen. As the pair stepped out of the vehicle the officer inside gave Paul and Chris a polite nod before staring out back towards the street. Purposefully turning a blind eye as they walked inside.
A man could be heard moaning in pain, accentuated by short yelps and cries. It was a few doors in before Paul could see the source of the anguished sounds. A lanky man hung by his wrists in a darkly, red-tinted room. The man was nude and wet with blood and sweat. Several deep gashes, ghastly burns, and bruises covered his body from head to toe. The red glow was from a rack of car batteries wired in sequence, connected to jumper cables held by some form wrapped in shadow. The form was about to apply the metal nodes to the man again when Paul called for him to stop. The man, now revealed to be a middle-aged man with bloodied sleeves, peppery hair, and a rough face, stepped back.
"Well...well....well," Paul spoke and his voice echoed through the concrete room, just as the clack of his designer boots added to the already greatly imposing atmosphere, "it seems, James, that you are not being cooperative."
James Candolanna, a mid-ranking member of the roughest criminal organization in Threadneedle, the same one Paul Sacrimoni ran the day-to-day operations of, began bemoaning his current situation in Italian. The Cosa Nostra was alive and well within the Archipelago, and one of the primary families of the islands resided in Threadneedle, run by the mysterious Messachaia, commonly known as Mess to those that knew of her. Paul served as her second, and usually was the only one outside of his bodyguards that spoke to her. Mess was a strange creature, difficult to understand when he was a she or a he. One that that was not a mystery about her, however, was that he demanded loyalty.
It had become apparent that James, or Jimmy Fast, had been feeding intel to a rival family on the comings and goings of important cargo important to Mess and their crew. In a quick capture of him, they had brought him here to extract exactly who he was giving that information to so that the Family could snatch up some revenge.
"Pa...please," Jimmy began to beg when he snapped out of his Italian rankings, "please mister Sacrimoni, I..."
"Doctor, dammit," Paul spat, "why is it so hard for you morons to understand that I earned the honorific? I am a doctor, you are a moron, or I guess mister in this case."
"Doc...doctor Sack. Please..." Jimmy stammered on, "they...they'll kill me if I tell you anything."
"See," Paul began, "was saying doctor so difficult? Do you know what kind of doctor I am? I am a neurologist. That means I specialize in the nervous system of the human body. Do you know what the nervous system is, Mr. Candolanna? It is how the brain receives pain responses from your body."
Paul began to pace around Jimmy deliberately, each step taking the exact same amount of time, "Now, you say they will kill you if you tell me. If you tell me to whom you were betraying us. We are also going to kill you. If you don't tell me, I am going to kill you slowly, and as painfully as I know how. And please, remember I spent twelve years in school training and learning how to exact as much pain as possible from the human body without killing you. If you will tell me who you have been whispering sweet nothings to, I will make your end quite pleasant. Have you ever fucked a model, Mr. Candolanna?"
Paul waited for the shocked and confused man to respond to the negative before continuing, "See? This is how I can help you. If you will just tell me who you have been talking to, I will get one of the lithe, gorgeous women of the Garment District aspiring to model in the fashion capital of the Archipelago to give you the night of your life. You will fuck, and fuck, and fuck, and fuck until you just can't take it any more. Then, you'll pass out from exhaustion. While you sleep off the most magnificent sex you've ever had, someone will sneak in, and put a bullet in your head. No matter what you choose, Mr. Candolanna, you are going to die. Your choice now determines how."
Jimmy broke down crying for a few minutes with the realization that no matter what he does now he is going to die. Paul, and the rest of the Mess crew, waited patiently and calmly for nearly a quarter-hour before he had finally composed himself.
"You...you mean...you mean I'll die in my sleep if I tell you?" Jimmy finally said, his mind finally focusing on the task at hand.
"Yes," was all Paul said as he still circled the poor prisoner.
"Michael Scraggimi," Jimmy finally spat out, his strength gone, shoulders sagging.
"Scrags, eh?" Paul said with a nod, seeming suspicions confirmed, "Christopher, call that photographer friend of ours, have him send a couple gals to the penthouse. Our friend has a date. And, get him down from there, he will," Paul chuckled lightly, "need his strength."
As the shadowed man began to let Jimmy down, the group of them laughing and chuckling as the old friends they had been. Chris hung the phone up and nodded to Paul, "The girls are on their way."
"Very good," Paul said as he nonchalantly pulled a fourty-five from the back of his pants, put it to the back of Jimmy's head and pulled the trigger. The bark of the weapon silenced the room and all eyes were on Paul, wide and frightened, as Jimmy fell to the ground lifeless.
"I will be needing help with my bath anyhow," Paul said, referencing the aspiring models he had had sent for Jimmy supposedly.
"I hope this will serve as a lesson to all of you," Paul said around the room, "You owe Mess loyalty beyond reproach. And you owe me the courtesy of respecting my education. Do not call me anything but Dr. Sacrimoni. Understand?" Everyone around the room nodded their assent quickly.
"Chris, get me Mess on the phone. I need to let them know I have the name they have been wanting," Paul said as he began walking to the exit, Chris on his heels. They reached the outside and noticed the cop was gone. Instead, there sat a black limousine with an obvious bodyguard standing by the backdoor. The rain from the thunderstorm was coming in droves, drenching the landscape and everyone in it.
"Never mind," Paul said wearily, suddenly exhausted, "they are already here."
He walked towards the bodyguard and gave him a curt nod. The mountain of a man opened the door and Paul made his way within.
"Good evening, Mess, I have good news," Paul said in a monotone, even voice, "It's Michael Scraggimi."
Paul turned to look at Mess to gauge their reaction to the news, and to give the unspoken question of why they were there.