Really, DO NOT read this unless you have a strong stomach.
----
Savage Durand awoke chained to a wall, wrists restrained high above his head, feet barely able to brush the floor.
A slick
assassin of amorphous nationality entered. Durand knew he was an assassin because he knew exactly who this was, and muttered his name as he approached. "
Ricard. The
ball collector. I expected they'd send you after me."
Ricard grinned, "it is good that you know who I am, because now you already know what comes next." He produced a large and ornate
knife. "And now, I will add your balls to my collection."
"Try it and you'll live
just long enough to regret it," Durand replied in a tone which surely would have been accompanied by a casual
shrug, were his arms not suspended overhead.
Ricard scoffed. "Ah the
bravado of the soon-to-be-castrated." He then launched into a well-practiced speech, one he must have recited to many others before. "When I was a little boy, and I would go to the movies, I always saw how the hero would endure
torture by the bad guy, and then somehow escape and exact
revenge. Always, the torture was something impermanent. Electric shocks. Salt on a wound. They never get it right. Indeed, they cannot, because true torture is not something you can show in a movie. If it is done correctly, it always begins with irreparable
mutilation of the genitals."
With a swift and practiced hand, Ricard pulled Durand's pants down to his ankles-- and found himself momentarily in
puzzlement. Instead of
underpants, or even
nothing at all, Durand's lower body was wrapped in some kind of
plastic wrap, secured at the top with
duct tape. What childish trick was this? With an impatient glare, Ricard grabbed the edge of the wrap and tore it off in one motion--
Suddenly he was overwhelmed-- as if he'd been struck in the face!!
The smell!! The most rank and rotten
odor he'd ever smelled in his life!! It caught him off guard, left him dazed so much that the knife slipped from his hand and clanged on the floor.
And then, in the the moment before Ricard could even attempt to gather himself, Durand's legs were around his neck like a
vise, pulling him in, thighs like iron, forcing his face against the foulest cock and balls ever known to man. Ricard's eyes stung and welled up to the point of blindness. Panicked, he punched and scratched at Durand's legs, but it was useless. He tried taking a breath through his mouth instead of his nose, but that was even worse!! He could taste the vileness. Like an explosion of garbage and sewage and corpses. He tried to call his men for help, but the sound that came out was weak and flailing. He retched, and then felt himself choking on what had come up.
The vise grip tightened further.
"Yes, Ricard, I knew you were coming for me. And I prepared." Durand's voice was soft, almost soothing. "Would you like to know what I did? I fucked twenty of the filthiest hookers I could find, without bathing, and then soaked myself from the waist down in
onions and
garlic and
vinegar and
cilantro and
anchovy paste. It's been soaking for days. I've shit myself a half dozen times in this bag since then. You don't want to know what I ate."
As Ricard went limp, Durand twisted his body so as to force Ricard's nose into his pubes. Ricard was fading now, no fight left in him at all. "I extracted the juice from the
ghost peppers myself. Stings. But worth it." Ricard's body fell to the floor.
Durand effortlessly extracted his hands from their bonds and shook them for a minute to restore
circulation. Ricard probably had a three or four henchman guarding this lair, he figured, as he picked up Ricard's infamous ball-cutting knife. All of them would be dead within the next minute, and then Durand would walk out and into the
sea, which he had sensed was nearby when he was brought to this place. And there
Nature would cleanse him, in
body and soul.