Do Not Disturb
Page 63
It could be worse. Paraplegia is different from paralysis. Different in the fact that he has feeling in most of his legs. But they are weak, too weak to function. His brain tells them things; they just don’t listen. At least his dick works. It works too well at times, pushing and protesting about the unhelpful limbs attached to it. Paralysis would be worse. Lack of sexual function, lack of urinary and bowel movements—that would really suck. So he is lucky. That’s what he tells himself in the dead of night. Lucky. When he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about ending it all. Poof. Done. Just like that.
There are some upsides to continuing life. His existence is comfortable, thanks to the profitable side of hacking. Women are plentiful, if you don’t mind paying per orgasm. He doesn’t need the outside world. Between hookers and Jamie, his needs are met.
Jamie grew up with a brother worse off than Mike—a car accident completely paralyzing his lower half. His body is at the stage where normal bowel and urinary functions are problematic, and daily functions take four times longer than a healthy human’s. He lives on his own, has a regular job, manages through his condition. Jamie grew up with that, accepts it as normal. Doesn’t blink twice if Mike falls from his chair or if he gets pissed at his useless legs. He never worries about pity with her—if anything she keeps him in line. Keeps him from feeling sorry for himself. He is so much luckier than her brother. Lucky that his dick works and that he can feel when she reaches over and grips his thigh. Lucky that he can piss in a toilet and not through a catheter.
Jamie. She comes on Sundays and Thursdays, and is his only hope at rescue. He closes his eyes and wonders what time it is. Wonders how fucking long “Jingle Bells” will play before the cheap plastic innards say “screw this” and give up. Why the hell did he never put a clock on the wall in this room? It wouldn’t have taken any time. Five minutes to stick a nail in the wall and hang twenty bucks’ worth of sanity up. His mind is already playing games with his psyche. Right now, he’s fairly certain it is late in the afternoon on Wednesday. Pretty sure. It can’t be before noon. There’s no fucking way that only five hours have passed since the sun came up. He tries to see his shoulder, gauge the amount of pain. The codeine has worn off. He moves the shoulder as little as possible, hoping that the knife is stemming the flow of blood, hoping the arm is salvageable. He wiggles his fingers, rolls his wrists, moves his other arm as much as he can, and wishes the fucker had used longer handcuffs.
Not that he can really complain. He has his fingers. He has his life. And all it took was putting her head on a platter.
He is horrible. He is weak.
He hates fucking “Jingle Bells.”
CHAPTER 75
MARCUS HAD LEARNED a lot in prison. A lot about human nature, how caged humans, despite our upbringing, drug habits, or skin color, are all the same. We want to fuck, to eat, to live. We want freedom, we enjoy control, we want to kill. It is an animal instinct, one society tries to squash, to raise out of us, but it is the natural urge that lies in all of us. Some of us have learned how to feed that need. Enjoy it in the underworld of human life. Pick our victims carefully. Learn how to properly control them.
The men Marcus shared cells with were animals. He hated them, despised their dirty skin, the way they spit when they spoke, the naked look of their bodies in the showers. But he learned from them. Listened to their conquests, their failures, their mistakes.
Lenny Blackwell. In cell H8. Term: thirty-two years. He raped and killed four women that the law was aware of, nineteen that they weren’t. He taught Marcus that bodies were the weak link; if you can destroy the body, you can destroy the evidence. He also expanded Marcus’s lock-picking skills and explained how long it took to strangle a woman properly.
Bruce Hornt. In a shower stall. Term: forty-two months. He tortured a next-door neighbor for six hours till the man admitted to fucking his wife. He taught Marcus what worked with torture, what didn’t. What had finally caused the man to break.
Mikel Stevens. In the yard. Term: seven years. Six counts of kidnapping. He taught him that you don’t have to kill the victims if you have one of their loved ones handy. Taught him that a fighting victim will become putty if they believe someone else is in danger.
Marcus was locked up because the judge thought he was dangerous. He left that prison a smarter, better predator. God bless our justice system.
He changes lanes and risks a ticket, increasing his speed. Excited to get to his prize.
CHAPTER 76
MY FRUSTRATION REDUCES a little bit at lunch, when I check my bank balance and see the Cams.com deposit. Twelve grand. I got twelve grand and they got twelve grand just for a fucking wire. Bullshit. I feel my heart rate increase again, just from the ridiculous fee. I take a deep breath and call my hosting company. Tell them to rerun my debit card, wait on hold for a ridiculous twelve minutes, then crack a smile when they inform me that my site is back up. Finally. One short-term problem solved. I have cash.
There are some upsides to continuing life. His existence is comfortable, thanks to the profitable side of hacking. Women are plentiful, if you don’t mind paying per orgasm. He doesn’t need the outside world. Between hookers and Jamie, his needs are met.
Jamie grew up with a brother worse off than Mike—a car accident completely paralyzing his lower half. His body is at the stage where normal bowel and urinary functions are problematic, and daily functions take four times longer than a healthy human’s. He lives on his own, has a regular job, manages through his condition. Jamie grew up with that, accepts it as normal. Doesn’t blink twice if Mike falls from his chair or if he gets pissed at his useless legs. He never worries about pity with her—if anything she keeps him in line. Keeps him from feeling sorry for himself. He is so much luckier than her brother. Lucky that his dick works and that he can feel when she reaches over and grips his thigh. Lucky that he can piss in a toilet and not through a catheter.
Jamie. She comes on Sundays and Thursdays, and is his only hope at rescue. He closes his eyes and wonders what time it is. Wonders how fucking long “Jingle Bells” will play before the cheap plastic innards say “screw this” and give up. Why the hell did he never put a clock on the wall in this room? It wouldn’t have taken any time. Five minutes to stick a nail in the wall and hang twenty bucks’ worth of sanity up. His mind is already playing games with his psyche. Right now, he’s fairly certain it is late in the afternoon on Wednesday. Pretty sure. It can’t be before noon. There’s no fucking way that only five hours have passed since the sun came up. He tries to see his shoulder, gauge the amount of pain. The codeine has worn off. He moves the shoulder as little as possible, hoping that the knife is stemming the flow of blood, hoping the arm is salvageable. He wiggles his fingers, rolls his wrists, moves his other arm as much as he can, and wishes the fucker had used longer handcuffs.
Not that he can really complain. He has his fingers. He has his life. And all it took was putting her head on a platter.
He is horrible. He is weak.
He hates fucking “Jingle Bells.”
CHAPTER 75
MARCUS HAD LEARNED a lot in prison. A lot about human nature, how caged humans, despite our upbringing, drug habits, or skin color, are all the same. We want to fuck, to eat, to live. We want freedom, we enjoy control, we want to kill. It is an animal instinct, one society tries to squash, to raise out of us, but it is the natural urge that lies in all of us. Some of us have learned how to feed that need. Enjoy it in the underworld of human life. Pick our victims carefully. Learn how to properly control them.
The men Marcus shared cells with were animals. He hated them, despised their dirty skin, the way they spit when they spoke, the naked look of their bodies in the showers. But he learned from them. Listened to their conquests, their failures, their mistakes.
Lenny Blackwell. In cell H8. Term: thirty-two years. He raped and killed four women that the law was aware of, nineteen that they weren’t. He taught Marcus that bodies were the weak link; if you can destroy the body, you can destroy the evidence. He also expanded Marcus’s lock-picking skills and explained how long it took to strangle a woman properly.
Bruce Hornt. In a shower stall. Term: forty-two months. He tortured a next-door neighbor for six hours till the man admitted to fucking his wife. He taught Marcus what worked with torture, what didn’t. What had finally caused the man to break.
Mikel Stevens. In the yard. Term: seven years. Six counts of kidnapping. He taught him that you don’t have to kill the victims if you have one of their loved ones handy. Taught him that a fighting victim will become putty if they believe someone else is in danger.
Marcus was locked up because the judge thought he was dangerous. He left that prison a smarter, better predator. God bless our justice system.
He changes lanes and risks a ticket, increasing his speed. Excited to get to his prize.
CHAPTER 76
MY FRUSTRATION REDUCES a little bit at lunch, when I check my bank balance and see the Cams.com deposit. Twelve grand. I got twelve grand and they got twelve grand just for a fucking wire. Bullshit. I feel my heart rate increase again, just from the ridiculous fee. I take a deep breath and call my hosting company. Tell them to rerun my debit card, wait on hold for a ridiculous twelve minutes, then crack a smile when they inform me that my site is back up. Finally. One short-term problem solved. I have cash.
