“Yuck! I’m protesting to the league of superheroes.”
Gus and John enjoyed that take by their fearless leader for a moment. “Who exactly is in this mysterious league, Muerto?”
“I’m glad you asked, Payaso. Deke is the only member.”
“That’s nepotism, Muerto!” John spoke in outraged tone for his partner Gus’s amusement. “Any decision made by your live in dog will of course be discounted.”
“In that case I will wear the bloody mask. When we are at the house I will say your name and another special command. Deke will then tear off a part of you Cala will surely miss.”
John sighed. “I washed your mask, Muerto.”
“Nice.”
*
Kensky awoke naked in a dank cellar with a single light on above. Every movable part of his body ached from his being duct taped thoroughly in the metal chair. He noted his prosthetic hand and foot no longer clung in place to his stumps. The bare bulb moved eerily with no breeze or outside force. The bare bulb, yellowed with age, cast looming shadows on the surrounding walls. He saw an empty anteroom to his right with a table and chairs, lighted by a single lamp on the table.
“Hello, Gerald.” The voice masking device created a frightening bass audio sound much like Darth Vader in the early Star Wars movies.
Kensky’s head swiveled to the left where he squinted into the darkness. Three black caped and masked men sauntered toward him. Two had on black silk full face masks, but the one in the middle wore a horrific clown mask fitted to his face as if it were his real features. His heart pounded. He knew these figures. They were in snuff films on YouTube, always pulled by the YouTube staff, but uploaded again and again by unknown sources. They called themselves the Unholy Trio, but had some kind of comic secret identities Kensky couldn’t remember.
“What do you assholes want?” Kensky decided on bluster, although abject terror made his voice waver. “Let me go. Where are my prosthetics? Can’t you see I’m handicapped?”
His declaration drew voice altered laughter, chilling in the tones created by the separate devices. One of the men approached with a black silk mask and black hat as if he were trying to resemble Zorro. “We are filming this, Mr. Kensky. El Muerto wants you to answer some questions. They will determine how you will die. No one will hear you scream down here, nor will there be any rescue attempts. If you refuse to answer anything we ask, you will be subjected to slow evisceration. In other words we will gut you like a trout.”
Kensky tried chuckling, but it came out like a gargle of blood. “I know this game. I’m supposed to tell you everything because you three pop out of the dark with scary masks. Bite me. I want all your badge numbers. I’m going to own the city because of what you’ve done.”
The clown face crouched near him causing Kensky to cringe away from the very effective mask. “Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges.”
The one that had not spoken yet came forward. He held a scalpel in one gloved hand near Kensky’s face. “I think you’ll recognize this implement, Gerald. I think you’re under the misconception there will be a happy ending at some point. This will show you we’re not kidding around with you. We’re not cops and we’re not FBI agents. I am El Muerto. This is the deadly Payaso, and the famous Isis cult killer, El Kabong. We are the Unholy Trio. We serve justice when justice has been denied. Here is a little taste to get you on board, Gerald.”
Kensky screamed as he watched the scalpel cut downward from his sternum to his belly button. Blood welled out as Kensky kept wailing in sheer horror.
“I believe Gerald thinks that hurt really bad, Kabong. Perhaps you should show him what pain really feels like.”
The man dubbed El Kabong came forward once more with a bleach container. Without ceremony, he poured some over the open wound. Kensky’s facial features froze for a moment in complete mind numbing agony. He passed out.
*
“Well that was sufficiently horrific even for you, Muerto,” Gus said. “I think Gerald understands the consequences clearly now. Are you going to wake him right away?”
“First off, Payaso, did you just call me sadistic?”
“I’m sorry, Muerto, did I stutter. Shall I speak more slowly for you? You are without doubt a human reptile – no feelings, no compassion, no empathy, and no mercy. No thinking human being on earth could even dream in their wildest nightmares some of the stuff you do in reality.”
“El Muerto is very hurt by his trusted friend’s vicious verbal attack on Muerto’s gentle nature. No, I’m not going to awaken my poor abused serial killer. Let him regain consciousness in slow waves of pain.”