Bad Games

40



Jim Fannelli was in the basement of his mother’s house waiting for a text message from his brother Arty. The basement had a ground-level entrance via sliding glass door that Arty had left unlocked during his earlier visit when he was installing the camera. Jim used it to bring both Amy and Patrick Lambert through unobserved.

Husband and wife were both gagged, then bound at the wrists and ankles. The exertion of moving them (especially a man Patrick’s size) annoyed Jim, and he was only too happy to drop them hard onto the basement floor like bags of laundry—Patrick first, and then Amy. When Amy hit, the heavy impact brought out a cry and a whimper. Patrick instantly growled and fought his binds.

Jim laughed. “They should be here soon, tiger,” he said. “I just spoke to Arty a few minutes ago.”

Patrick lay on his side to Jim’s right, Amy flat on her back and to the left. Both bodies were vertical silhouettes on the floor as Jim didn’t dare offer up any light for fear of alerting his mother to his presence so soon.

Amy tried screaming through her gag once, but this resulted in a resounding stomp to her solar plexus that curled her body into a breathless, agonizing ball. Patrick went berserk the instant the blow landed and flailed desperately against his binds. He received an equally debilitating blow in the form of a hefty boot to the head that all but knocked him unconscious.

“Jesus, you guys aren’t making this easy on yourselves are you?” Jim said. “I mean all you have to do is lay here and shut the hell up and I’ll leave you alone.” He spit on the concrete floor. “I mean no one’s gonna rescue you out here in Mayberry. We might as well be on another f*cking planet.”

He laughed as softly as he could before adding, “And don’t think Arty and I don’t know about your little buddy the sheriff. I’m sure it’ll kill you to agree with me here, big guy, but you gotta admit he’s a useless old f*cker, isn’t he? Couldn’t catch cold wearing undies in a snowstorm.” He paused, liking to think he was about to answer the questions they would have undoubtedly asked had they not been gagged.

“Yeah, he searched that cabin we were at,” he said. “Did a bang up job too.” He laughed again, a little louder now. He put a hand over his mouth for a few seconds to catch himself, eventually whispered, “At one point Arty and I were standing no more than three feet from him, I shit you not. The old fart was in the kitchen poking around, and we were pressed up against the opposite wall doing our best not to piss ourselves laughing.

“He didn’t even check the bedroom where Arty hit a homerun with those old folks’ heads. We were stressing about that—worrying that we might have missed something, ya know? Like a spot of blood or whatever. But the dumb f*cker didn’t even check the room.” He couldn’t help it; Jim barked out a single laugh before instantly slapping a hand over his mouth and whispering, “Shit.”

Amy started to cry.

“Aw, don’t start doing that, lover,” Jim said. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. I don’t want you drying up on me…” He squatted next to her, wiped away the tears, guided his fingers down her body, stopping at the crotch of her sweats, grinned and added, “…In more ways than one.”

The sexual innuendo resonated with Patrick instantly; he went berserk against his binds again.

“You’re right, Patrick,” Jim said, turning towards him. “God dammit, you’re right. If she does start drying up on me I could just use a little something to keep the cylinders running smoothly, yeah? A nice lube job? With an average catch I usually just spit on my cock. But your wife?” He wheeled back around to Amy, patted her on the ass, then stood. “She’d get the good stuff. Maybe some of that expensive shit that gets all warm and tingly the faster you f*ck…” He started pumping his hips back and forth, both hands miming a grip onto an imaginary ass in front. “Give us both a little pleasure, yeah? What do you say, lover?”

Patrick gargled something loud into his gag.

Jim froze his sexual mime in mid-thrust. Slowly turned towards Patrick. “Okay, that was a little too loud, Patrick. You’re leaving me few options. I know you’re pissed off—and I don’t blame you one bit, tiger—but still, way too loud.

“So it seems like my only option is to just keep on beating you until you eventually shut up. But something tells me you’re a pretty stubborn guy. So why don’t I just say this, so we can put an immediate end to everything and have some peace and quiet. Here goes: if you don’t shut the f*ck up, right now, and stay shut the f*ck up, I will be sure that your little angels—who are due to arrive here at any moment by the way—will experience fear and pain beyond anything you can possibly imagine.”

Jim paused and licked his lips. “Do I make myself clear, stud?” He turned to Amy. “What about you, lover? Am I clear with you too?” He took a step back. “Am I clear with the both of you?”

The basement was still as dark as ever, and husband and wife were still silhouettes, but the shocked whites of their eyes managed to penetrate the gloom the instant their children were mentioned. Stone silence followed.

“Good,” Jim said. “Good mommy. Good daddy.”