Well this is fucked.
Two bodies on the floor: one temporarily unconscious - the other, significantly further along. The man was the target. The lady - wasn’t supposed to be there. An exceedingly unfortuitous outing - but not one beyond extrication.
Corrine was conflicted in snapping the woman’s neck - but she had a strict rule of no living witnesses.
She moves her across the room to a small storage closet.
Sorry lady, cost of doing business.
The old bird is stuffed into the cramped enclosure. Far from optimal but unforeseen events and all. Now for him - short, round, early sixties.
A hasty noose around the ankles and she drags him from the office, down the hall to the rear exit of the church. Outside - she hurries his two-hundred pounds into the trunk of her awaiting car and speeds from the scene.
TWO HOURS LATER
The farmhouse cellar - drafty and damp - was a sometimes staging area for Corrine’s preliminary work. Questioning and the exchange of ideas took place here.
Her guest, bound to a folding metal chair with half a roll of duct tape, sits quietly - his face beaten and sweaty.
Mounted high on the opposite wall - scabby with cracks and structural decline - a bullwhip, seven feet in length.
His eyes shift nervously from the long twists of leather to the dead countenance of his captor.
“You ever held one?” she asks.
The man’s breathing is rapid and shallow.
Corrine strides over casually, taking the whip in her right hand.
“You ever feel one?” she questions, gently running the tightly braided cord over his left shoulder.
“I don’t know who you are or why I’m here.”
She sends a blistering lash across his bare chest.
“Argh!” he screams.
“We’re here to discuss your - extracurricular activities.”
“My what?”
She issues a second reprimand. He yelps.
“I’ve got all night.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
Corrine sits on a small wooden stool facing him.
“Twenty years a cop. Police chief for another nineteen.”
“That’s right.” he says.
“Since retiring - last year, you spend a lot of time behind the pulpit.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, when did you start running whores?”
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Was it before or after your involvement with the drug ring and trafficking operation?”
“You’re out of your damn mind!”
Corrine stands and kicks the stool away.
“You really gonna deny it?”
“I don’t know who you think I am but you are gravely mistaken.”
“Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”
She takes two steps back and unleashes holy Hell. One lash after another on his chest and legs. A few across the face for good measure. It only took five minutes to break him.
“I’ve got money!” he cries.
Corrine retrieves the stool and is seated.
“I got money.” he coughs, winded.
“Quarter million. Yours, just let me go.”
She jumps to her feet, punches him in the mouth.
“I don’t want your fucking money.”
“Then what?” he says with a busted lip.
“A new Salem is coming - but this time, there won’t be any witches burned.” she declares circling, stopping behind him.
“Cops, judges, feds - all the defilers of innocence and those who protect them.”
“Tell me what you want, anything.”
She leans over his right shoulder.
“I want you to suffer.” she whispers.
In one swift movement the whip is wrapped around his neck.
He fights the leather ligature, purple with strangulation. Several seconds in - she unwinds the cordage and moves to face him.
“You sold women and children into bondage - to be tortured and killed.”
He wheezes and struggles for air.
“Do you honestly think you deserve to live?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” he barks.
“They would’ve killed me and my whole family.”
“There’s always a choice, you just made the wrong one.”
“I have grand-children.” his weak appeal for sympathy.
Corrine glares at the groveling lump.
“Ending you is gonna feel so good.”
Against the restraints he attempts to lean forward.
“Even with a Jew-enough lawyer, best you’ll ever get is pled down to life no parole. Never see daylight again.”
Her expression, one of icy disgust.
“And I promise - you will be beaten and raped every day of your sorry life until that dirty slut body gives out.”
She sanctions a scant grin.
“You ready?”
The man launches into a litany of thunderous cursing. Corrine swaps the duct tape bindings for iron shackles and marches him from the cellar. They stop at the far end of the field.
There, a seven-foot metal cross lay on the ground. She kicks the man from behind, sending him face first into the dirt.
“Fuckin’ bitch! You’re gonna wish you were never born!”
She turns him over and fastens his chains to locking fixtures on the freshly constructed apparatus.
“Welded this all by myself, just for you.”
“I hope you die screaming.” the man seethes.
“Hold that thought.”
Corrine strolls several yards away to a meager stand of tall trees and returns with a large can of kerosene.
She empties its contents over every last inch of her soon to be departing guest, pulls a lighter from her jeans and delivers the only justice this disgraceful person will ever know.
His screeching was like shattering glass for an entire thirty-seven seconds.
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