Rich Kilgore scanned the directory that hung from the back of the elevator wall. Sub-level 3: Accounts Receivable, Accounts Payable, General Operations, & Torture Chambers #3000 - #3999. That's the place, he thought, jabbing it with his finger. They were always moving stuff around down here, something about "renovations." Above him piped-in music played a soothing orchestral version of Metallica's Enter Sandman. He turned to the panel and hit the button for Sub-level 3, then mumbled along to the trio of violins, "Off to Never-Never Land."
As the elevator descended, he checked himself, smoothing out the scuff marks on his designer boots. He pulled out the mini lint roller, passing it over the shiny, black fabric of his suit, then straightened his black cowboy hat. The elevator dinged at Sub-level 3. He stepped out into the underground tunnel. The place was rocky and roughly hewn. Cheesy drip sounds echoed off the walls, probably to make the place sound authentic. His boots crunched against the uneven ground. It was like it'd been dug out by some giant ants. Maybe it was. He kicked a rock and watched it ping down the dimly lit corridor. Far down the tunnel, he could hear familiar sounds, loud clanging, smashing, some screaming… you know, normal stuff.
They do like to do it up down here on Sub-level 3, Rich thought. It's really just a show. They call you in, want to see your numbers, want to put it all in their spreadsheets. They make you go by all those chambers on the way in. It's just to unnerve you, show you who's got what finger on what button. But, you can't unnerve a gambler. Especially a gambler like me. Especially someone who's been all-in, all-in $10,000,000, against the grandson of the former Shah of Iran, and won. After gamblin' like that, you don't unnerve.
All the same, Rich reached for a cigarette and a little box of wooden matches. He struck a match, but it flared up, burning his finger. "Ouch," he said, dropping the match and the cigarette. "Maybe another time."
The noises got louder as he turned the corner. Torture chambers lined both sides. They'd been cut right out of the rock and were open at the front. Kinda like bays, so you could stand around and watch. The first few were empty. Chains, iron spikes, and saws hung from the walls. One had a stretching rack, another a furnace with tongs and pokers. The next one had a few boxes of Oreos and some freshly baked Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. That one's just a break room. Torturin's hard work. He continued down the hall. A high-pitched whirring sound came from the next bay. This one was occupied. It was a complete 1930's dental setup. A large man was laid back in a chair, and an even larger man… no not a man… a large creature… a half-fish, half-man thing was looming over him with a drill. The man in the chair was squirming and making a kind of, "Agh, har, aaa," noise.
"Open," said the fish-man, or Thrall as they were called, "Open wider."
It looked like the Thrall had drilled through most of the lower teeth. On the dental tray lay a few picks, scrapers, and a pair of Craftsman channel locks. One thing about Thralls, they appreciated good tools. It looked up. It wore a surgical mask and some safety glasses. It waved, "Hey, Richard."
"Hey, Daryl," said Rich, waving back.
"Did you win?" Daryl asked, holding the drill out to the side.
"No, not this time," said Rich, with a slanted smile.
"That's too bad. Keep at it. You'll bounce back," said Daryl.
"Thanks, Daryl," said Rich, touched.
Daryl stuck the drill back in the man's mouth, "I said open."
Rich reached the door at the end of the hall. It had a frosted glass pane that said Governor's Office: The Suicide King. A bell tinkled as he walked through. The office was a small, naturally-formed cavern. On either side sat swanky modern couches, powder blue ones. In between lay a glass coffee table with some magazines neatly splayed. At the back was Phyllis, clacking away on a vintage typewriter. Phyllis, the receptionist, had the head of a catfish, but the body of a… uh… mostly a catfish. She had some of those librarian's glasses. The kind with a beaded string that loops around your neck, so you can wear 'em like a necklace if you want.
"Morning, Richard," she said in a nasally voice, not even looking up from her typewriter.
"Hey, Phyllis." He plopped down on the couch.
She pressed a button on the intercom, "Richard Killgore here to see you," then looked back up, and gave him a fake smile. "He'll be with you in a minute."
Rich nodded and looked over the magazines. He picked up the latest copy of Simply Evil. The cover sported a few good articles: "Creating a Hostile Work Environment," "Having Meaningful Check-ins with Your Victims," and "Aggressive-Aggressive: It's The New Passive-Aggressive." He was halfway through a quiz, "What's Your World Domination Type?" when Phyllis called him. "He'll see you now."
The Suicide King's office was much like the waiting room, naturally made, here a stalactite, there a stalagmite—except way posher. The King had a thick mahogany desk, and tapestries hung from the walls. A few stylish shelves showed off the Suicide King's awards, For Excellence In Massacre Management, and People's Choice: Best Pandemic 1400s-1500s. But something was missing - usually, an elaborately woven rug lay in the middle of the room. Now it was rolled up and propped in a corner.
Off to the side, he could hear the sound of running water coming from an open door. "I'll be right there, Rich," said a voice.
"No problem. Take your time," said Rich, tapping his fingernail on the Suicide King's desk. Pens were lined up like little soldiers, and a day calendar was positioned perfectly in the middle next to some rolls of parchment. A few other knickknacks lined the front—a shrunken head, Hand of Glory, and one of those perpetual motion dealies with the balls that click back and forth. Rich bent forward to get a close look at a carving of a dragon. It had a snake's body, and curved up and down like a wave. It was propped up on a little pedestal and looked like it was made out of black glass. Rich touched one of the edges. "Ouch!" It was sharp. He looked at his finger. A glowing, sparkling, red substance oozed from the cut. He stuck it in his mouth.
"Careful with that," said the Suicide King, coming out of the side room, wiping his hands on a towel, "It's obsidian. It never dulls." Rich straightened himself as the Suicide King stepped forward. Like all Thralls, he had that fishy look, but the Suicide King was the fishiest. He seemed to have been dredged up from the deepest depths of the ocean. He had the head of an anglerfish, a bizarre, hideous thing. Spines, a wide mouth, needle-like teeth. A long tendril jutted from his forehead. It ended in a dollop of flesh that hung between his eyes. Rich had seen this before on the Discovery Channel. It was called an esca. The esca would glow, hypnotizing the little fishies. And when they got close enough, SNAP, the anglerfish would nab 'em with those needle-like teeth. Rich had never seen the King use it and hoped he never would. But as ugly as the King was, he did have style. He wore a charcoal grey, three-button, Italian suit, complete with a high-necked vest and a pink pocket square.
The Suicide King stuck out his scaly hand and grinned. His razor-sharp smile stretched the entire width of his face. Rich hesitated, but reached out and shook it, "Mr. Suicide Ki–"
"Call me Suey," he said. "All my friends do."
Rich smiled a little, looking for a chair. The King seemed to have moved out all his other furniture. "The thing is…" Rich floundered.
"I apologize," said the King, motioning to the bare floor in front of his desk. "It's Carol. She's always redecorating, said it looked too authoritarian in here, too masculine. But, I mean, mission accomplished, right? How else is the office of the Governor of the great state of Texas supposed to look? But, she didn't buy it. She says, 'Suey, it's the 21st century. You need to catch up. No more 1500s tapestries for you.' She's an amazing woman. You know we've been together for over 3000 years. Now, that's commitment."
"That's… that's great, sir," said Rich.
He snapped his fingers. "Mutt. Get a chair for our friend."
Rich looked around. He hadn't noticed the King's personal bodyguards, Mutt and Chops, standing at the back of the room. Mutt and Chops were two of the biggest Thralls Rich had ever seen. It was as if someone took a couple of gorillas, ripped off their monkey heads, and replaced them with the heads of a trout and a flounder. They also wore finely-tailored suits. Mutt, the trout, reached into a corner and grabbed an aluminum folding chair. He opened it with a Thwack! and set it in the middle of the room.
"Have a seat," said the King.
"Thanks, Mr. Suicide...I mean, Suey," said Rich, fumbling to sit down.
The King leaned back against his desk. He folded his arms. "I heard you had some bad luck."
"Yeah, a bad streak," said Rich. "But, no worries, I'll get it back real fast."
"I know you will," said the King, pacing, "How much was it again?"
"Oh," Rich rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just temporary. I think around a quarter million, maybe less."
"286,762," said the King, "to be exact."
"Oh, yeah," Rich did more neck rubbing, "sounds about right."
"Don't worry about it, Rich," Suey leaned forward. "My mentor, the previous Governor, he would always tell me. 'Suey… worry never threw a single soul down a bottomless pit. You gotta just take it one day at a time.'"
"Oh yeah," said Rich, squirming, "... and real soon—."
"That's the spirit!" Suey slapped him on the back. "In fact, me and the boys here have a plan, that'll square you up right away."
"Really?"
"Of course," he looked up at Mutt and Chops.
They stepped up, putting heavy hands on Rich, pinning him down in the chair.
"Hey… What's going on?" He glanced back at the rolled-up rug.
"Rich, we think you have a lot of potential, enough to go far in this world." The King nodded to Chops. Chops, the flounder, reached into his pocket and pulled out something that looked like a garden spigot. "We just need to tap into that potential… and drain it out of you."
"Wait, wait!" Rich fought against Mutt's grip. "What about our contract? We had a deal!"
"This?" said the King, picking up a roll of parchment from his desk. "You should really read the Definitions section. You can hide so much stuff in there." He looked at Chops. "Juice 'im."
Chops pressed the garden spigot to Rich's forehead. He could feel it like the business end of an industrial vacuum cleaner. Mutt took an empty fish bowl and set it between Rich's feet. Chops turned the knob on the spigot. Rich gagged, like he was about to hurl, but hurl out the top of his head. Mutt pushed him forward over the bowl.
"Don't spill any," said the King. "Carol really hates a mess."
Rich's eyes rolled back in his head, and he started to shake. A glowing, colored liquid flowed from the spigot, first bright green, then red. A rainbow of sparkling colors poured into the bowl. They swirled and danced like liquid Skittles.
Rich gasped and coughed. His skin turned white. He was shriveling up, pulling tight to the bone. Mutt tipped him forward even more, giving him a good shake, like trying to get the last bits of Gatorade from an empty cooler.
Mutt pushed him back against the chair. Rich looked like a raisin in a ridiculous cowboy suit. A dusty moan escaped from his mouth.
The King picked up the bowl, the dancing colors reflecting off his face. "Chops, take this to the distillery. Mutt, get rid of that," he said, motioning to Rich. Then he pressed the intercom. "Phyllis, we're finishing up. You can send him in." As Mutt and Chops walked out, a wraith-like creature passed them in the doorway. It was a skeleton, fresh from the grave. But instead of bleached-white bones, his were painted completely red. It looked at Rich contemptuously.
"Well, Red," the King said to the skeleton. "Rich isn't going to be with us any longer. I'm going to need another gambler."
The red skeleton nodded, turning to go.
"And this time, get me one that wins!"