"That's sad... You hurt me when you say that. Please, don't," Miguel cooed. He gave a simultaneous nod, tilting his head briefly to the side with an affectation of genuine wounded feelings.
He let the silence simmer for another heartbeat before continuing, his voice dropping an octave into something more intimate.
"It's me, Mr Salazar! The man you tried to kill... does that ring a bell?" Miguel asked.
Suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing the man's cheeks and violently wrenching his lolled head upward.
The action startled the already broken man, who let out a sharp, ragged wince as Miguel's fingers dug into the raw, tenderised flesh of his face.
Miguel's eyes narrowed, studying the man's features like a mad scientist on the verge of a gruesome discovery.
The man's disfigured, blood-smeared face glowed under the flickering fluorescents as he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision to the harsh light. He was clearly drowning in agony, and Miguel's grip on his fresh wounds only served to anchor him there.
Miguel was acutely aware of the pain; he buried his fingers deeper, making sure to strip the last strand of defiance and will from that shattered face.
"Do you remember me now?" Miguel asked with a deadly finality.
But before the exhausted man could utter a sound, the man in the middle, the stoic one, turned his head and spat a glob of blood and saliva directly toward Miguel.
The gesture caught Miguel's full attention. His mind didn't even need a second to interpret the message: Go fuck yourself, we ain't saying shit.
The disrespect was monumental, a rage-worthy act of rebellion, and yet it made Miguel smile widely.
Now the picture was complete. He had found the exact catalyst he had been looking for. He knew that by interrogating the weakest link, the most courageous of the group would become defensive.
If he could break the middleman, the rest would fall like dominoes. He smiled again, but the expression vanished before it could truly take root.
Miguel violently whisked the third man's face to the side, releasing him. The man's head fell, a mixture of pain and momentary relief.
Miguel flicked his wrist in disgust, clearing the warm, sticky stains of blood from his fingertips, before walking over to stand directly in front of the middleman.
"Can you do that again?" Miguel pleaded. He sounded like a curious child who had just seen a fascinating trick and wanted an encore.
He averted his gaze to his boys, who were packed into the corner of the room, observing the ritual. As his gaze met theirs, every eye in the room dropped to the floor.
"Is this why you guys put him in the middle?" Miguel asked with mock amazement, pointing at the captive. No response came; he wasn't expecting one.
"Because, fuck... this is impressive." Miguel praised him through a dry, hollow laugh, his knees dipping briefly as if he were truly moved.
Finally, he took a few steps backwards, his tone shifting into a sharp, cold command.
"I want this one."
The middleman was immediately uncuffed. He fell weakly to his knees before Miguel, his body a trembling wreck, but still, no words passed his lips.
Miguel's boys brought a low wooden stool forward, forcing the captive's head down onto the flat surface. They cuffed his hands behind his back, leaving him pinned, his cheek resting casually on the stool like a sacrifice on an altar.
Miguel stole another glance at his watch. This was taking far too long, and a corrosive boredom was creeping in. He had someone else on his mind, a stranger who acted as his human anaesthesia, and every second he lost to these rats drove him closer to the edge.
He let out a deep, stretched exhale, and with a sudden, terrifying seriousness, he ordered:
"Speak!"
Again, nothing. Miguel lifted his gaze to the other two hanging from the bars; he could see them vibrating, their terror escalating into a frantic, physical rhythm. Almost there. Just one more push.
He paused, standing to his full, imposing height.
"You know what? Let's forget about this whole thing! I mean, it's absurd and crazy, right?" Miguel laughed at his own dry joke.
"Like, I think it has finally clicked. Why would somebody pay amateurs like you to kill me? That's hilarious, considering you all have nothing to say!"
Brows furrowed.
Confusion rippled across the faces of the captives and the guards alike.
"My boys treated you guys so badly for being brave, and don't get me wrong—I don't condone that. The diminishing of bravery? Mmm-hmm!" Miguel shook his head solemnly.
"I will surely have them fixed, okay?"
The two hung captives nodded painfully in agreement, exchanging wide, hopeful gazes. Miguel flashed his multipurpose smile.
"Good. To make you all feel better, how about... we learn a little hockey?" Miguel proposed, his body already shifting into a professional striking position.
"To start off, you need balance. Let your stamina take control. I don't really know much about hockey, but I can try to teach you in the best way I can. At least you'll leave this world with some sports knowledge."
He swung the hockey stick gently through the air, the whoosh of the wood feeding their curiosity with hints of the coming violence.
"You have to make sure your grip on the stick is firm. After the stamina and shit, we don't want the stick flying off our hands after striking the ball," Miguel said.
As their faces twitched with a dawning horror, he continued, "And you might be wondering, which ball am I going to use? Take a guess... there's obviously no ball here. And as a man of standard living, I'm going to teach you how to improvise with this."
He lifted the stick with brute force, then slowly, agonisingly, landed the head of it against the temple of the man pinned to the stool. Miguel repeated the motion—a light tap, then another. He was lining up his shot.
He was going to use their friend's head as the ball.
The weakest link began to shake his head vehemently as Miguel practised his backswing.
"You always have to take your time with the ball. But remember, there's always a time limit, especially in situations like this. So don't hesitate to just strike!"
Miguel swung his arms backwards, muscles coiling like a spring, ready to land the first skull-shattering impact.
"Mr Storm and Scarlet!!!!!!!!!"
The name ripped through the air. Miguel instantly froze, the hockey stick suspended in mid-air. The entire room seemed to die along with the sound.
To be continued....