Page 139 of Thankless in Death

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Joe didn’t come around as soon as Reinhold had anticipated. He’d given his old pal a good hard hit—maybe harder than he should have, considering—but all that power and fury just came boiling out.

Besides, he’d wanted Joe with X’s in his eyes while the droid dumped him in the sleep chair.

He’d already had the droid cover the chair with plastic from one of the big rolls. It was a damn fine chair, mag leather—the real deal—and in a rich man’s chocolate color.

He didn’t want to mess it up.

He figured the sleep chair was just another inspiration. He could work on Joe as he sat, reclined, or laid full out. The multipositions offered so many choices.

He’d dubbed it his Kill Seat, and had already decided anybody he did here in home sweet home would get to try it out.

He’d been anxious to get started once he had Joe secured with rope and tape, but he hadn’t thought to get any more of those wake-the-hell-up-asshole capsules.

He considered sending the droid out for some, then opted to have it fix him dinner, then shut down. That way he could eat, then work in private.

He chowed down on a double cow burger and fries—the real deal—and thought he’d never tasted anything as absolutely ultra. He watched a slasher vid while he ate, considering it research, and was about to top things off with a bowl of chocolate cookie ice cream when his guest moaned.

He could wait on dessert. Time to start the main feature.

He hadn’t taped Joe’s mouth. Reinhold had tested the soundproofing himself by strolling out into the communal hall with his own music up to blast. And hadn’t heard a thing.

He switched the entertainment unit to thrasher rock, but not too loud. He and Joe needed to have a conversation.

Joe continued to moan. His eyes were about halfway open, and glassy. A thin trail of blood out of his left ear had dried, and more matted in his hair, smeared on the plastic covering the chair.

“Wake up, dickwad.” Reinhold punctuated the order with two hard slaps—each cracking the air and throwing Joe’s head right, then left.

His eyes rolled around a little, then focused on Reinhold’s face.

“Jerry. What’s going on, Jerry? God, my head. My head hurts.”

“Aw, want a blocker?”

“I don’t—I can’t move my arms. I can’t—” Comprehension dawned slowly, and behind it came the terror. “Jerry. What’re you doing? Where am I?”

“We’re hanging, man. In my new place. What do you think? Frosted extreme, right? Check the view.” Roughly, he spun the chair, slamming it to a halt when it faced the wall of glass.

“Jerry, you gotta let me go. Come on, Jer, stop fucking around. I’m hurt, man.”

“You think you’re hurt?” Thrilled, somehow more thrilled than with any of the others, Jerry leaped in front of the chair, slapped his hands on the armrests, and soaked up the wild fear on his friend’s face. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Jerry, come on, man, it’s Joe. We’re buds.”

“Buds?” Bending down, Reinhold snatched up a length of hose he’d had the droid cut from a reel. He lashed it across Joe’s chest like a whip, got a shocked, high-pitched yelp. “You think we’re buds?”

He lashed again, hardening at Joe’s scream of pain. “Were we buds when you dared me to steal that candy from Schumaker’s? You made me do it, you fuck.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! We were kids!”

“How about when you gave me the wrong answers on that history test so I flunked it? Or when you screwed April Gardner when you knew I was going to ask her out?”

He kept lashing as he raged, kept lashing as Joe screamed. As he cried, blubbered out pleas and apologies.

He stopped to catch his breath while Joe’s heaved and hitched, while tears ran down Joe’s face. He’d already wet his pants, and that was its own satisfaction.

“Please, please, please.”

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