Daniel James [James - Pigs

Pigs

Daniel James

Pigs

Copyright 2019 Daniel James

All rights reserved.

This edition published 2019.

Cover design by Matt Forsyth

ISBN: 978-68068-139-0

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

This book is published on behalf of the author by the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.

Author email:

To my family and friends for their support. A huge thanks to Ethan Ellenberg for giving me a chance. And of course, to whoever reads this, thank you.

CONTENTS

Prologue

T he big bad wolf wore a navy single-breasted suit and black tie. His line of work tended to get messy, so he avoided the more formal double-breasted suits in favor of off-the-rack tailoring. The disposable surgical gloves stretched taut over his strong, slender fingers had originally been white; now they were stained with red and black poppies. One hand wielded a pair of fiendishly painful pliers, the other daintily held the freshly pulled fingernail of Lou MacKinnons right ring finger.

Give me the names, the wolf repeated, his deep baritone voice patient and neutral behind the mask of latex and black faux fur. Who else was involved in that job? Who set it up?

Huffing and panting from the ongoing ordeal, MacKinnon watched his brutaliser stand there in the harsh light of the barn through two swollen eyes, and once again attempted to dodge the question by feigning confusion and ignorance. He was now down to seven fingernails, or so he guessed. It had become difficult to distinguish the blistering heat of each sensory outrage at this point, and he had become lost in a confusing, pulsing throb of pain, the current tally of misery consisting of two plier-pried incisors, his right canine, multiple bodily contusions and various shallow, stinging cuts that cried out with every thump of his stressed heart. Behind this stranger with the rubbery snarl stood a line of similarly cheap-suited men, wearing rubber pig masks with some truly gruesome detail, a militant army of slaughtered swine led by their toothy apex executioner.

The wolf-headed inquisitor, unsatisfied with his subjects stubbornness, leaned in close, his shoulder blocking MacKinnons view. MacKinnons uncooperative attitude was crumbling proportionately with the systematic ravaging of his body, and yet his blood-engorged tongue, quivering behind his remaining crimson teeth, only surrendered an indeterminate plea which morphed into another screech of agony, bouncing off the weathered brick walls and timber beams of the empty cattle barn.

Silently, the wolf backed away softly, and through tear-filled eyes MacKinnon noticed that he held something up like it was some important clue. It was his own right index finger, severed at the first knuckle. It would never pull another trigger, never caress a hot piece of ass or skim through a bundle of green backs. Unsurprisingly, he noted, there were some physical traumas which could still rise above his more comparatively trifling wounds, his missing nails and teeth briefly forgotten whilst his stump gushed. The wolf tossed the crooked digit into the bucket of slowly accumulating bloody pieces.

McKinnon thrashed against the coarse ropes binding him to the rough wooden chairs armrests, blanching a shade below bleached bone as he watched another warm, rhythmic jet spritz from his knuckle stump, barely missing the wolfs polished black leather shoes. He was donehe couldnt hold out any longer macabrely wondering how much of him would fit in that pail. It was amazing he had lasted this long. He was a part-time thief, not one of the hardened leg-breakers he regularly rubbed shoulders with, but when the only true deterrent against spilling secrets is the threat of violence, it quickly loses its power in the presence of actual violence.

Okay, he begged, his naked body hot and sweating profusely in its agonies, so much so that the nightly chill sinking deep into his bones was incapable of offering any further discomfort. Gagging on his own copper-zinged blood, he gobbed it out like thick red wine. Ill give you the names. Between his racking sobs and pouring tooth sockets, speech was messy work. Im dead either way.

The wolf nodded quietly, dispassionately, at the captives accurate assessment of his situation.

Afterward, he speed-dialled a number whilst one of the slain pigs in suits placed the cold muzzle of a semi-automatic pistol against the base of MacKinnons skull and splashed his dreams, fears and any other secrets he harbored across the hay-strewn muddy concrete.

He sang, sir. We have the names. The wolf obediently listened to his following orders then hung up.

It was feeding time.

Free Bird

I t was going to be a long ride north to Chicago. Five and a half hours. But it couldnt possibly feel as long as the ride down here to the Menard Correctional Center of Randolph County, Illinois. Isaac Reid leaned his head against the cool glass of the Grayhounds window, feeling the prison transport bus lurch and roll on with the hydraulic hiss of a giant silver snake. With the prison and the muddy Mississippi River at his back, Isaac listened to the conversations of the jubilant passengers overlap into a susurrus of good cheer and excitement. Some of the men talked about their cravings for cigarettes, booze, food, female companionship, and, in less salty instances, their eagerness to be reacquainted with their relatives. Good for them, was all Isaac thought. Outside his window, the rambling farm lands looked gray, matching the sky and making the whole horizon resemble flesh on life support.

He was nervous. Nervous about the coming reunion. Nervous about letting Maggie and Will down. Nervous about ruining this fresh start.

Yeah, it was going to be a long five and a half hours to the last stop.

A heroin-thin Latino with an impoverished black caterpillar over his top lip gave Isaac a friendly nudge. Isaac turned to look at the young banger beside him, bristling with energy, his gray sweater draped over his bony frame like a tent. You know what else, were all freezin our nuts off in these prison-issue rags, broke, but Im not seein that as a reason to be pissed. Isaac glanced down at his own prison-issue black sweatpants and not-nearly-thick-enough sweatshirt, garments which would be of little use once autumn shrivelled and died under the imperialist frown of winter, and looked back up at Hector Hex Bermudez. To me its a push in the right direction. Its telling me that I fucked up once before and I aint ever goin back to that place. No way, dog. No way. Im out of that life, not wasting my time with that bullshit. The young reformers voice was gaining traction and speed as he worked to convince himself with his pumped-up pep talk. Lost enough vatos already, knowmsayin. He was holding tight to his manila envelope packed tight with family photos and letters which had seen him through the hard parts of his stint.

Isaacs own hands were empty, but his trouser pocket did carry the standard Bureau of Prisons pay-out. Twenty dollars. Barely enough for a bus ticket once he reached Chicago. He could have called Maggie for a pick-up. His release wasnt a surprise for her and Will, but he didnt want them driving to pick him up from the bus depot. Call it pride, or most likely shame.

Thats cool, Hex. Isaac gave him a supportive smile. Sounds like you got yourself some big game-changing ideas. Hex was one of the few allies cool with Isaac. Squealing on others was a strict no-no, even if it was purely out of vengeful spite. It tended to leave a mark on ones rep, fortunately for Isaac, his rep could boast of associations with enough powerful names to balance out his one act of finger-pointing.