Same story, different treatment. Better?

‘Still not feeling chatty, then?’ The sallow-faced guard grinned, savouring the moment as he drew deeply on his cigarette. He examined the glowing tip with satisfaction then pressed it firmly onto the skin of the naked man strapped to the oak table. His victim’s face contorted, but he remained silent. His broken nose leaked blood and the burns to his genitals had merged into a fiery red patch, but he allowed not even a gasp of pain to escape his torn and ravaged lips.

The guard exchanged glances with his two colleagues. They’d worked on this man for an hour, first with fists and boots, then strapping him to the table and becoming more selective. Their job was done. If the man had ever intended to reveal the name of the man who’d sent him, that time had surely passed. What remained was a husk of a man, alive but no longer classified as a viable threat.

The guard nodded and his companions began to unbuckle the stained leather straps that restrained their prisoner. The man lay still, seemingly detached from the reality of his broken body, an almost benign expression on his face. The guard leaned over him, slapped his hand across the ruined face, the large ring on his finger opening a deep gash on the other man’s cheek. The prone body scarcely stirred, his expression remained blank, eyes fixed on some distant point.

‘He’s gone,’ the guard announced, ‘Take him to the boss.’

The other two men released the naked man, dragging him across the stone floor of the cellar and up the steep flight of steps.

The Turk was waiting, seated in a window seat, glancing at a thick pile of papers with an air of satisfaction. Budget sheets, bank statements. Business was good. In an uncertain and violent world there were always customers for an arms dealer without scruples. The Turk was an equal-opportunity salesman, he didn’t concern himself with ethics. If a customer, no matter the nature of their politics, had money to buy arms, the Turk would sell to him. Ability to pay the going rate was the only stipulation.

He frowned as the broken body was dragged into the room and thrown at his feet. The sallow-faced guard shrugged. ‘Not a word,’ he said.

The Turk knew the quality of his men, knew their ability to make even the most determined men spill their secrets was a matter of record. He shrugged his shoulders. The man before him had been sent to kill him. An occupational hazard in a dangerous trade where enemies abounded. He’d have liked to know the man’s employer, but it wasn’t vital information. There were many enemies.

‘Take him to the farm,’ he said, dismissively. The guards smiled. The adult boars weighed over three hundred pounds and could tear a body to pieces in a matter of minutes, leaving no trace. It was a rare spectacle but so much more so when the victim was still alive.

Two guards bent as one, took the man by an arm and pulled him to his feet. He stood, eyes glazed, swaying slightly. The guards exchanged a smile, making him walk would be easier than dragging a body. The naked man bent forward as if about to fall and both guards took a pace closer. Their victim reached out and gripped their clothing, brought their two heads together with a sickening thud. Before the men hit the floor, the naked man was on the move, snatching a pen from the table beside the seated Turk and stabbing the sallow-faced guard in the left eye. The guard screamed, a high-pitched keening that extended the normal range of a human voice, and sank to his knees, hands scrabbling at the stub of a pen that was all that protruded from his eye socket.

The Turk watched impassively as the naked man bent over the unconscious figures of the two guards, removed a knife from the belt of the nearest man and cut their throats. He kicked the kneeling guard to the floor and stood over the Turk, knife held out before him.

The Turk was a fatalist. He’d known his fate from the moment the naked man’s eyes had lost their glazed expression. He stood and looked into the eyes of the man who’d been sent to kill him. ‘Who was it?’ He asked.

‘New York,’ the naked man replied, ‘Brooklyn, to be specific. They weren’t best pleased with you. Something to do with a Sudanese deal, I gather.’

The Turk nodded. It could have been any of a number of deals, but he’d wanted to know. The knife flashed, blood spurted, the Turk crumpled to the floor, his papers scattering in an untidy pile. The naked man moved to him, drew the blade across the other man’s throat. Confirmation. This was a trade where certainties were the only results that counted.

The sallow-faced guard was still screaming, but quieted as the other man drew near. The naked man knelt beside him, smiling. This man had shown pleasure in inflicting pain upon him. Burnt his genitals with a cigarette tip. He would suffer in kind before he died. The guard tried to speak, but the naked man placed a hand across his mouth.

‘Enough,’ he said, ‘You’ve lost an eye so far. That’s nothing. You’ll beg for death soon enough. Don’t waste your breath now. I’m about to make you wish you’d never been born. Then, when I’ve finished, the pigs can have you. That sound like a plan to you?’