God, It Must Be Torture

Part 2

"Ah, goddammit, is that really all you got?" the Vagabond asked, gritting his teeth against the pain. "A little knife in my hand? Come on, you guys are supposed to be scary!"

Ryan, unlike most of his crewmembers, could handle the pain; it didn't bother him, he was just doing dramatics for show. Being bound to a chair and tortured for information wasn't new for him. He was used to it. However, he usually was the interrogator, not the interrogated, but he knew how this game went and he was going to beat it.

"What the fuck is this guy's deal, Greg?" one Satan asked, scratching the side of his face.

"Yeah, Greg," Ryan whined, leaning forward against the plastic zip ties that anchored his hands to the armrests, his hair falling into his eyes, "what's my deal? What's your deal? Don't have better tools to get me with? You guys are the best in Los Santos. Oh wait, no, that's us!" He nodded over to his crew, all bound and gagged and kneeling in front of him, watching him being poked.

Greg glanced at the Fake AH Crew on the ground sneering, then turned back to Ryan. He squatted down to eye level with the Vagabond.

"Where's the money?" he asked.

"Where's the money?" Ryan repeated back.

"Stop it."

"Stop it."

"Just tell me where it is."

"Just tell me where it is."

"Alright, now you're just being childish."

"Alright, now you're just being childish."

"I'll kill you, motherfucker!" Greg almost screamed.

"I'll kill you, motherfucker." Ryan said calmly, eyeing up the Los Santos Satan like he was prey, and in Ryan's mind, he was. Even if he was tied up, Ryan was going to get out eventually, and when he did, Greg was a dead man.

They stared at each other for a while, testing each other's limits with just testosterone and stamina. Finally, Greg straightened up and looked to his crew, four of them standing around the torture subject with eager eyes.

"Get the car battery and the jumper cables," he commanded to his cohorts. "You are gonna squeal like a piggy," he told Ryan.

Ryan laughed until tears were streaming down his face, leaving streaks in his face paint that he wore under his skull mask on heists. "Oh, you're gonna electrocute me? I thought we were having a moment there Greg! The way you said sweet nothings to me and gazed into my eyes, oh, I melted instantly."

"Shut this asshole up," Greg commanded, and then another cohort quickly shoved a rag in the legendary Vagabond's mouth, silencing him for a moment.

Greg knew that the first torture wouldn't solicit an immediate response. He wasn't stupid. And of course, Ryan wasn't the type of guy to give up easily. He was, as one cohort named Reggie put it, 'one creepy looking motherfucker.' He was a man of steel when it came to pain, but he couldn't resist acting so hurt. He was bored, and wanted to put that Drama degree he earned in college to good use.

As the Satans brought out the car battery, the FAHC watched Ryan's arrogant eyes suddenly flash with worry. What was he playing at? Was he really scared of this new torture device? He had used worse before on others, but he hadn't been the one receiving it. Or did he know that the battery wasn't only going to be used on him, but on everyone else?

"You ready for this, fuckwad?" Greg snapped, removing the rag from Ryan's mouth and pulling on a cord with the wires exposed, already sending off blue sparks.

Ryan smiled; his worrisome look gone without a trace. "Let's go, pussy squad!"

But Greg had other ideas. He leaned in to lay the wires on Ryan's neck, and then pulled away.

"Eh, let's not waste this on, what's your name? 'The Vagabond?' Suckish name, bro," Greg said, putting the wires down on the table.

His crew was shocked. "Really? Are you sure? He's the one who did Lenny in! He's gotta pay!"

"And he will," Greg countered. "But not in physical pain."

He cut Ryan free from his bounds and two Satans roughly grabbed him, guiding him back to his spot in the line of captured crewmembers. Greg followed them and squatted in front of the struggling man as he was being restricted once again on his knees.

"If you're not gonna talk when I torture you with knives, maybe you'll talk when I torture you with your crew," he said menacingly.

"Highly unlikely," Ryan managed to mutter before his oily rag was shoved into his mouth again.

Greg smirked and addressed his next victim. "I think this one will be a tough one to crack. Get him in the chair, and let's fry this fucker."