God, It Must Be Torture

Part 3

"Listen to me, motherfucker, if you touch my crew, I swear to fucking Jesus Christ himself, I'll come after you in the dead of night with nothing but a Swiss army knife, a lemon, and floss. The cops won't be able to ID your body when they find it the next morning hanging by your toes on the top of the Los Santos City Bank. Pffft, you think you can scare me with your piece of shit car battery? Way to go on making a crappy substitute for an actual electric chair. If you wanted to scare me, you'd threaten me properly, and not with electrocution. I'm invincible, assholes!"

Michael's taunting tactics had thrown the Los Santos Satans for a loop. They'd expected him to break easily; after all, he had looked a little less threatening when they chose him for interrogation after Ryan.

But...it was like the pain fueled him some how. His insults came in waves after each shock from the battery. Even switching over to flay him with knives didn't stop him. It had started off with small insults like "bitch" and "douche canoe" but then they started getting personal.

"Ow! Okay fuckers that one hurt," he yelled after being stabbed in the thigh with a hunting knife. "Job well done assholes for sticking me with a sissy knife. Did your mommy get that for you? She's a stupid bitch.  She should have gotten you a butter knife."

"Hey asswipe, don't say that about my mom!" A Satan shouted, lunging across the torture table for a pair of industrial-sized clippers.

"Jess, Jess," Reggie cried, grabbing the man's arm before he could touch the tool. "He's yanking your chain, bro!"

"He called my mom stupid, man! And she got me that knife for my birthday, it means a lot to me."

"I know, I know, but you can't let him get to you, all right?"

Jess nodded and glared past Reggie at Michael's smirk. He leaned around his friend with a twitch in his eye.

"Watch yourself, buddy," he warned, "or else one of them skinny sausages is coming off," he pointed at Michael's fingers in disgust, and walked away.

Michael bit his lip to hold in his laughter. His eyes were watering as he struggled to keep his composure, but as soon as he made eye contact with Gavin, who was visibly shaking with inaudible chuckles, the floodgate of giggles was released. His infectious laugh was causing a wave of silent laughter amongst his crew and also an awkward tension in the Satans watching his torture session go wrong. He wasn't supposed to be laughing. He was supposed to be screaming, crying, begging, and giving up information. How had this gotten so off track?

Greg, on the edge of losing his patience, aimed a hard punch into Michael's jaw, cutting him off mid-laugh, and bringing his attention back to the seriousness of the situation. He grabbed Michael by the jaw, and forced him to look into his desperate and wrathful eyes.

"Okay Mogar, you cocky piece of shit," he growled in a low voice, "I'm going to get what I want either from you or one of your dumbass friends, one way or another. Fess up, where's Lester's goddamn money? Are you gonna answer or am I gonna need to have a chat with your team and a pair of hedge trimmers?"

Michael shook free of Greg's grasp, his playful attitude gone in the blink of an eye. He was evaluating Greg and his pitiful attempt at being intimidating. If he wanted to be intimidating, he should have taken lessons from Ryan. Mogar had lived with the Vagabond for six months before he and Lindsay "Red" got together and bought an apartment. He would never forget the time he had woken up in the middle of the night to see Ryan, in a straight jacket, sleeping upside down like a bat in the living room with a whole tub of scorpions and snakes lying only inches underneath him. The worst part was, Ryan slept with his eyes open, making it look like he was dead. Michael didn't get out of bed in the middle of the night after that. And needless to say, nothing scared him anymore.

  The FAHC knew that Michael wouldn't confess, but there was always that little speck of doubt in the back of their minds. What if he did tell? What would happen to them? Would Michael get away? Would they all die? There was no way to know.

Michael finally answered his interrogator. "If you touch them, you will die."

Greg shook his head as he received the arrogant pledge of loyalty. He stood up straight and gestured for his cohorts to remove Michael from the chair. He followed them as they shoved him down onto his knees next to his team and bound him. Greg moved onto the next FAHC member, standing in front of them with his hands behind his back. Then he smirked as his next target glanced up at his towering figure.

"Surprise, motherfucker, guess who's next..."