Page 88 of Payback
“Does it matter? The key point is that no one steals from me, Jared. I require you to pay him a visit, and ensure, in a slow manner, that he comprehends the grave consequences of stealing from me. Do you understand?” Vince’s tone was grave.
I nodded. “Certainly.”
“Then go and take care of it.”
I neatly folded the piece of paper, bade Vince farewell, and proceeded downstairs to fetch my car. I drove toward the dark parts of the city, territories one would avoid strolling through after nightfall. I eventually located a good spot to park my car, ensuring its safety from theft or dismantling. If that did happen, I would find an alternative means of returning home. I had nothing of value inside it. I always ensured not to carry anything with me. Equipped with my bag containing the tools I needed, I directed my attention to the shabby apartment before me, assessing it. The living conditions were wretchedly squalid, an ideal environment for a character like the man on my list. Crossing the street, I timed my arrival as someone was exiting the building. Ascending the stairs, I identified the apartment he inhabited. I knocked on the door and waited. I detected some shuffling on the other side, and a faint smile formed on my lips. The door creaked open, revealing an obvious addict, his skin a sickly color and his features gaunt. It was a pitiful sight, but it didn’t deter me from donning a friendly expression, as though I had good intentions. People in even these parts could be too trusting at times.
“Can I help?” he croaked out with a voice worn down by excessive substance use.
“Pete Michaelson?” I asked.
“That’s me.”
It was evident he was under the influence of something. His gaze struggled to focus on me, and he didn’t find my presence suspicious.
“Just the person I’ve been seeking.”
I drew my arm back and swung my fist into his face, sending him crashing to the ground, unconscious. There was no one else around, just the two of us. Swiftly, I entered his apartment, dragging his limp body further inside before shutting the door. In a place like this, screams were far from uncommon, and I recognized it as the ideal setting for accomplishing the task Vince had assigned me.
After locking the door behind me, I surveyed the room, cluttered with debris and littered with remnants of cocaine and heroin. I shook my head in mild disdain before arranging my tools. I located an item to protect the floor, ensuring it wouldn’t be stained with blood, and then identified a chair that appeared robust enough. Next, I hauled my target to the chair, settling him onto it and firmly binding him in place. Once the knots were secured, I fetched another chair, positioning it in front of him. As an addict, his choice to keep the curtains perpetually drawn wasn’t unusual. The glare of light hurt his eyes, and the curtain offered the seclusion he craved.
Dragging my bag to my designated seat, I sifted through its contents, contemplating where to begin. It didn’t require much effort to break down people as mentally shattered as Pete. There was a reason they clung to drugs, and it wasn’t because their lives were one continuous party. Their minds were twisted, and while drugs were their closest ally, they also stood as their fiercest foe. They had no stability, and if my objective was to extract information, I knew I could achieve it within minutes without resorting to physical force. All it would take was dangling the allure of drugs before him. Yet, I hadn’t come here to appease his addiction. My intention was to ensure he paid for what he had done to Vince.
Retrieving a small mask from my bag, I donned it—more for effect than to conceal my identity. There was no need for concern. Tonight, this man was destined to meet his demise.
I swiftly assessed the disorderly apartment, unfazed by the overflowing sink of dirty dishes or the rumpled bed with sheets that appeared to have evaded washing for months. The burn marks scattered about were also unsurprising, likely remnants of neglected cigarettes and joints. The home was precisely as I had anticipated, and nothing was truly shocking. Gradually, I returned to where Pete was seated. He was slowly regaining consciousness as I took my place, and I wondered whether my punch had been forceful enough or if he had become accustomed to such blows. He blinked his eyes open, slowly focusing on me.
“What the hell...” he muttered, still groggy from the punch and the lingering effects of drugs coursing through his system. “What are you doing?”
Leaning back in my chair, I gave his a slight kick, attempting to shake him awake. However, he slumped back into a drowsy state. I observed his head drooping forward, expecting a more vigorous response, but it seemed Pete wasn’t quite prepared to fully awaken. The realization brought a smile to my face, and I settled into a relaxed posture as I waited. It took longer than I had hoped, considering he had already roused once. On the second attempt, though, his body resisted awakening. Perhaps his subconscious was aware of the impending doom once he regained full consciousness. As time passed, and the delay grew, I retrieved a vial of smelling salts from my bag, wafting it under his nose. The day was progressing toward its end, and I wished to conclude this before morning arrived. While I had promised a slow approach, it didn’t mean I intended to spend an entire day torturing this pathetic being.
Pete jolted awake from the effects of the smelling salts. I cautiously withdrew, giving him a moment to collect himself as I stowed away the vial. He regarded me with rapid blinks, his chest rising and falling in hurried, shallow motions.
“W-What is this?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“You’ve angered some dangerous people, Pete,” I informed him.
“W-Who the fuck are you?”
“You don’t steal, Pete,” I scolded.
“Steal?” he asked, his gaze darting around the room as if seeking clarification from the surroundings. But there was no one here but him and me.
“You know precisely what you’ve done.”
“Honestly, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested. “I don’t know who you are, and the only person I’ve stolen from was my grandmother.”
“Does that somehow absolve you?” I asked, keeping my voice low while infusing it with a touch of intimidation.
“No... but she was old,” he offered weakly.
“Do you really think I’d believe that’s the only person you’ve stolen from?”
“Well, shops aren’t people.”
I rolled my eyes at his feeble justification.
“They’re owned by other people,” I countered.
