eventually the fbi director got tired of beating the shit out of
dammnit man, wont
you ever go down?
his fists were raw
and throbbing. stained with my blood; scarred and uglied with my spit
and my hair. his manly paws rested on his slacks, damp from sweat and
he gasped for air. it had always amazed me how little management knew
about those who they judged and gave orders to. dumbass.
sir, it's my superpower.
the director had
delivered a solid hour of violent and malicious harm to my thin frame
and though i grunted occasionally, i never made much noise for the exception
of the sick snap of a bone - or a rib.
what did you say?
of course there
was blood everywhere, but since now that it was coming from his worn
knuckles, and not just from my pathetic form, he felt that it was best
to find out why i hadnt crumbled into a heap, as i should have.
i said it is my
superpower, sir. it was tough to talk with my newly broken jaw and matching
split lip. but the message was delivered.
what fucking superpower?
sir, i am in department
i trained at "isla
i could almost see
the synapse spark within his being.
of course. which one do you have? he asked while freeing the brick from
the white towel - a towel that he then used to wipe his sore knuckles
with - a fruitless exercise, if you ask me, since the majority of the
ripped cloth was soaked with my blood.
feels no pain.
what the hell sort
of power is that? you're bullshitting me.
my body can be injured,
but i wont feel it. it allows me to be shot even beaten... im surprised
you arent aware of this. agent cc tells me it's why ive been able to
stay in the agency despite my write-ups and my relationship with your
are you telling
me that i could have killed you just then and you wouldnt have even
made a sound?
i would have told
you if you were killing me. the brick in the towel did accomplish some
damage, but i wouldnt have allowed you to commit murder.
the director winced
at that word. he paused, hoping that perhaps with my fucked up tongue
and swelling lips that i had said something that maybe rhymed with murder,
but failed, sadly.
son, i know when
im killing a man. or in your case a boy. i would like for you to stop
being friendly with my daughter, and all the other communications that
i have sent to you via various individuals have failed to work. so tell
me, how i can be more effective.
a laundry center
and a bedroom set.
pardon me, agent?
director, i will
stop all contact with ashley if i can get a washer/dryer and dishwasher
for my new apartment and a bedroom set.
(when i told ashley
this part of the story she yelled "whore!" i said, i didnt
have sex to get these things, i asked for them, still she repeated the
word and scoffed in her very best valley girl "tck! im sure!")
and if you get these
things you wont write to her, or call, or date, or whatever it is that
you are doing?
that's correct sir.
i just want to work hard here at the agency and have a normal life.
i will take this
in consideration. this isnt done, you know.
and if i ever find
out that she was ... on this "bedroom set" ... or even sees
what it is that youre looking for ... we will find a way to make you
i know, sir. and
if i may, the appliances can be black or white, but the furniture should
be mahogany. like the diana ross movie.