Retribution Radio

....Three…two…one

....“Good morning ladies and gentleman and welcome to the latest entry into shock entertainment. I’m your host George Thorn and this is…Retribution Radio.”
....George swivels in his chair and flips a switch, sending the 14-second intro of Ozzy Osbourne’s “Black Illusion” out onto the airwaves.
....Just as Ozzy begins his verse, George slides the volume control down to a gentle fade-out and begins to speak, cheerfully. “Let me give you a brief run down of what Retribution Radio is all about.”
....He pauses as second for impact while he takes a sip from the glass of water sitting readily on the table. George was never very good at speaking. It always made him nervous and dried his throat out, so having a glass of water handy was just part of his pre-set stage.
....“Thanks to the marvels of modern technology,” he continues. “not to mention every penny I have managed to save over the last fifteen years of my life, I am able to temporarily interrupt the regularly scheduled programming on your FM dial.” George tips the glass of water to his lips again and let’s the soothing liquid, loosen his tightening vocals chords. “I estimate around thirty minutes of air time before someone either figures out how to override me, or the “wonder boys” of law enforcement pinpoint my location and send the Calvary in to save the day.” A slight pause…another gulp of water. “And it’s completely commercial free!”
....George swivels in his chair again and the distinct sound of “shoes-on-tile” resounds through the air.
....“So without further ado…let’s awaken our unsuspecting victim.”
....He absently checks the microphone attached to his shirt as he fixes his eyes on the shape dangling limply from the wall behind him. His footsteps echo his madness as they take the listeners to another part of the room. The rustle of clothing can be heard clearly as George reaches in his pant’s pocket and removes a small, syrup-colored bottle.
....He stands silent for a moment, visually inspecting the binds that hold the man securely in place. Satisfied he’s done well and there’s no chance for escape, he removes the cap from the bottle and waves it’s contents under the man’s nose.
....A thrashing sound echoes widely as he man suddenly jerks his head back, then side to side as if trying to escape something.
....“Ah…smelling salts! Mighty powerful stuff.” George smiles.
....A loud groaning escapes the man’s lips, followed by a sudden, violent sneeze, several chocking coughs and another, less explosive sneeze.
....George turns his head to the side and addresses the listening audience as if he were looking into an imaginary camera. “Everybody say…bless you.” He then cocks his head as if listening to their response and adds a sweet-toned “Ahhhh…that was nice.”
....George waves the bottle under the man’s nose again---and again that violent thrashing sound reverberates through the air. His eyes flutter a second, and then shoot open with frightened wonder. No sneeze.
....“Wh…what’s going on. Where am I?” The man eye’s jerk past the fading sting of the smelling salts and then focus on the smiling face in front of him. “G…G..George?”
....George feints a shudder. “Oooo…recognition. Hello, Mark!” The smile widens into a maddening mixture of sarcasm, joy and hatred. “How the hell are ya?”
....George recaps the bottle and slides it back into his pocket and begins to address the listeners as he walks back over to his control table. “Ladies and gentleman, this is Mark Henning…an old friend, colleague…rapist, murderer…”
....“George? W…What’s going on? Who are you talking to? W…What…”
....“We, Mark, are live on…Retribution Radio.” George flips the switch, once again resetting Ozzy’s “Black Illusion” into motion.
....Again he waits for Ozzy to start singing then slides the volume switch down. He takes another large mouthful of water, swishes it once or twice then let’s it slide down his throat. “And it’s a wonderful thing, Mark…and commercial free! I have spared no expense.” He silently instructs Mark to follow his eyes about the room as he points to various areas. “I’ve got microphones on everything…when I walk…when I talk…even when you talk.” He points proudly at the small microphone attached to Mark’s shirt as well. “Why, I bet the listeners could even tell what I’m about to pick up from this tray, just by the mere sound of it.” George walks over to a small table next to Mark. On top of the table sets a small silver tray, neatly arranged with all types of surgical…and not-so-surgical type instruments.
....“Let’s see,” George speaks into the lens of the imaginary camera again. “Can you guess what this is? Now listen closely.” His hand scans the litter of pain suppliers momentarily and then settles upon a small, glimmering instrument about seven inches long. He does not pick it up right away, but instead rocks it from side to side with the tips of his fingers.
....“George. You’ve gone mad. You’re out of…”
....“Shhhh…” George puts his free hand to Mark’s lips, gently covering his mouth. “I want them to hear.”
....George continued to roll the delightful instrument back and forth, back and forth and then carefully lifting it from one end, he let the slender, flat edge of the other end scrap into the metal. “Well, my friends…can you guess?” He cocked his head again in anticipation of an answer, then, “No. Well, I guess it is a little bit much to ask, isn’t it. OK. I’ll tell you.” He lifts the instrument up and centers it between his eyes and Mark’s. “A scalpel.”
....“George! Untie me! You’re…”
....George waves the scalpeled hand in front of his face, successfully slicing Mark’s words into silence. He mocks sadness as he looks back down at the tray and shakes his head. “There are so many things to choose from, but…I couldn’t make up my mind which one to use…so…I came prepared, anyway.”
....“W…What are you going to do?” Mark eyes widen with horror to the question he already knows the answer to.
....“Why, first…for our listening audience…” George inches the scalpel closer to Mark’s face. I’m going to…” The scalpel centers between Mark’s eyes, only an inch away. “remove a…” The blade is now just centimeters from Mark’s left eye. “…a confession!” He suddenly brings the blade down on the bridge of Mark’s nose, not too hard, but just enough to where the incredible sharpness of the instrument penetrates the skin and tender cartilage like butter. He stops at approximately a quarter of an inch deep and watches the blood form and pour rapidly down his cheeks.
....“Go ahead, Mark. Tell the audience what you did. Tell them what you think you got away with!”
....“What? I haven’t done anything! You’re mad!”
....George stops suddenly and the removes the scalpel from Mark’s nose. “What did you do? You mean, you don’t know?” He turns and, with sadness and confusion on his face, he faces the camera. “Well, ladies and gentleman, this is a disturbing turn of events. It appears I may have made a mistake. Oh my God, could I be doing the wrong thing? “ George stands, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed sullenly at the floor. Suddenly he pops his head up and smiles “Just kidding.”
....He quickly inserts the blade of the scalpel back into the slot in Mark’s nose and this time, lets it sinks another quarter inch deeper.
....Mark’s eyes widen and he let’s out a scream through gritted teeth. He knows that if he moves too much, the blade will easily cut deeper. There must be some way out of this. He spies the control table and the microphone sitting on it, forgetting all about the one attached to his own shirt that is easily picking up his every breath, and pleads. “Someone help me! Call the police! His name is George Thorn. He lives a 344 Sycamore Street!”
....George just smiled wider and let the scalpel sink a little deeper. “They already know all that Mark. Well, most of it anyway.”
....“He’s going to kill me!”
....George let up the pressure from the scalpel and Mark watched as a bit of saneness washed through his eyes. “Well…not exactly Mark. I mean, all you have to do is confess. That’s what this is all about. I know the police are listening…I know that hundreds of people are listening…and once you admit to what you have done, I’ll stop. Because I know that justice will take over from there. You’ll get what you deserve.”
....“But I…I haven’t done anything.”
....George applies a little more pressure and the scalpel sinks deeper into the soft flesh and cartilage of Mark’s nose. “I promise, Mark…just confess.” The blade slides a little deeper. “You’ll live…if you confess.”
....Mark can see the blood begin to bubble on his nose as the scalpel penetrates the airway and releases his breath into his own eyes, and he panics. “Okay! Okay! George please!” He screams in pain as the scalpel’s descent slowly begins to cease. “What? What do you want me to say? What do you want me to say?”
....George looks him in the eyes. “Just tell them the truth Mark. Just tell them what you did, and it will all stop.”
....Mark grits his teeth in agony and he feels one of his fillings crumble under the pressure. “Alright! I’ll confess!” And the scalpel stops, but does not leave. Mark is crying now. “I raped her!”
....“And…” George prompts him to continue.
....“And she died, but that was an accident, George I swear. I never meant for her to die.”
....“Who Mark? Who did you do this too?
....“Sherry.”
....“And who was Sherry, Mark?”
....“Your daughter!”
....George sliced down hard and Mark’s nose and upper lip plummeted to the ground in a shower of blood. “That’s right Mark…my daughter…my 10-year-old daughter…and she died because you literally split her in two…and if you hadn’t suffocated her to keep her from screaming, she’d have bled to death…much as you are doing right now.”
....Mark tried to speak, tried to protest the deceit, but before he could utter a word, he passed out.
....“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems our victim has passed out from pain. I would use the smelling salts again but…” he laughs, “there’s no place to put it. So I think I have to use something else.” George walks over to the control table and grabs the glass of water, no longer needed to ease the dryness of his throat, and throws it into Mark’s face. Instantly, it does the trick and Mark awakens with a scream.
....“Ooooo…I bet that stings doesn’t it.”
....Suddenly, the muffled, but yet very distinct sound of something shuffling about on the floor comes from another part of the room.
....“Oh my,” George says, a smile once again touching the corners of his lips. “Could that be our surprise victim waking up? Let’s go and see.”
....George blindly motions for the audience to follow him as he walks around a stack of boxes against the far wall.
....A woman, around the same age as George, sits on the floor bracing herself upright with one hand, while rubbing at her temple with the other. She is groggy, and has an annoying headache, but other than that, she is in fine health…for now.
....She jerks back when she realizes someone is watching her. Then, with a confused touch of recognition in her voice, she says “George. What’s going on? Where are we?”
....“Ladies and gentleman, this is indeed a solemn moment.”
....“George, who are you talking to?”
....“Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to introduce you to my wife. My Mary. A lovely…but mislead woman who not only betrayed the loves in her life…but did so willingly, shamelessly…and knowingly.”
....“George, what are you talking about? Who are you ta…”
....“Yes ladies and gentlemen…knowingly. She knew, and in the name of “love”, she did nothing.” George, scalpel still in hand, blood dripping unhesitatingly from its razor sharp edge, began to scream. “STAND UP! COME HERE! There’s something you need to see.”
....Mary, noticing the instrument held tightly in his hand, stood up shakily. “Not until you drop the knife, George.”
....“NOW!”
....She needed no further encouragement. She did as she was told. Though George himself had never struck her in their 12 years of marriage, she remembered clearly the ones who had, and they had not used the influence of a weapon.
....When she rounded the corner of the boxes, she could see Mark…her “love”…her breath of life, dangling near unconsciousness from the wall. Whether it was the blood that lay pooling at his feet; the clothes, muddy red and completely soaked, or the fact that half of his face was missing, she let a scream of such horrifying proportions, of such ear-shattering decibels, that George was momentarily stunned into confusion.
....It took a moment, but he came back to his senses, so to speak. And when he did, he delivered the most natural response that he could…
....He applauded. “Oh that was nice, dear…if this show had ratings they would have hit the ceiling after that one. Very nice indeed!
....George grabbed her by the arm and led her to a place next to Mark, where hooks and bindings lay in wait for an expected arrival. She is still lost in total submission as he gently tied the ropes around her wrists and feet, and in much the same fashion that holds Mark in his place, crucified, with legs spread wide.
....Mark has regained consciousness and is trying to speak. George moves his ear a little closer. But there’s nothing. Mark gives up on the very first syllable.
....George turns to his audience. “I think our friend here was trying to apologize for the horrible things that he has done.” He turns back to what was left of Mark’s face. “Is that what it was, Mark? An apology?” George reaches his hand up and strokes the sweat-drenched hair that dangles into the man’s face. “Well. OK, I accept your apology. But I’m afraid that, for what it’s worth…it’s useless.”
....Mary is starting to come a little out of her shock and she looks at George with tearful eyes. “George. George, please. I didn’t know…I…I swear.”
....George doesn’t smile now as he meets her eyes with his own tears…radio audience, long forgotten. “Yes…you did know, Mary. I heard you talking to him about it. I’ll admit, I did hear pain in your voice when he described what he had done to her. How he had tore her tender flesh and how the blood just wouldn’t stop flowing. How she had started to scream and the only thing he could do to shut her up was hold her mouth shut until…” Tears now flowed like rivers from his eyes and his voice quaked with sobs. He looked down at the machete leaning against the table and some clarity returned, though remained painful.
....“Do you know what it must have felt like to her Mary?” He reached out for the machete, slowly closing his hand around the handle. “Can you imagine the pain…the horror that she endured?” He slowly arched it back behind him, taking painful aim between her legs. “Can you imagine that last breath of life…the last thing she saw when her eyes forever closed? Can you feel the pain of her flesh tearing in APART!?”
....The blade began it’s arc forward, and behind it was every once of strength, pain and remembrance of love that George could inhumanly muster. Mary’s eyes widened in terror, and she watched, in horrifying slow motion as it swung forward.
....But it does not find her.
....Instead, it veers in mid-swing and hits its intended mark with brutal force, burying itself clear up to the navel. Mark manages a bubbly gasp…then another…then falls silent forever.
....George looks up toward the Heaven’s, where he knows his little Sherry resides, and cries. “For you, baby. For you. I know that you’re safe, and in good hands. I wish I could be with you, but what Daddy has done, is not a good thing. And there’s no place for me there with you. Daddy loves you.”
....With one hearty tug, the machete pulled from its seat in a mess of blood and undistinguishable gore. And George never met the eyes of the woman he once loved as the blade sliced heavily through her neck, severing her head cleanly and sending it to the floor with a disgusting thud.
....He found his way back to his control table…and Retribution Radio, and let himself sink into his chair. “Well ladies and gentleman, Fortunately, this is the end…and there will not be another show like this, from me anyway. But let this be a lesson to all of those out there who think they can force themselves upon little children. Those evil and twisted men whose broken minds crave the innocence that has no defense. You are the worms of the earth and you will join me where I am about to go. But don’t expect mercy…for I will be your keeper in hell.”
....With that, George flips a switch, returning the airwaves back to song, and all is quiet. No microphones echo monstrous stereo through his ears with screams of pain. No more pleading…no more crying. No more anything. Just a faint wail of sirens in the distance…a lone gunshot from the pistol placed shamefully to his head…and one last, grotesque splashing sound as George’s brains splatter against the wall.