But It's A Good Pain
Title: But It's A Good Pain
Characters: Daniel Linderman, Carl (original male character)
Rating: R
Warnings: Gore, torture
Word count: ~1,100
Setting: Pre-season.
Summary: Daniel gives a stern talking-to to someone who failed to pay him his due.
Notes: My thanks to dancingdragon3 and cailetrille for beta assistance.
All of Carl's excuses and attempts at persuasion vanished into nothingness at a nod and an offhand gesture from Mr. Linderman. It took him a few seconds to make out what it meant, but Mr. Linderman's muscle-headed bodyguard knew and reacted faster. With one decisive snap of his wrist, a collapsible steel baton extended from his meaty fist and in nearly the same swing was headed towards the side of Carl's leg, right below the knee.
Something kept him rooted him to the spot, immobile in the face of oncoming danger. He simply couldn't move fast enough. He knew he should. He ought to. He wished for something to happen, like in a movie, where the hero always managed to cunningly dodge out of the way, just in the nick of time. Maybe he wasn't the hero here.
The rod smashed into his body with all the strength that a 240 pound man with a weight lifter's physique could put into it. His leg never stood a chance. The bone shattered, tendons went haywire, and muscle mashed into both. He fell with a high-pitched, choked yelp. No, he definitely wasn't the hero - heroes made manly grunts of pain when hit, and their bones never broke like that. The goon was swinging again, this time at his exposed good leg. Frantically, Carl tried to fend him off by interposing his hand. It was instinctive; hard to tell if it was a bad idea or not. It felt like every bone in his hand broke, although in all reality they just broke in a neat line laterally across the back, folding his hand in a highly unnatural bend around the blow. His leg underneath was still jarred and bruised, but his hand had taken enough of the impact that it didn't break as well.
Not that it probably mattered anyway. Carl was pretty sure he was going to die in the next few minutes. The best he could hope for was being maimed for life. A little calm voice in the back of his head told him that even though the rest of his mind was shrieking in agony, he needed to pull it together and make a choice: keep guarding his remaining good leg, or cradle his hand protectively to his chest. Rationally, he knew the hand was a goner, but that leg was still okay. Irrationally, he was screaming inside at being forced to make such a horrible choice of which limb to allow to be struck.
Meathead cocked back the baton again. It was time to choose.
"I think that's enough," Linderman interjected calmly.
Shaking in pain and terror, Carl watched as the goon retreated back to his previous position next to the door. He mentally ran through his options all at once. None of them were good - fighting, fleeing, begging - all were dead ends and most were impossible under the circumstances. All that was left was throwing himself on the mercy of the very man who had ordered the pulverizing of his leg. It seemed pointless. Daniel Linderman rose and walked around his desk in a completely detached manner, as if there wasn't a cringing, terrified person on the floor in front of it. He leaned against the front of the desk and brushed at the sleeves of his beige jacket.
"I don't think you understand the economics of the market at work here," Linderman said sedately. "You owe me money, not excuses." He looked down at the huddled man, who nodded at him in a desperate attempt at placation.
Linderman blinked a few times and continued, "Did you know that the average cost of having someone killed is less than what you owe me? It would have been cheaper for you to arrange my assassination than paying me back. Not that it would have succeeded of course, but you wouldn't have known that." He tilted his head sharply and regarded Carl, who now shook his head in vigorous denial of any ill intentions.
"Really? It didn't even cross your mind?"
He supposed it should have, but it hadn't. It just hadn't seemed that serious. All of this was so far out of Carl's day-to-day life that he couldn't relate. Tears began to leak down his face. His injuries were throbbing, the pain becoming so intense that he could hardly think. It had easily outstripped everything else that had ever happened in his life to become the 'Most Painful Thing Experienced'. Every scrap of mental power he had was utterly focused on Mr. Linderman. If there was any possible way he could make him happy, then maybe he'd get out of this alive.
"What do you think should happen now?"
A question. It felt like his heart was going to burst out of chest. Panting, he blurted out, "Whatever you want, Mr. Linderman."
"No," Daniel said patiently, pulling up his trousers a bit as he squatted in front of Carl. "This isn't about what I want. I want my money, and I've been very honest about that from the beginning. This is about you, Carl. Are you willing to give me my money?"
"Yes! Yes, of course!" Not that he had much of it. Nor did he think he could get it in the condition he was in. But he would die trying, of that he was sure. The terror of being put in this position again, and not surviving it, would keep him from entertaining any thoughts of betrayal far longer than Linderman would wait to collect. No, the main problem was whether he was physically able to do it.
Daniel reached out and laid his hand gently on the knee of Carl's injured leg. Carl started sobbing. All he could imagine was being tortured further, hurt - hell, maybe just threatened and condescended to - but the threat of that touch was enough to break him.
"Listen to me closely, Carl," Daniel said, his voice like steel. "It's very important that you keep your promises to me. Your life depends on it. Do you understand?"
Carl nodded, beginning to feel a glimmer of hope through his misery. He had been so certain he was going to die that at first he didn't notice when the pain began to fade from his leg. A few seconds later, his tear-blurred vision wasn't enough to obscure his view as his hand straightened and healed. He was whole again. The pain was gone! The panic was still there, even more intense at this complete contradiction of reality as Carl knew it. If Linderman could do this to him, then what else could he do?
Daniel pulled his hand back, looking at the small stain of Carl's blood that came away on his fingers. "You have until next Saturday night to get the money to me, or else some variation of this unfortunate circumstance will repeat itself, possibly without such a favorable conclusion for you."