NANOVISION: What Would You Do With X-ray Vision? (2 page)

“So teel me boy,
‘ow we gonna tae settle this?” He wiped the coke residue from his nose and
licked his fingers. “You gonna give me me money?”

Daniel shook his
head. “I’ve told you. I don’t know anything ‘bout any money.”

“Fine, laddie,
‘ave it yur way.”

Mickey shot Sid
and Bruno a look. They knew what to do. The two henchmen grabbed Daniel’s chair
and spun him around so he faced his father. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as
he took in his Dad−he noted his shallow breath. It was raspy and faint,
and there was thick, reddish drool dripping from his lips.

Mickey got in his
ear. “See me knife, boy?” He taunted Daniel, showing off the blade. “Aye
sharpen it ev’ry day ‘til it’s razor sharp. Aye even wonce cut the tongue out
of a ‘orse and watched it bleed tae death. It ran gushing blood until it
dropped.”

Daniel watched
the knife in Mickey’s hand. It almost seemed alive as the hitman raked it back
and forth before him. Under the glare of the kitchen light the shiny blade
shimmered and flashed like a silver snake, weaving through the air, arcing up
and down and in an out as Mickey played the weapon between Daniel and his
father.    

“Ever seen a man
die, laddie... ‘ave ye?” whispered Mickey

Daniel shook his
head as Mickey brought the blade to his face. He felt the cold steel graze his
skin, and a sharp pain as Mickey sliced him on the cheek. Tears rolled from his
eyes mixing with the blood, stinging the wound. Coked out of his mind, Mickey
reveled with sadistic pleasure. He wiped the knife on Daniel’s pants.

“Are ye ready tae
talk now?” he asked the boy.

Daniel nodded,
the words of his response choking in his throat.

“That’s a guid
lad,” Mickey consoled, standing before him. “Now teel me. Teel me where the
money is and aye won’t ‘ave tae kill ye fada in front of yah.”

Daniel’s voice
was soft and meek as he began to plead for his father’s life. “We don’t have
it,” he said. “My father’s a sick man. He’s got a gambling problem, but we can
get you your money. I promise. We can pay you back.”

Stunned by the
lunacy of the offer, Mickey was taken aback. “Now ‘ow yah gonna do that,
laddie?” he asked, incredulously. “Ya gonna sell off all yur fine furnishings
‘ere? Look around, boy−thar’s nothing ‘ere but crap−pure garbage.
Me own dog’s got more to offer.”

To Daniel’s
dismay, Sid and Bruno began to laugh and smirk, leaving the boy to feel even
more hopeless. Still, he continued to plead.

“I’m begging
you,” he appealed to the thugs. “Please don’t hurt him. We’ll get your money
somehow−I promise.”

“Fock yah and yur
potata rat fada,” responded Mickey. “Aye’ll show yah ‘ow we deal with stealin’
scum.”

He then began to
pummel Daniel’s father with his fists, beating the man with blows to the eyes,
nose, and cheeks. More blood flowed from his unconscious victim.

In total
desperation Daniel screamed at the madman. “STOP!!! STOP IT! Please. He can’t
hear you. He can’t answer. He can’t give you what he doesn’t have.”

Daniel broke
down. Sobs wracked his body.

Out of breath,
Mickey stopped. He wiped his brow and grunted, wiping the blood from his fists
as he glared at the whimpering boy who held no solution. Rancorous beyond
reason, Mickey returned his attention to Steven Raye, belching out a final
offer through dry, spittle-caked lips.

“Stevie, lad.
This is yur last chance. Teel me now where me fockin’ money is and aye might
just let yah die peacefully.”

There was no
response from Steven Raye.

“Fock yah, then.”

The game was over
and Mickey knew it. The money he’d given to Steven was long gone and he’s been
pissin’ in the wind long enough. There was nothing left to do except exact
revenge−aye, retribution demanded that he retaliate and remove all the
evidence. Calling Sid and Bruno over, Mickey ordered them to secure the house.

“Check oout the
rest of the hoose,” he instructed. “Close all the windows and draw the curtains
... and make sure you kill the lights!”

The two men
nodded and disappeared.

The next stage of
the plan was simple. Mickey flashed Daniel a quick, sick smile and moved toward
the oven. It was an old beat up gas range well past its prime, just like
everything else in the house, but it would serve its purpose. Setting his knife
on the counter, Mickey stood in front of the stove like a conductor readying
for a concert. In rapid succession, he removed the burner grates from the stove
top and cast them to one side. He then ignited the burners, raising the flames
to their highest level.

“Ya know laddie,”
he rambled, staring into the flames, “aye wonce worked for a China-min and ‘e
really taught me a lot … ‘e said if ye want tae really exact revenge, yah need tae
set a fine example... ye show no mercy. Yah kill the entire family. That lets
others know they’d better not fock with yah.”

Daniel was spent.
He had no more energy to give. He could only watch in stone cold fear as Mickey
grabbed a dishtowel from the sink. The mobster wet it under the faucet and
wrung it out. Then using the wet towel as an oven mitt he pulled the burner
caps from the stove. The flames atop the range were now unconstrained and
free−they looked like miniature geysers shooting up a good six inches
into the air. Bending his face low, Mickey blew on the flames, extinguishing
each one. Propane gas hissed from the range top and into the air. It sounded
like a rattlesnake making ready to strike. “Ya gotta love these oold stoves.”
Mickey crowed, as he pried the control knobs off and put them in his pocket. He
waved his hand over the burners, helping the gas to spread.

“Ya smell that laddie?”
he asked. “Ya like that rotten stink? Aye do. Ya know why? Cuz it’s the smell
of fockin’ death.”

Snickering,
Mickey walked to the backdoor where he twisted the deadbolt and latched the
chain. The window followed. He slammed it shut and drew the curtains. The room
was shuttered. With a flip of his finger Mickey turned off the overhead light.
The kitchen fell into a shadowed darkness, the stifling smell of propane gas
permeating the room.

Daniel sweated in
silence as the mobster made his way back toward him. He wanted to puke when
Mickey stopped and stroked his hair. His touch made Daniel cringe, but he was
helpless to do anything about it. He was at Mickey’s mercy and every fiber of
his being was locked into the moment. To his surprise Mickey unexpectedly bent
down and looked him in the eye. The mobster’s eyes were bloodshot and crazed,
though his words were serene.

“Laddie, when ye
get tae ‘eaven,” he said, giving the boy a pat on the cheek, “ye tell Jesus, yur
Daddy shouldn’t ‘ave stiffed me and gotten yah involved in all of this.”

Tears streamed
down Daniel’s face. He knew he was about to die and though he wanted to scream
and fight, he couldn’t. Tied to the chair, he was helpless. He could only watch
his death unfold−suddenly Mickey turned toward his father. The knife in
the madman’s hand was poised and ready.

“Guid riddance,
potata thief,” was all Daniel heard as Mickey plunged the knife into the
stomach of his father. The knife thrust was followed by a sickening, raspy
grunt as Mickey twisted the blade deep into his father’s chest. Screaming like
a madman, Daniel cried out for mercy, but it was not to be. He began to jerk
madly at the ropes that bound him while screaming profanities at Mickey.

“YOU MOTHER
FUCKER!!! YOU DIRTY MOTHER FUCKER! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU! YOU DIRTY FUCKIN’
BASTARD. I SWEAR TO GOD, I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!”

Luckily for
Daniel, Mickey’s knife was still stuck deep inside his father’s chest. And instead
of pulling it out and stabbing the boy as he had his father, Mickey reacted
with a backhand to the boy’s face.

“Aye, guid luck
with that, piss-ant,” he said, striking the boy senseless.

The deed done,
Mickey wasted no more time. He pulled his knife from Steven Raye and wiped it
off on the dying man’s pants.

“May the devil be
bitin’ yur arse an ‘our ‘fore Jesus knows yur dead,” he cursed at the dying man
as he sheathed his blade. He then walked from the kitchen, heading for the
front door where Sid and Bruno were waiting.

“Gimmie a
cigarette,” Mickey barked at the henchmen.

“Sure, Boss.”
Bruno handed him a pack of Marlboro’s.

Mickey pulled a
cigarette from the pack and surveyed the livingroom. It was hot and dark and
beginning to reek of gas.

“Let’s go,” he
said.

The three men
exited the house.

Outside, Mickey
ordered the two henchmen to get the car while he lit up. The smoke was hot and
tasteless, giving little pleasure−Mickey was in a hurry anyway. Taking a
long, hard drag Mickey glanced at the front door. He knew it wouldn’t be long
before the gas filled the house. It was time to get the hell out of there.

Bruno arrived
with the car with Sid riding shotgun. He gunned the engine, letting Mickey know
he was ready.

Mickey took
another quick drag and opened the door to the house. He flicked the cigarette
with his finger, sending it flying across the room where it landed on the
floor. It rolled across the linoleum toward the couch and a pile of newspapers
next to a pizza box. Mickey watched for a second making sure it was still
lit−it was. Smoke was curling up lazily from its end.

Slamming the door
shut, Mickey bolted for the car. He opened the rear door and jumped into the
backseat just as Bruno jammed the car into reverse. The engine squealed harshly
as Bruno floored it, backing the car out into the desert. Inside, the three
enforcers bounced like rubber balls as the vehicle careened wildly off the
terrain. A second later they were in the open and clear−Bruno slammed the
Chevy into drive and the three headed for the dirt road as a cloud of dust
rolled up behind them. From the backseat Mickey looked back at Daniel’s home.
He was anxious for the ensuing explosion to come.

Alone inside the
kitchen, Daniel struggled with the ropes that bound him. Just a few feet away
his father was bleeding to death, blood oozing from his stomach and puddling on
the floor. The man’s breath was barely audible and becoming more labored with
each passing second. Though there was no one to help, Daniel yelled
frantically.

“DAD, WAKE UP.
WAKE UP! HELP! Someone! Come on, we need help GOD DAMN IT! DAD... WAKE UP!”

The lack of
response from his father made Daniel even more desperate. In a frenzied effort,
he lifted the wooden chair he was bound in off the floor and slammed it down,
but the oak legs held firm. There was no give. Over and over again he tried,
lifting the chair and slamming it down−nothing. He tried twisting this
way and that, throwing himself back and forth, hitting the wall and the
cabinets, all with no success. He looked at the stove. It was his only
hope−to somehow turn off the gas before he and his father died of asphyxiation.
Whipping the chair around, he rammed it into the stove where he managed to cut
himself on the metal studs where the control knobs used to be.
There was no
way to turn off the gas!
Panic set in−there had to be a way to get
out of there. There had to be! That’s when Daniel caught the first whiff of
smoke−the foul, reeking stench of a burning cigarette.

Shit!
was his first thought. He
realized now what Mickey had planned. The gas, the cigarette−he was going
to burn them alive.
Fuck!

The realization
sent Daniel into a blind fury. He went berserk throwing himself feverishly into
the walls, the sink, the cabinets, and the floor−anything that could
break the chair that held him. It took precious minutes and repeated effort,
but finally his herculean effort paid off. One of the chair legs snapped,
breaking in two, and it sent him crashing to the floor. He struck his head on
the linoleum, knocking himself senseless. Dazed, he lay there struggling for
awareness, his thoughts flashing on the burning cigarette that lay somewhere
out there in the darkened living room. His mind ran wild. He pictured the
smouldering, fiery red tip sucking up the propane gas and igniting−the
flames burning him alive. It was only a matter of time.
Could he free himself
and find it before it happened?

Deep in his heart
Daniel feared the worse. The air was becoming foul and it was getting harder to
breath. If he was to survive he had to get out of there and soon. The thought
of burning to death in a searing blaze of heat and flame was too much and he
fought like a madman, giving into the beast that lurked within his soul.
Rolling across the floor, he careened, jostled, and grappled with the chair and
rope that held him captive. He exerted every fiber of his being into untangling
himself.

Someway, somehow
in the miracles of miracles Daniel’s prayers were answered. The back of the
chair cracked, then broke apart under the weight of his attack. He felt the
ropes loosen−he was almost free. Another minute of yanking and writhing
about brought success. He pulled himself free and rose to his feet only to
catch a lung full of gas. It was hot and stifling and the lack of oxygen sent
him back to the floor hacking for air. For a second he thought it was the
end−he was going to die right there, but something inside wouldn’t let
him give up−not yet. He had to reach his father.