Page 121 of Three Irish Kings

“God,” he manages in a choked whisper.

“I don’t think he listens to sick fucks like you.”

I reach into my pocket, and the blade flashes out.

His eyes widen at the gleam in the blade.

I could slash his throat, could watch as blood trickled down his throat, and he gurgled and slumped over.

He’d twitch as he bled out, and I’d stand there and watch him, waiting for it to be over.

But I want him to learn a lesson that will stick for his following lifetimes. And for that, he needs to be afraid. Very afraid.

Taking a half-broken lamp that’s next to the mattress serving as his bed, I drag him to a chair. I’ll use the cord to dog-tie him sitting down.

He jerks, and tries to escape once, so the crunching sound as my hand connects hard to his nose is doubly satisfying.

He whines as tears and blood stream down his face.

“Now, stay still, or this will be even worse. And trust me, my tamer version is bad enough, you donotwant to piss me off more.”

He cowers, and I finish tying him up.

When I’m done, I stand up, hands on my hips, and grin at him. “Now, ready to have some fun?”

He screams.

I look around and find some dirty boxer shorts lying around.

So happy I brought some gloves with me.

I take a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket and put them on. Then I pick a pair of his dirty boxers off the floor and stuff them in his mouth.

“There, so much better, don’t you think?”

My knife in hand, I carve the side of his face with a P. Throughout history, criminals used to be marked with the initials of their crimes, like D for deserter or A for adulterers. P for pedophile seems more than fit here.

He is squirming and screaming, but it’s no use.

On the other side of his face, I carve a dick. Petty, but fit, since he is one.

Once that is done, I break his fingers one by one before removing each hand from his body with a rusty knife I get from the kitchen. After all, the point is to make it hurt, not make it easy and clean for him.

He almost passes out, but I slap him, waking him up.

“No, no. None of that. I want you to feel every single slice and carve I offer, same as your victims were forced to endure every moment with you.”

I know he won’t last long now, so it is time for thecoup de grâce.

I shake my head and take a deep breath. “Trust me, this will be worse for me than it will for you. Now try to stand still, I don’t want to risk catching anything.”

He frowns, but as my knife slices the front of his pants, his eyes widen, and his muffled screams grow hysterical.

“Why are you being like that? I know you like using this on kids.”

The thing is not huge, but it is not average size either. A little below, I’d say. And that is a little saving grace.

I really hate having to touch this guy, but it is for a good cause. He’ll have a taste of his own medicine.