Page 62 of Vice

…into the wood chipper. 

This is the source of the loud whirring, grinding noise. Plato must have turned the thing on while I was grappling with Fernando. As Fernando’s body feeds into the machine, the grinding noise takes on a new, urgent high-pitched whine. 

This. This is the moment. A few days ago, I couldn’t decide what the most violent, awful thing I’d ever seen was. But it’s this. This is it. 

Fernando screams as he is consumed by the machine. Blood and pieces of flesh shoot into the air as he disappears, inch by inch. Plato’s prediction is proved right when the chipper begins to dispense with Fernando’s body parts out of the chute at the other end, sending gusts of red mist and blood cascading into the air. 

“Holy…fucking…shit.” This is a vision I’ll never be able to forget. Ever. I turn away as the machine draws close to finishing its task. Fernando has stopped screaming—he died a while ago—so there’s no point in seeing him fully consumed. Natalia is standing with her back against the wall, her eyes unfocused, her mouth hanging open. She’s covered in blood, soaked in the stuff, and her hair is hanging loose down past her shoulders again. 

She’s in shock. She must be. No matter how much she hated him and wanted him to die, seeing her father being fed into a fucking wood chipper is still going to fuck up her head beyond belief. It’s fucked up mine, and I know the bastard deserved it. 

I take her into my arms, holding her close, stroking my hand up and down her back. “I have you, baby,” I tell her. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt you ever again.”

In the middle of the shed, Plato stands with his hands clenched into fists, staring at the wood chipper. He’s frozen to the spot, his chest rising and falling like an injured animal.

“Hey, man. Are you okay?” He doesn’t even seem to hear me. “Plato?” 

Slowly, he turns around, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally. He has that look to him now, that look I’ve seen on so many guys before: a shadow of darkness and pain lurking behind his eyes, that says he’s done something so messed up and so dark that he’ll never be the same again. 

“Don’t call me that,” he says, looking me square in the eye. “I’m not Plato. My name is Freddie Arcane.”