The Dictator's Claw

Chapter 3 --- A Prickly Pair

“Stevenson, you fucking coward!”

Sven first heard the catcall two days ago, as he was trudging into the Liberty Times offices, late as usual, through the mob of activists that had grown in significant numbers in the two weeks following Diana Palmer's kidnapping. The protests, which had started out as peaceful shows of solidarity for the reporter, had now turned ugly, as faith was lagging in both the Times and the US government to rectify the situation.

Today, the single voice was joined by at least five more.

“Traitor!”

“Why don't you go back to Tarakimo and sit on Tara 's cock again, you fuckin' pussy?”

“Who you gonna sell out now, Stevenson?”

“Your Athens line is bullshit, man!”

“Death to all tyrants and their lackeys!”

Sven tossed his Styrofoam coffee cup to the ground and raced at the man who had first spoken. He was young, maybe 21, and had the long hair and bell-bottoms worn by most of his fellow protesters.

“What the fuck do you know, man ? Try talking about something you know. Were you over there, asshole? Do you know what went down? No, didn't think so!”

“All I know is you don't leave your friends to horny old fascists,” the man retorted, brushing himself off. “For all we know, you set her up.”

“Fuck you ….” Sven punched the young man and he went down. He had to be pulled off by the office security guards.

Once inside, he raced to the bathroom and inspected his face more closely for bruises. Stevenson, you fucking coward... Yes. He was a coward, he thought. His new six-figure bank account in Zurich was proof of that, as was his new Cadillac that he kept hidden, even from Shelley, in a rented storage unit downtown.

And of course, there were the threats to his wife and child which Isamu made at regular intervals if he suspected any sort of resistance on their weekly “status” calls. What would any of them have done? Fucking hypocrites, he fumed.

Naturally, it didn't hurt that the pending confrontation between Shelley and Diana had been cut short, perhaps indefinitely. Diana had been insistent on her claims of love for him, and had made it known in no uncertain terms that if he didn't ask his wife for a trial separation, she would “have a talk with her, woman to woman.” But it wasn't like that, not really. It's not like he paid to have her kidnapped.

But when he had been approached by Isamu's men, back in May, things had been definitely tempting. The money they had dangled in front of his face was enough to afford him an early retirement if the situation played out for even six months. “The General believes it could take up to one year to break her,” Isamu had told him, when he first spoke with the big man via scrambled telephone lines. “That could net you over $1.5 million,” he sang, “You can buy plenty of stuff with that.”

He had asked over and over for confirmation that they would not kill her, and Isamu seemed very confident and even straight-forward when he answered him. “She means a great deal to him. He can have any number of girls, on any day, to torture and kill,” he had said blithely. “No, the General has big plans for her.”

It hadn't been easy. After leaving the palace, he had gotten cold feet. The elaborate torture chamber, Tara 's bowing minions, Diana's screams as she was led away…it had all freaked him out. He had gone on record with his back-up version of the story, even breaking his own arm after he had gotten home, to make his valiant “escape attempt” credible. But, shortly after the Times articles appeared, Isamu's men had confronted him in a parking lot near his home and, as icily as Vito Corleone, they had made him the proverbial “offer he couldn't refuse”: change the story or change your life. “You pick,” Isamu had later gloated to him on the phone, his voice oozing smugness.

It was really nothing more than a business transaction, he reassured himself, as he straightened his tie and jacket. Like an arranged marriage. He splashed water onto his face, grabbed a used paper towel from the trash (out again), and rushed to his office desk.

*************************************************************

Wendy Franzen had never known when to let sleeping dogs lie. It was a characteristic that had made her an unbeatable corporate attorney, revered by enemies and colleagues alike. She could not resist the invitation by the woman, who said she was a diplomatic attaché, and now she was paying for it. After claiming to be spearheading the investigation into the kidnapping of Diana Palmer, the woman had requested that they meet in a restaurant near the embassy.

Wendy had an uneasy feeling about the whole scenario from the beginning, but quickly found herself being inexplicably seduced by the blonde, whose austerely beautiful face imparted icy confidence that Debbie's torturer would finally be brought to justice if she could confirm a bit more information. After refusing to drink during the meeting, she began to be alarmed by the drowsiness that had washed suddenly over her. She remembered calling for help, but after that, nothing.

As she lay face down, bound and gagged, in the baggage compartment of what she was sure was Tara 's private jet, she decided that, even if he killed her, she would at least get the chance to face the monster who had ordered her daughter's torture and death exclusively for his sick amusement.

She bared her teeth against the wet silk handkerchief that filled her mouth and listened with dread fascination as the landing gear rumbled to life, below her.

*************************************************************

“What's the matter, old girl, cat got your tongue?” Tara beamed as he towered over Wendy's prone form, which was tied in an “X” to the four large posts framing his bed. He laughed derisively as the woman squirmed beneath him, looking, he thought contentedly, like an insect trapped underneath an entomologist's pin.

“You want to know more about how your daughter died, don't you, Wendy? Admit it! You've spent sleepless nights pondering just how much pain she endured…how many tears that she shed…how long it took her to expire. Haven't you?” the tyrant crooned lubriciously. He puffed pleasantly on his cigar, awaiting her answer. When she said nothing, he murmured: “Now, I will show you.”

Wendy let out a frustrated scream, straining at her bonds, rattling the plastic that had been laid over the bedspread. “I only want to know why you did it, you sick pig! Why Debbie? A college student? What kind of threat was she to you?” It suddenly seemed vitally important that she receive an answer to what she knew were ultimately pointless questions. This animal was going to kill her slowly, and she knew it.

Tara merely smirked and opened a fancy walnut box that had been presented ceremoniously to him by his henchmen. Wendy stared as it was lifted and displayed to her. Inside was the fiendish device that had mutilated her daughter's insides, snugly swaddled in expensive red silk. She gaped at the size of it. The pictures had not done it justice, she realized sickly.

“Your daughter was no threat,” Tara continued imperiously. “She was garbage; trash to be thrown away. You see, Mrs. Franzen, she didn't meet my standards. Actually, you should be grateful to me. Killing her was an act of mercy. I could have made her life far more miserable. Though, you will come to that conclusion soon enough.” He lifted the piece slowly and, after fondling it admiringly, rotated its top. The steel “skin” of the pear, which sported long, outwardly-curled spikes at the end of the elaborately engraved metal segments, suddenly expanded, revealing a fat, sharply-barbed rod hiding inside. He moved it threateningly toward the woman.

Before Wendy could respond, another voice was heard from behind Tara , and she gave a small gasp of relief.

“Leave her alone, General! I'll help you. I'll change the report.”

Diana was clutching the cage bars. She looked into Wendy Franzen's terrified face, propped up by a pair of large, velvet pillows. She had not anticipated her own submission, at least not this soon, but there was no way she would tolerate watching the dictator perpetrate one of his crimes with no intervention.

Tara turned to Diana and his fat lips parted lasciviously, a gesture of obscene expectation. “Oh, you want to help, do you?” he clucked, amused. “And help you will! But not in the way you expect.” He strolled over to Diana's cage. “No, no, I've got other foul treats in store for you, my pigeon. Oh, don't worry, you'll change that UN report for me. But in the meantime, I will take you up on your offer of assistance, my pretty co-conspirator!”

“NO! I didn't mean….” But before Diana could say anything more, Tara 's thugs were inside the cage, holding her steady as the oral pear was forced into her screaming mouth.

The general picked up a short riding crop from a nearby table and stood watch, calmly smoking, as his men lodged the demonic instrument inside Diana's head, securing it tightly with leather straps. When finished, they brought out a large spool of industrial twine and, using a steel hook, attached the wire to the handle of the oral pear.

“Raise her feet off the ground,” Tara instructed cavalierly, gesturing at Diana with his stogie. Diana felt her stomach bloat with misery as the slack on her manacles was tightened, and she was propelled aloft. The steel in her mouth was heavy and cold. She tried fruitlessly to expel it, but only tasted blood. She concentrated on being as still as possible, though it was difficult with the dildo still pounding away at her insides.

The twine was unspooled to what looked to Diana to be thirty feet, directly over to the bed. The opposite end of the cable was then tied to the handle of the vaginal pear in a manner similar to that which secured its glittering, smaller cousin.

Tara paraded over to the bed and, picking up the vaginal pear, began to wave the tip of his crop at various parts of the foul “fruit,” as if he were a headmaster explaining an algebra equation to a room full of captive students.

“What we have here, old girl, is a delectably precarious peril. It's so juicy that I'm having a hard time containing myself, but I'll try to stave off my appetite in order to explain it to you. Talking about this evil deed is almost as much fun as carrying it out, but not quite. It's very similar, in that regard, to rape!” Tara laughed loudly at his little joke, as did his henchmen.

When his men had calmed down, he continued to torment the older woman. “These two pears, though modeled quite faithfully on the original Spanish Inquisition design, have been updated.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as Wendy gaped, open-mouthed. “They can operate entirely of their own accord. You see, their construction is based upon a timed spring mechanism that enables them to expand slowly or quickly, according to the amount of tension they encounter, and, my wishes, of course.”

He stopped and stared into Wendy's face, smiling villainously, absorbing the dread and fear pooling up in her like a ravenous leech. “Should I go on? I would think that the more one understands about one's opponent, the better equipped one is to fight. Wouldn't a big shot woman lawyer know that?” he teased. After she said nothing for a minute, he asked the question again.

“Y-y-yes, go on,” Wendy sputtered impatiently. She didn't want to hear this, but she felt compelled to understand the evil her daughter had faced head-on.

Tara smiled approvingly. “Both you and Miss Palmer face abominable ordeals. However, there's one small difference between your situations. Can you guess what that might be?” He paused to lazily blow several luxurious smoke rings into the air as she glared hatefully at him. Tara guessed that Wendy's tolerance to his ridicule was quickly dissipating, and answered for her. “Diana has the ability to bite down on her device in order to keep it from completely aerating her oral cavity; unfortunately for you, you will have no such capability, given where your succulent morsel will be wedged.” He licked his lips sadistically and playfully fingered Wendy's vagina before continuing. “If Diana chooses to play the good girl, and doesn't bite down, I'm afraid she will have quite a bit of plastic surgery and dental work in her future. But when she does, and I believe she will, your pear will be given a sharp tug, encouraging its expansion and desecration of your hot loins. Dying in this manner can take hours….”

Tara interrupted himself by lightly smacking one of his flabby jowls, as if remembering something, and erupted into gales of sick laughter. “Silly me! I've forgotten to introduce you two properly. A victim should be well acquainted with her torturer, and vice versa! Diana, this is Wendy. Wendy, Diana,” he sang gleefully. “Diana will be navigating your long, painful journey into oblivion; a voyage from which you will never return.” He continued to cackle as the women stared miserably at one another. “I see you're a devoutly religious woman,” he jeered, pointing with his crop to the cross around Wendy's neck. “Say hello to your daughter from me---you should be seeing her very soon. Perhaps you can compare notes on your experience with the pear in the afterlife?” he laughed cruelly.

“Fuck you, you fat piece of shit! You'll rot in hell for his!” Wendy screamed at him, causing Tara to only nod his head and laugh harder. He snapped his fingers brusquely.

“Major, introduce Mrs. Franzen to my thorny little friend. But give her a whiff of the tip before you do, though, eh? Wendy, enjoy the bouquet. It may seem, how shall I say…familiar…to you, no?”

The henchman waved the pear's tip in front of Wendy's face randily. She winced and turned away. “What the matter, baby? We wash and everything for you,” the thug sneered, in broken English. Tara was laughing so hard he looked ready to soil himself. He howled with insane merriment as the gigantic pear was lubed and then shoved roughly into Wendy. She shrieked, and her eyes opened wide, as sharp, nonsensical noises squeaked from her mouth.

Tara took a deep breath, obviously satisfied, and waddled over to the stretched wire, plucking it dramatically. A low tone emerged from the taut twine, and he lowered his eyes, seeming to deeply appreciate the wretchedly ominous music that emanated from it. He plopped down on a large velvet chaise lounge which had been strategically placed between his two victims, stretching out languidly, puffing heavily on the Cuban cigar and fussing idly with his silk ascot, preparing to enjoy his exquisitely-planned torture.

*************************************************************

“What the fuck are we gonna do about this , Patterson?”

George's pulse began to race as General Henry Paxton tossed him a glossy photograph across the breakfast table in the officer's club.

“Franzen, ah…” he stalled, unable to grasp, at first, what his superior was alluding to. Franzen, Franzen…yes. The mother of the girl in the Times . The nearest thing to a credible, American eye-witness since Sy Carey had been discredited back in 1973. “Yes General, it's unfortunate that she talked so heavily to the press, as it does put undue pressure on….”

“I'm aware of all that, Patterson,” Paxton said, dismissively waving his free hand, as his other was busy refilling his coffee cup. “I'm talking about her disappearance.”

Patterson put down the toast he was about to take a bite from, the only thing he had had the stomach to eat all morning since his early-morning call to Palmer. “Oh, shit….” was all he could manage.

“'Oh shit' is right,” Paxton concurred, gravely. “Mr. Secretary, how could you let this happen?”

“General, with all due respect, we don't even know for sure if Tara 's got her yet. Let me make some calls this afternoon and by end of day….”

“By end of day, she'll be dead! Torn from limb to limb or hollowed out like a Thanksgiving turkey by that depraved pseudo-military psycho. I told you when that article came out: we have to make protecting….”

“…any witness a priority. I know that, General,” George finished wearily. “I had no idea this whole thing was going to blow up like it did. We've turned a blind eye to Tara for a long time now, and I guess we're paying the price,” he said evenly.

Paxton smashed his fist down on the table, causing several of the nearby officers to turn their heads. He reached out and grabbed George's cuff, jerked it toward him, and whispered portentously: “This country's been making deals with this twisted tyrant for five years now, long before I came into the picture. You've been making deals, sonny! And I'm not about to take the fall for ‘em, y'hear?”

George slumped in his seat and dejectedly stared out the window. He tried to sit up, but couldn't make the effort. He turned instead to twisting the napkin in his lap. “I'll take care of it, sir,” he said in his most formal, submissive tone.

“Good,” Paxton shot back gruffly. “And do what you have to, in order to ensure we don't read about another ‘testimonial of terror.'”

“Yes, Sir,” Patterson said, saluting and leaving the table.

*************************************************************

Diana dangled like an inanimate marionette in the dictator's warped puppet show, not moving a muscle, even though her wrists were on fire and her bladder was filled to the breaking point. Tara had been staring at her for what seemed like an hour. He had long finished his cigar and was now elegantly chain-smoking cigarettes in his foot-long holder, with a seeming unending fascination for watching the smoke trail from his mouth over to the cage, where it hung in the air like rancid smog over the LA skyline. Every so often, he would slide his manicured fingers over to the remote on his side table, shut off the dildo, and then activate it suddenly, usually at a speed much faster than the last, in order to give her body a significant jolt. But she was fighting him, and becoming quite good at it.

Wendy Franzen was not holding out as well. An increasingly large pool of blood was expanding beneath her hips, and Diana began to wonder if she, herself, was not the cruel one, keeping this poor woman alive when there was clearly no hope for her. The thought terrified and overwhelmed her: I am controlling this woman's life and death.

 

It's exactly what the monster wants me to think, Diana brooded. But, she had not kidnapped her and put her in this mess…she was not responsible…. Or was she? If she hadn't been so stupid as to allow herself to be led here in the first place, there would have been no public outcry, no editorials, no press…. Damn! Think clearly, Diana, she told herself.

“Your callous disregard for both your fellow prisoner and yourself is impressive, Miss Palmer,” Tara suddenly piped, as if he were privy to her very thoughts. “Biting down would end things quickly for her, but you seem content to string out her suffering for as long as possible. Of course, I don't have to mention that the pain and bleeding in your mouth will escalate when you do that, but everything has its price, eh? In just minutes, the top left prong of the pear will completely pierce your gums. Mmmm, that will be painful, won't it?” the tyrant smiled, French-inhaling the smoke from his cigarette suavely.

Diana concentrated on her bleeding, manacled wrists, praying for him to shut the fuck up, but he only droned on.

“Such a bent personality you have! Refusing to dispense or accept mercy of any kind. Seems to me that you're both a sadist and a masochist. The combination is not quite as common as the conventional wisdom would have one believe. Most people are either one or the other, like me, or Wendy, for that matter!” he chuckled. “Doctor,” he commanded, wagging his cigarette holder in Wendy's direction, “please take her vitals again.”

The diminutive, Asian gentleman in the white coat stepped forth once more with his blood-pressure cuff. “It's 91/75. Dangerously low. She'll be in shock in under a half-hour, your Excellency,” he announced, with bowed head. Wendy was now making insistent grunting noises that were getting louder by the minute.

“Listen!” Tara said, his whispery voice cutting through the air like a laser, “she's trying to tell you something, Diana!” He placed his holder in the side of his mouth and chewed on it viciously. “What is it? Sounds to me like ‘finish…me…off!'” he chuckled.

Diana grimaced as she heard another sharp “click” from the vaginal pear, indicating that the tightly-loaded spring had slipped yet another notch. As it did, Wendy's lower abdomen began to expand before Diana's eyes. Soon the evil pear would be open completely, all four razor-sharp prongs totally puncturing….

She couldn't take it any more, and bit down hard, the prong that was nibbling into her gum stabbing her even harder. A gut-wrenching scream pierced the room, and Tara started his foul laugh. When Diana finally found the nerve to look over at Wendy, she found the woman had been twisted to one side, her body seeming to have lashed out in one final spasm that had been squelched by her bindings. Her face was already turning blue, and her lifeless eyes were that of a doll's.

Diana turned her head involuntarily at the sound of a sharp “crack,” and immediately felt the pain in her mouth increase. She let out a short sob, as it was revealed to only be the sound of Tara's lighter snapping shut, finished with the task of igniting his fresh cigarette.

“Now that we're finished with that little chore, let's turn again to the matter of that pesky report you were going to change for me…” he said, with a fatly decadent chortle.