'Hey, it's my sin, right? As long as I end up telling the whole truth, it shouldn't matter how I tell it.'
Michael nods. 'Fair enough, Eve. Go on.'
'Okay. So I decided it was time to play turkey--you know: gobble gobble gobble! I opened wide and put the train in the tunnel. That's when he started screaming.'
There's a moment of silence. Michael frowns. 'Why was he screaming?'
Kirby heaves an exaggerated sigh. 'Hey, I was only twelve. He was sixteen, and hot. I was nervous. I was really worried about bad breath, so I gargled with mint freshener for like an hour beforehand. Then I chewed up a bunch of breath mints right before I started . . . you know.' She clucks her tongue and looks regretful. 'Poor guy. Almost blistered his wee-wee. He started screaming and yanked my head off. From experience, things have to be pretty bad for a guy to do that. He jumped out of the car and was running around in circles saying, 'It burns, it burns, it burns!' That, right there, that's the
'What, exactly?'
'That I gave a bad blow job.' She bats her eyes sweetly. 'Will the Big Guy forgive me? I never did it again, and I'm a much better cocksucker now, I promise.'
'Oh, Kirby,' I say. 'Why can't you just shut up and play along?'
I half-expect Michael to fly into a rage. He just shakes his head in regret.
'I'm sorry you've decided to be difficult,' he says, 'but perhaps your journey will help others understand the folly of holding on to sin. Because in the end, you will confess, Eve. You might have no eyes, your nipples may have been cut off, perhaps your kneecaps will be broken, but one way or another, you will confess.'
Kirby yawns. 'Here's a tip on torture for you, asshole. It's a lot scarier when you just do it as opposed to talking about it beforehand.'
'If you insist. We'll start small, as I had suggested you start with your sins.'
He steps out of the camera lens. I can hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor. Frances continues to focus on Kirby.
'You'll break, you know,' Frances says.
Kirby blows a kiss into the camera. She moves her eyebrows up and down. 'Hey . . . we've got a camera going . . . a hot naked babe . . .'
She spreads her legs. 'I'm ready for my close-up, director. Want to join me?'
'Jezebel!' Frances hisses.
'Hey, I have a friend named Jezebel, so be nice.'
'I think she really is insane,' Callie says.
'Either that or she has a death wish,' I reply.
'Fearlessness is a common trait in sociopaths,' James says. 'Look, he's back.'
Michael Murphy is carrying a rod, approximately three feet long, with a copper tip and an insulated handle. A wire runs from the base of the rod and out of frame. He shows it to Kirby.
'Do you know what this is?'
'Looks like a picana to me. Popular for use in electric torture in South America and other sorta-civilized places. What's yours run--
about sixteen thousand volts?'
'Thirty thousand. Technology has evolved. Since you're familiar with it, you know what it is capable of. I ask you again to confess a sin, a real sin, with true contrition in your heart.'
'Hey, I did what you asked. I really did feel bad about giving a bad blow job. A girl has to have standards.'
Michael sighs. 'Frances, can you put the camera on a tripod, please? I need your assistance here.'
'Yes, Brother.'
The sounds of the camera jiggling and Frances doing as he's asked ensue. She appears in frame a moment later.
'Many people think application of the picana to the outside of the body, such as the breasts or genitals, is sufficient. It's painful, I agree, but I've found internal application to be far more effective.'
'Me too,' Kirby agrees. 'So--where? In my mouth, my ass, or my punani?'
'A little ways down your throat,' he says. 'Try not to breathe in your own vomit. You'd die.'
I see a twitch appear at the corner of Kirby's left eye. It's the first sign of a crack in her facade up to this point.
'Hold her head,' Michael says to Frances.
Frances grips Kirby's head with a hand on each side to keep her from moving. Michael positions the picana in front of Kirby's mouth.
'You can either open of your own accord, or I will smash this into your teeth until they're no longer in the way.'
Kirby doesn't smile or joke, but she does open her mouth wide.
'Last chance,' Michael says. 'Do you want to confess?'
Kirby sticks out her tongue and makes an ahhhhh sound, like she's having her throat checked by the doctor.
Michael doesn't hesitate. He slips the picana between her teeth and into her mouth. I can tell he's in the back of her throat because her face starts to get red and she begins to gag. Frances removes her hands from the sides of Kirby's head. It's a deft move; they've done this before.
That's when he hits the button in the handle of the picana. The result is instantaneous and awful. Her body goes taut as the electricity causes her muscles to contract violently. Her eyes bug out and her teeth snap down onto the picana with such force I'm surprised they don't shatter. Urine runs down her legs. Her belly jumps; I realize that she's probably defecating against her will. It only lasts a moment, it seems like an hour.
Michael lets go of the button. Kirby's mouth flies open, he yanks the picana back. Vomit comes with it and the convulsions follow. Spasms rock Kirby's body as her muscles and brain try to figure out how to respond to what just happened. Her chair goes over sideways and she crashes against the hardwood floor again, twitching. Her eyes flutter. The spasms eventually die off and we can hear her breathing against the floor, deep, ragged, moaning breaths. Michael waits a moment, just watching. He walks behind her, reaches down, and rights her in the chair. I can't believe how much different she looks now than just ten seconds ago. Her face drips with sweat, her chin and chest are covered in vomit, and her eyes are having trouble focusing.
Michael leans forward. He brushes a lock of sweat-matted hair away from her forehead.
'Now, my child? Are you ready to confess? Don't be afraid, God will forgive anything you are truly penitent for.'
Kirby opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes it, swallows, struggles to compose herself. She lifts her head up and gives Michael the sweetest smile I've ever seen on a stone-killer.
'Let's go again.'
'Jesus!' I say. 'How much longer, Alan?'
'Ten minutes.'
Ten minutes? The torture we just saw happened in two.
'I don't know if she can last that long.'
'She'll last,' James says.
Is that a hope or a prayer? I wonder.
'If you insist,' Michael says, 'but in the end, the result will be the same. We all break under God's will. God is love.'
Frances grips Kirby's head again and Michael brings the picana back up.
'Drive faster,' I tell Alan. 'Please.'
42
'CURTAINS ARE DRAWN,' BRADY POINTS OUT. 'WHAT'S HER state? Can she take the flash-bangs?'
Kirby's received the business end of the picana three more times. She hasn't broken, but her smart mouth is gone, the surest sign that she's hurting. Only her eyes remain defiant.
'She can take it.'
