Dizzy, he looked down. A red blot was slowly spreading over his white shirt.
Chapter 47
May 13, 2019. 09:15 A.M.
Bugsy was sitting behind his table. Fat and sick, he looked like he was undergoing dialysis. And a pair of prosthetic arms jutted out from underneath his T-shirt.
Bugsy’s hideous face curled in confusion. “H-how?”
Without answering, Ryatt strolled to the table. “How? I thought you always wanted to know the why.”
The surprise on Bugsy’s face dissolved, exposing calmness. “Oh, I figured out the why when I visited your home,” Bugsy said. “Your mom. Iris…”
Ryatt’s heart paused. He could feel his skin prickle and sweat exit his pores, and legs turn into noodles.
“Ironic name aside, she’s one iron-spirited bitch. Didn’t make a sound when we dry drowned her.”
Ryatt’s strength returned. “You w-waterboarded my mom?”
“Not only that.” Bugsy laughed. “You want to know what I did to her forty-two years ago?”
“No!” Ryatt yelled. He had avoided thinking about those rumors on the streets even back then. Gun pointed at Bugsy, Ryatt said, “Shut the fuck up!”
Bugsy’s beady eyes bore into Ryatt’s skull, challenging him. His tongue wet his lips, mimicking an anxious viper. “I raped her.”
Ryatt shut his ears. “You’re lying!”
Bugsy frowned. “You know what? Yes. That’s not the truth.”
Ryatt let go, relieved.
Bugsy smirked. “We raped your mom.”
“Wh-what?” Ryatt’s world crashed around him; his pistol dropped to the floor.
“Come on. Don’t get soft now. I’m not scared of death. Not after what you did to me. I clung to my life so that I could hurt you, and I’ve done that. Doesn’t matter if I die,” Bugsy said. “I’m an old, crippled dog with no barks left in me.”
A gunshot snapped Ryatt out of it. Did it just come from the front door? Bugsy’s back-up? Ryatt did not care if he lived or died. But he needed to punish Bugsy.
And fast.
Desperation hastening his actions, Ryatt locked the door and looked around the room. A minute later, he’d found a corkscrew, a knife, some pins. No, these were too lame.
Just as he decided to make do, he spotted the perfect devices of atonement, which could bring utmost misery.
Taking a breather, Ryatt said, “Know what? You may not have a bark left but you gotta have a lot of painful howls in you…” He ambled to the fireplace. Sitting on its ledge were two bottles of lighter fluid and a match box. “And I’m gonna squeeze the last of them out.”
As Ryatt pocketed them all and neared him, Bugsy’s eyes widened in terror. “Help!”
Leaning over the table, Ryatt grabbed Bugsy and dragged the pathetic sack of potatoes across the shiny wood. When he dropped him on the plush carpet, one of his prosthetic arms came loose but the other stayed fastened.
Ryatt squirted the liquid onto Bugsy’s head. Few seconds later, he emptied the first bottle which he hurled at Bugsy’s face before pulling the second one out.
When that was done, he let the old meat soak in naphtha and took a tour.
He came across an old phonograph on the showcase, its bronze speaker elegantly craning its neck. A dozen gramophone records were stacked beside it.
“Which is the best?” Ryatt asked.
“Help!”
Ryatt traced his finger over them and picked one at random. The disk said Ana María Martínez - Violetas Imperiales.
He gently fixed it on the turntable and wound the hand crank, after which he placed the stylus on the disk. An astounding soprano from an extremely good singer filled the room.
“Please…” Bugsy cried. “Take that record player. Worth millions in auction.”
“Millions?” Ryatt asked.
“Yeah. It’s from Italy. More than one hundred years old. Survived two world wars.”
That got Ryatt thinking. It was more money than he had ever robbed in his career.
“Twenty-five years ago, Thomas told me to give up robbery. I should have listened to that big old fool. But instead, I told him— no, I promised him that we’d stop before I got anyone hurt. Now I’ve hurt him, Leo, even my mom, the only people who ever meant anything to me.” Ryatt dabbed at the corner of his eye. “I robbed even when I was relatively rich, not because I needed to but I wanted to.” Ryatt sniffled and retrieved the match box. “Greed. That’s my sin. But it’s not me who paid the price for it, but the people I love.”
“No more sinning.” Ryatt struck a match and flicked it. “No more suffering.”
The blaze engulfed Bugsy with a satisfying swoosh. Screeching helplessly, he tried to roll, but it was impossible without legs and arms.
While Bugsy’s yellow skin melted and peeled in patches, exposing bright red muscle tissues within, Ana’s mesmerizing soprano brought a sense of serenity to the situation.
But with serenity came calmness, which gave Ryatt time to rest his mind. And it reiterated only one thing.
We raped your mom.
Unable to control the rage roiling inside, Ryatt grabbed the flaming prosthetic arm and ripped it out. The plastic scathed his hands, but he didn’t care.
Screaming, Ryatt swung the arm down onto Bugsy, smashing his face in. Then again. Then again. Each impact dug a little of Bugsy’s liquefied muscle and splashed it on the ceiling, while Ryatt repeatedly struck with the fervor of a deranged madman.
Ana climbed to a high note, the highest so far, and at exactly the same moment, Bugsy stopped twitching.
Panting, Ryatt tossed the disfigured arm onto the burning meat and sat on the table.
And he realized something. His anger was so pure and powerful that he hadn’t needed to control his stomach with his lollipop, the last of its extinct kind.
While the flames crackled and smoked, Ryatt jumped down and walked towards the door. He felt tempted to nab the rare artifact
