A Botched Job

[Flippity-Floosy]

I REALLY gotta start finishing up the rest of my stories!

Hello! I'm back once more after being away for a few months, a habit of mine, I know. Went back to school for my Masters so balancing work, education and life is a bit of a juggling act. I actually changed positions once more to finally make time for school so now I gotta get my freetime back in order some time. Especially since I've been drafting and scripting the rest of my unfinished stories but have been so exhausted after either work or school that my inspirations immediately tanks. Usually its when these breaks like Thanksgiving and soon Christmas arise that I finally get the time to write what I want, that is if I'm not just chilling or doing something else since getting things mind to paper is always a bit of an effort on my part if feels like.

Well, enough drabble. Here's a dark story in the making.

Warning: Mentions and depiction of torture and death abound, as well as nonconsensual everything from mouthplay, teasing, fearplay to rape. Ironically, despite the violence, not much Violent SW or the like in detail. You've been warned:

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Prologue

Damian wasn’t really all that keen on politics.

Never had been as far as he could remember. Sure, he wasn’t ignorant of the going ins and outs of the world around him; in his opinion, only an idiot would turn their eyes away from the events of what was happening around them. But, for the most part, whatever benefits or drawbacks that arose from the policies instilled by whomever was elected, even the ones that directly affected him, were in the end, short term or rarely had an impact on someone like him that would have any weight on his life. Or if it did, there really wasn’t much he could do in the long run. Many would call it fatalism, but for the most part, most of the poignant things that happen in life tend to happen outside one’s control. Sure, there were things that happened in people’s lives that were the causation of their own actions, but even their actions were sometimes spurned from things out of their control.

The circumstances of their births, the illnesses that befell their bodies, the people they find themselves falling in love with… all in all, it was fair to say people are a product of just the world around them, and in turn, whatever the future brings are also things that are just beyond one’s control. Like a child who became an orphan because a drunk driver lost control of the wheel, or a grad student finding out they have cancer; life found a way to fuck you over one way or another. An imperfect way at looking at life, he supposed at one point, but one he didn’t dwell on.

“Shit happens,” was his main philosophy in life. And he had been sticking by it for as long as he could remember. And whether the shit that happened was from just being unlucky or from the direct actions of one another, it didn’t change the simple fact that despite one’s entire life being turned upside down, the world would continue to spin, unfettered by all those who inhabit it.

That was probably why he didn’t really have any ill will for the tiny three inch man whose ribcage he was on the verge of crushing between his two fingers.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Damian said to the shrunken politician, whose tiny face was beginning to turn blue and clammy as he tried to draw in breath through the meager wheezing that managed to escape his compressed lungs. Weakly trying to bat his thumb away with the bleeding stumps for arms, the man trying to push his thumb off with the strength that wouldn’t even be enough to budge a pencil.

Ignoring the feeble resistance of the suffocating man who was getting a rather ample amount of blood on his fingers and knuckles, he asked once more. “Was it a maid or a call girl?”

“Ggh….gh…gk…ig…” Were all the sounds the middle-aged man could make in response, which wasn’t really all that helpful. Then again, with how tightly Damian had him in his grip, he wasn’t surprised.

He wasn’t asking on behalf of his client or anything, at least this time. He had simply been curious. It was rare that he’d have a “big shot” (oh, the sheer irony) as a target, especially for infidelity. Most cases when some sort of politician or rising celebrity was involved, the client was someone who wanted their position and wanted their biggest threat out of the way.

And, being someone who could make big threats… “not-so big,” he had become one of the underground’s “go-to-guy” for all kinds of jobs. Whether it be assassinations, body disposal, interrogation, or just simple torture; as long as the cash flow was still flowing, his job was whatever it was the client needed of him.

His current client, rather it being a contending politician or an extremist who hated the maybe would-be mayor of… what city was he running for again? Burlington? With only 45 thousand people, give or take, that was hardly a game changer if you’d ask him.

Either way, his client was neither an extremist nor politician.

No, no… the one who had ordered and paid for Vaughn Davidson Jr. to have him dismembered and soon to be cooked in a microwave was none other than his third wife, Hailey Davidson née De Luca. When he had first been contacted by her and given the directive, he initially thought it had been about the money. Vaughn Davidson did reek of old money and it wasn’t all that uncommon for him to receive requests to assassinate the target in order to get full access to their inheritance. Greed kept his pockets full after all.

But nope. The sheer vindictiveness of her request immediately told him that it wasn’t about the money. Hearing the sheer cold and acidic nature in her voice as she went into details was a clear giveaway on that. No, this was a woman scorned. And as the adage went by, hell hath no fury…

Apparently, she had caught him in bed with another woman. And upon confrontation, he had made it known to her that he was ready to leave her for this girl easily half her age. Oh, he wished he had been a fly on that wall to see the argument that had led up to this moment.

But oh well. All he knew was that Mr. Davidson had seen her as disposable.

And now, per her request, Damian had flipped the script, making him the one who would be disposed of.

Ah… Davidson’s eyes were about to roll to the back of his head.

He released the man from his fingers, allowing Davidson to fall from about six or seven inches oh so onto the table. A fall that probably looked to be twelve or so feet to someone so small. Probably why he yelped when he fell on what remained on his right arm. Whoops.

Damian leaned back in his seat, sighing. He didn’t really like torture jobs all that much. At least with interrogation, there was a goal in mind and with simple assassination ones, he didn’t have to draw out killing the target all that much. A simple stomp of his foot was all that was needed and the job was done.

Torture usually required some level of personal investment in one’s suffering, and frankly, Damian didn’t even give half a shit about this man who was laying pathetically in a heap on his desk, letting out agonized gasps of air. He was genuinely a bit shocked that after having him reduced in size that his wife wasn’t the one who wanted to have him back to personally enact her revenge upon him, but he surmised that she simply didn’t feel like getting her hands dirty. While it was easy to ask for the manner of death, when given the choice, not everyone had the stomach or confidence to do it themselves; even when knowing that most people would literally do anything to be the ones to have their worst enemies in the palms of their hands to do whatever they wanted.

And while he wasn’t opposed to doing the torture himself (most of the time, sometimes clients had a specific way of making their minimized targets suffer that was so grotesque and brutal, even he had objections to it), he found it rather tedious and unenjoyable. Like, trying to make sure a target doesn’t die from blood loss before waterboarding them. Or making sure they’re still awake before having them immolated on the stove after they’ve had the bones in their sternum crushed beyond repair. And while the miracle resistance of the human body had allowed them to survive quite often long enough until he had finished their requests to a T, in his early days, their brand new fragility had led to several newly shrunken targets to die significantly earlier than he would’ve liked, leading to disgruntled clients.

Like interrogation, it required him to be methodical in a way to make sure they were alive for as long as possible, minus the out of finally getting the answers and either swiftly killing them or leaving them in the hands of the ones who gave the order in the first place. Simply put, it was just dragging out their death for the sake of dragging out their death.

Without hatred, it really didn’t do much for him in the long run.

But a job was a job, and like all the others, he would see it through.

“Or was it another ex of yours?” Damian asked conversationally, as though the handless man on the table didn’t nearly have his torso caved in by the man who was responsible for him being in such a vulnerable position in the first place. “I know a lot of cheaters usually have the affair partner as their ex. Did you just need to fuck for old times sake or was there lingering feelings?”

Davidson was still wheezing and coughing, hacking up a lung. A bit of blood flew out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Not that the sight deterred Damian in the slightest from getting an answer.

“F-F..Fu…Fu…ck…” the politician managed to utter just barely at a volume that Damien could hear him.

“So it was for old times sake?” Damien asked with a raised eyebrow.

“F…Fu…Fuck…y-y-you…” was the clarification that came right before Davidson went back to coughing and wheezing.

Damien’s eyes narrowed in disappointment. “Ah. Figures.”

Honestly, he was semi-surprised that Davidson wasn’t the sniveling, pleading type to beg for his life. Many of the bigwigs were, and that was before he even got to the hard part of his job. But he still had been hoping for an answer to know who the guy had been sleeping with.

“Guess I’ll never know,” he thought to himself as he reached for the nail clippers once more, the jaws still stained red with blood.

Upon seeing him reach for the nail clippers, Davidson’s eyes went wide with horror before the politician began to scuttle backwards, slipping and falling on his own blood as he tried to get as far away from the giant who loomed over him, now holding the instrument of torture that had removed both of his hands in such a horrific fashion.

“W-W-WAIT!” He shouted in renewed desperation, his eyes trained on the nail clipper held in the Damien’s hands high above him in abject fear. The dread in his voice was as clear as day when he said. “It… It was her cousin! They’d… they’d been estranged a-and when I attended her family reunion…I…It wasn’t supposed to–!”

Oh. So he did get an answer after all. “Ah… that’s explains it then.” Damien replied, tone noncommittal.

Looking down at the tiny politician, clippers still in hand, he could see the desperate hope that his answer had appeased the giant. That Damien wouldn’t continue with this torture. That he would let him go, despite the quality of life of a three-inch-man with no hands being akin to a worm in the middle of the concrete sidewalk. That there was some smidgen of mercy in the man man that bereft him of his ability to grasp anything in life, whether figuratively or literally.

But unfortunately for Davidson, this was not an interrogation.

And a job was a job.

So, as he brought his other hand up and pinned the man under his index finger, he didn’t really react to the absolute dread that encompassed the tiny man’s countenance as he lowered his clipper towards the man’s left leg.

As he pinched the flailing leg between his fingers, maneuvering the limb between the opening of the clipper, the sharp metal jaws positioned over and under his lower thigh.

Using a thumb to block the politician’s mouth before he would scream and beg for his life, Damien kept the limb still between the clipper’s jaws as quickly adjusted his hand to keep his ring finger on the man’s torso to keep him pinned and held the other end of his hand to hold the nail clippers in place.

He looking the panicked man in the eyes once more, seeing the tiny specks of blue silently plead for him to not do what he was supposed to do.

But Damien’s wasn’t deterred in the slightest.

“You really are a bit of a shitty husband, aren’t ya?” he commented.

Then her pressed the clippers shut. Even muffled, the man’s screams rung loud in the small space.

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The good things about having your victims shrunken to such a small size was that clean-up was relatively minimal.

Cleaning up the bloodstains only took some Lysol and stain remover, and voila! Good as new. Well, not really as good as new given that the table was about seven years old and still had some staining from the purple wine he spilled years ago, but nonetheless, there was no sign of where the Davidson anywhere.

After he had fished out the crisped body of the politician from the microwave and flushed it down the toilet, he disinfected the interior of where the man had been boiled alive. There was still some charred skin and oil on the disk at the bottom and he had to wash it off with bleach and detergent. After all, nothing was more disgusting than to eat off of something there were dead bodies on.

After the cleanup, he pulled out one of his phones, and dialed his newly widowed wife on the phone to inform her that the job had been done and that he would have the video sent to her via proxy.

The maniacal joy that radiated from the other end of the call made him sometimes think that maybe he wasn’t the least human person on the planet after all.

“About time you called back! I thought my money was being wasted for a moment. Did you catch him exploding on video? Oh please tell me you caught it!”

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose “I hate to break it to you, ma’am, but human bodies don’t usually… combust in the microwave.” he leaned back in his lounge chair, sliding down a bit. “He… boiled.”

“But you caught it all, right? You did everything I asked in that order, right?”

“Yes, I did everything in order. And yes, it’s all there, on the video,” he responded, exasperated already. God, he could tell this woman was exhausting already. Now wonder her now deceased husband cheated on her.

“Did he piss his pants? Oh please tell me, he wet himself. Or did he beg for forgiveness from me? Because if he did, I–”

“The video will be sent to you within the next two hours.” Damian interjected, hands clenching the leather armrests of his chair in agitation. “You’ll be able to see for yourself.”

“Okay, okay… I can wait,” the widow replied, the giddiness in her voice slightly waning. “I just wished I had been there to see the little shithead squirm in person. That asshole deserved to suffer for twice as long as he did.”

“Then maybe you should’ve done it yourself?” he was tempted to ask, but wisely held his tongue. Instead, the much more reasonable response he gave aloud was. “Once the video is sent, this will conclude business transactions on both are parts. As per our contract, you cannot have the video redistributed or posted to any websites, nor may the dealings of our agreement be made public, and should the agreement be breached, there will be consequences.”

Because only God knew how badly he’d loved to sew this bitch’s mouth shut and feed her to his fish.

But, to his surprise, she seemed to get the picture. “Oh, of course! I wouldn’t do anything to incriminate myself! I promise, my lips are sealed!” she affirmed, and he had the distinct impression that she had made the gesture with her fingers across her mouth from the other side of the phone.

Well, whatever. “Alright, I’ll work on getting the video wired to you now…”

But before he could hang up the phone, he heard her cry out, “Hold on!”

His thumb paused a centimeter above the END CALL button. With a slight bit of hesitation, he put the phone back to his ear.

“Yes?” he asked, a slight bit of irritation leaking in his tone.

If Hailey Davidson had heard it, she didn’t comment it on it. “I’d like to ask for just one more job, if at all possible.”

The edge of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a moment.

Even though he had a full idea on what, or rather who, would be the next target in his agenda for the week, he still felt the need to ask, “And what would that be?”

The woman’s voice came back with a sinister lilt to it, one that made her voice sound just as menacing as it did the first time she had contacted him.

“I definitely need to get back at my bitch of a cousin for being the homewrecker she is…”

He sighed and fished out his pen and notepad from his jacket pocket once more. “Alright, just send the money over and we can go over details of the disposal method once more.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”

He paused, as he put the pen to paper, slightly bemused.

“Why’s that?” he asked, puzzled.

Hailey Davidson’s voice was cold and precise, something that made even Damian feel a chill down his spine when he spoke.

“On the contrary, I think it’s best that once she’s been reduced in size, that I be the one to deal with her.”

[Weavelg0d]

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[Flippity-Floosy]

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Downtime

“That’ll be $57.92, sir.”



Damian simply hummed in acknowledgement before swiping his credit card through the slot, his payment processed after a few seconds of waiting.



The cashier flashed him an artificial smile while handing him his receipt. “Thank you, have a good day.”



“You too,” he replied robotically, already huffing his bags into his arms and making his way through the exit of the liquor store.



The burst of chilled wind that hit him in the face was a harsh reminder that he should’ve zipped up his jacket before he left the store. The drop in temperature this week had caught him off guard and now he was bustling as quickly as he could to his car to escape the frigid cold. He adjusted the bags onto one arm as he fished for his key in his pocket and unlocked the doors, although he highly doubted anyone would want to steal his scratched up, junky 2003 Sedan. There were far better cars in this parking lot alone, and unlike most men, he wasn’t all that attached to his car anyway. So long as it got him from Point A to Point B in one piece, it did its job.



Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough money to get a new car, far from it. If anything, his clandestine business was rather lucrative, to say the least. And if he decided on a whim to get a new car, he could just go to the nearest dealership and get himself one in an instant.



But what would be the point? He wasn’t afraid to admit he was a creature of habit and not a big fan of change if he could help it.



He put his bags of liquor and beer in the passenger seat before getting in himself, cranking up the engine in one smooth motion. He put the heat on blast; and wouldn’t you know it, it actually blew out warm air without him having to work its way up. There were benefits to parking close and making his shopping trips quick.



He turned on the radio, a news station talking about the recent uptick in TikTok related deaths, and drove out of the parking lot.



The sky was a melding of evening colors, pewter blue giving way to a swirl of fuchsia and orange behind the clouds, the sun already more than halfway below the horizon and the crescent moon already in full view. Initially it looked like it would rain, but if there was a higher power out there, he guessed that they changed their mind on a whim, not that he was complaining.



Thankfully, there was hardly any traffic on the way home. Usually, the road would be jammed packed with cars from as far as the eye could see, but upon looking at the clock once he was at a light, he realized it was a bit earlier than he thought, the rush hour in its infancy at this time of day. Getting used to the clocks getting set back, thus, longer nights and shorter days always took a bit of getting used to within the first week.



The drive home was short and smooth, not that many hiccups in the road aside from a driver flashing their blinkers on the wrong side they were turning, and breaking so suddenly that he nearly tailgated the SUV several times. The driver had to be either lost as fuck or drunk as hell, probably a teen. Fucking teenagers. Or was it some old crotchety geezer who should’ve been off the road decades ago? Who knows. Either way, cutting him off stirred something unrighteous inside him.



The car began teetering the yellow line, confirming that, yup, the guy was drunk as a skunk; as his auntie used to say.



He was tempted to speed up, get beside the driver and stare them in the eye.



How would the bastard like being a foot tall in a moving car?



“Try reaching for the brake pedal now, bitch,” were the acidic thoughts that passed his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to dispose of a drunkard in the past. Certainly not the last.



The thought vanished amidst the others when the car finally made a left turn into the highway and out of his life.



Parking his car in front of his apartment, he made his way up the stairs, making his way past a couple who were giggling and laughing about something in a hush-hush tone, and put the code in for his door.



Stepping into the foyer of his apartment was all he needed for the tension to release from his shoulders. With a deep sigh, he could finally feel relaxed.



Today’s job wasn’t so bad. Probably because, in his opinion, the guy deserved it.



Another methhead, he garnered from the track marks on the man’s arms before diminishing him to the size of a Polly Pocket doll. A lot of his targets tended be on some sort of hard drugs or another.



Man was in his late forties, but the drugs had aged him up by at least three decades. Accosted and assaulted multiple people for money; only landing behind bars once he nearly murdered a lesbian couple in the Bronx back in ‘03.



What should’ve been around a fifty-year sentence wound up being reduced to ten years and some change for whatever reason Damian didn’t really give a shit about, but upon being back on the streets, one his former victims dropped 10K to “take care of him.”



As someone who also lived a hard life, even in Damian’s hardened heart, he was a bit empathetic to the man’s plight. Damian himself dabbled in coke and was an alcoholic before even being old enough to smoke. After all he went through, he knew the powerful yearning for something to take his mind off of the trials and tribulations that came at him without respite when he was put through the ringer. That need for an escapism when all around him, the walls just kept closing in.



He truly empathized with the man.



But not enough for him to not take up the job.



Especially after the man came at him with a knife, going straight for the jugular the moment he turned the corner.



The man dwindled in height so fast that he was nearly killed by the weight of the knife that had been millimeters from crushing him under the blade’s handle when it fell to the ground.



Watching the now minuscule man wander down by his feet, looking around as though he just got teleported to an alien location, it took several seconds before he looked up and screamed bloody murder at the sight of Damian towering from above.



Having been doing this gig for over a decade now, Damian was far used to his targets being confused and panicked, and likewise seeing him as a giant monster for it to affect him anymore. He had did this hundreds of times now, the novelty of seeing someone go from normal-size to rodent-size having worn out ages ago. So he wasted no time bending down and scooping the addict up.



Not wanting to deal with the incoming screaming and shouting that were about to erupt from his victim’s mouth, he stuffed him into the cloth bag he kept to hold the tiny targets and put him in the pouch pocket of his hoodie before heading back to his car. And thankfully, with his radio on, it easily drowned out the druggie’s litany of swears and curses on the way to his base of operations.



Dumping the man onto the table, he didn't waste a second. After all, it was an easy job actually. The client simply asked for him to scare the target until he pissed his pants. And then when he was done, to just hand him to the guy that was ready to collect him at the location.



It didn’t take much to reduce such an angry, belligerent criminal to a sniveling, bawling manchild pleading for his life. A few run ins with one of his rats he had on standby and threatening to have him put in the garbage disposal already had the man practically begging on his knees for mercy. At most, he got a few scrapes and bruises, but the client never specified that he had to be unharmed. Just alive.



And once his client, an older man, a man who had a sizable scar on his face and a nervous disposition, giddily picked up his former tormentor, who certainly more in store for him than Damian had; he called it a day and went about his business.



A done deal… well, done.



He went to the fridge and grabbed some leftover Chinese food from two days ago. Popping it in the microwave, he found the bottle opener and got the lid of the Guiness and two minutes later, he was crashing on his couch, bottle in hand and munching on Kung Pao chicken; surfing through channels.



Outside of his career, and… ability, Damian considered himself pretty normal in most aspects. Boring, even. He woke up, ate, worked, shit and slept like everyone else. His hobbies were fairly mundane, gaming and jogging early mornings if the weather permitted. He was a loner but wasn’t completely bereft of friends in his circle. He spent his weekends running errands, playing some Halo or Call of Duty, jacking off to porn and sleeping into noon.



A bachelor in all respects, when he wasn’t working, his time was his and his alone to do whatever he wanted with it. And what he wanted most was just to have a nice, quiet space for himself to chill and relax.



He was still flipping through channels, on the verge of falling asleep, when his phone rang, the digitized theme of the Jetsons playing for all of two seconds before he quickly answered it.



“Hello?” The disinterest of his voice was clearly evident; nothing bothered him more than getting a call once he was settled in.



“Hello, is Damian Marcovic?”



He sighed, slouching further in his chair and rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand. “Yeah.”



The voice on the other line was filled with ersatz enthusiasm. “Hello Mr. Marcovic! How are you this evening?”



“No, I don’t want to donate to the fire department. The last guy told me that he’d have me removed from the list.”



“Ah! Oh, I see. I apologize then. I’ll see to it that you’re taken off as soon as w–”



He shut off the call and tossed his phone onto the coffee table before reaching back for the remote. Fuckers never listen the first time.



Irritated, the sleepiness withered a bit as he flipped through channels, finally settling on watching an older rerun episode of The Simpsons.



The hours crawled by and the day had fully given way to night; small hints of stars behind the light-polluted sky.



On the slightly messy coffee table, his plate only left a few scattered grains of fried rice and his bottle was a little over halfway empty. The only light in his tiny, spartan living room came from the TV screen, with Marge talking to Lisa about the thing she used to do as a little girl, and his digital clock on the wall, which read 9:52 PM in bold red letters. On the couch, Damian was slumped to his side, dozing off into a quiet slumber.



In his rest, dead to the world, he looked like any ordinary person, rather than someone who had claimed the lives of hundreds and ruined the lives of more.



His other phone rung.



The business phone.



His eyelids slowly peeled up from his almost-nap and stared out into nothing for a few long seconds before he reached for his phone, noting the number in his head before answering.



“Edward Bauhaus,” Damian answered, sliding into his third alias. “What color are the flowers?”



“Oh, so this is the right number? Okay, okay, I was afraid that you were already asleep.”



The edges of his mouth pinched downwards in agitation.



Take two.



“What color are the flowers?”



“Flowers…?” the man on the other line asked incredulously, before understanding hit. “Oh! Right! Um, they’re, er… white! They’re white!”



Well, at least he didn’t need to kill anyone for this job. Always a relief.



Damian slunk forward, getting right into business.



“All transactions are final and only once the money is wired to me will I do my half.” His tone darkened. “All effects are final, as well, and cannot be reversed once I do my part.”



The voice on the other line was quiet for only a moment before tentatively asking, “W-Wait… so if I ask her to b– I mean… your, erm… ‘target’ to be given to me, she’ll stay–”



“The effects are permanent,” was Damian’s clipped response. He had learned the hard way early on about that. “So if you don’t want your target handed to you at shorter than they were before, then I suggest finding someone else to do the job for you.”



“No! No! That’s not what I meant!” was the startlingly overeager reply. “No! That’s perfect! That means… you’re the real deal!? I mean… holy shit, they weren’t joking! You actually got shrinking powers!?”



Damian’s response was calm and measured despite feeling irked by the lack of tact and professionalism of the obviously young, if not immature, client on the phone. Those too young to be dabbling in the black market in the first place. Not that he was one to talk.



“May I finish laying out the terms of the agreement?”



“Oh, um, sure! Go ahead, go ahead.”



To Damian’s great surprise, the caller didn’t interrupt him as he streamlined the nature and conditions of the agreement, including the confidential matters regarding payment and where to wire the money. He made a rundown on the expected date and time he’d be able to conduct the job, as well as outlined where to meet him after all was said and done.



Within all of five minutes, he had summed up the agreement before leaving the potential client with a warning.



“Of course, should any part of the agreement be breached, you’ll find that I’m not one to forgive so easily,” Damian said coldly, “And I have a surefire way to deal with those who renege on deals.”



The most professional way of telling whoever even had any semblance of the idea to blab to the public “Don’t fuck with me.” Those that tried became ancient history in a heartbeat.



And he didn’t even need to kill them.



But his client, to his credit, seemed to understand quite well. On the line, he could’ve sworn he heard the man gulp. “Y-Yeah… I got it.”



Damian stretched. Now, of course, came the main details of it all.



“Now then, let’s talk cash.”