The deadbeat

 

Paulo greeted his teeth as he again strained agaist the rorse hemp rope One level has been tied above his pecs. around his arms just at the elbow. Bare chested it cut deep into his arms just above his biceps. Another was tied beloe his pecs around his biceps, which hadbeen frapped to his sides. A rope from behind his neck crossed in front of his chest and was tide to the second level, making sure it would not slip. His bound wrists were circled and frapped. It was tight. Sweat was pouring down his torso collecting in his tattoeed belly button. He had been trying for hours. He finally realized there was no way to escape. He just sat there wondering what waas next.

The steel door creaked open. Two men entered—one tall and lean, the other stocky with calloused hands.

"Look who's finally stopped squirming," the tall one said, his voice eerily calm.

Paulo's dry lips trembled. "Please... I can get your money. I just need more time."

The stocky man laughed, uncoiling another length of rope. "That's what you said last month. And the month before."

"I swear on my life—"

"Your life?" The tall one crouched down, meeting Paulo's desperate gaze. "Your life isn't worth twenty-five grand. But the message your body will send? That's priceless."

Paulo's voice cracked. "I know people! Important people who can—"

"Shut him up," the tall one ordered, turning away. "I'm tired of hearing the same pathetic promises."

The stocky man grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "With pleasure. We're just getting started, aren't we, Paulo?"

The stocky man produced a roll of silver duct tape from his jacket pocket. Paulo's eyes widened in terror as the man tore off a long strip with a sharp, practiced motion.

"No, wait—" Paulo's protests were cut short as the tall one gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth shut while the stocky man slapped the tape across his lips, wrapping it twice around his head. His muffled cries barely penetrated the industrial-strength adhesive.

"Can't have the neighbors hearing your negotiations," the tall one whispered, his breath hot against Paulo's ear.

Next came Paulo's eyes. The stocky man pressed fresh tape over them, sealing away the light and leaving Paulo in disorienting darkness. Paulo's breathing quickened to rapid, panicked gasps through his nose.

"Stand him up," ordered the tall one.

They yanked Paulo to his feet. Rough hands tore at his jeans, pulling them down and off his legs despite his bound state. They left him standing in nothing but his boxers, exposed and vulnerable as goosebumps spread across his skin. His thick, dark hair covered his legs like a pelt, now standing on end from the chill and fear.

The stocky man knelt with another length of rope. He wrapped it tightly around Paulo's ankles, cinching it until Paulo winced behind his gag. With methodical precision, he worked his way up Paulo's hairy legs—binding his calves, then just above his knees, and finally his thighs. Each new restraint was pulled brutally tight, the fibers digging into flesh and matting down the coarse hair, before being knotted securely.

"Nice rope work," the tall one commented, circling Paulo like a shark. "Make sure those legs are completely immobile. I don't want him even thinking about standing, let alone walking."

The stocky man grunted as he finished a complex knot behind Paulo's knees. "He ain't going nowhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow." His fingers traced the indentations the ropes were already leaving in Paulo's trembling, hair-covered legs. "Not ever, if that's what the boss wants." The tall man removed his suit jacket and carefully hung it on a hook by the door. He rolled up his sleeves with deliberate precision. "First lesson in debt management."

The beating began methodically—calculated blows to Paulo's torso, thighs, and back. They used their fists at first, then switched to short lengths of rubber hose that whistled through the air before connecting with Paulo's flesh. Each impact left angry red welts that quickly darkened to purple.

"Should've paid your debts," the stocky man grunted between strikes, his breathing heavy with exertion.

Time lost meaning for Paulo. Minutes or hours passed as they worked him over, careful to spread the punishment across his body. They avoided his face—faces were identifiable. They wanted his body to tell the story.

Eventually, Paulo's skin split under the relentless assault. Patches of his flesh became raw and weeping, blood trickling from dozens of abrasions where the rubber hose had torn his skin. His muffled screams had diminished to whimpers, his strength completely sapped.

"He's ready for the bonus round," the tall one said, stepping back to admire their handiwork.

The stocky man retrieved a brown bottle from a duffel bag. "Medicinal," he said with a cruel smile, twisting off the cap.

The sharp, astringent smell of rubbing alcohol filled the room seconds before the stocky man began splashing it liberally over Paulo's wounds. The clear liquid ran in rivulets down his battered body, finding every cut, every abrasion.

Paulo's body convulsed violently as the alcohol set his raw flesh on fire. His screams returned with renewed vigor, though muted by the duct tape. He thrashed against his restraints with what little strength he had left, the pain transcending anything he'd ever experienced.

"That should drive the message home," the tall one said, watching dispassionately as Paulo's consciousness finally began to slip away.

Consciousness returned to Paulo in waves of pulsing agony. His eyelids fluttered open, crusted with dried tears and blood. The duct tape was gone, leaving his raw, chapped lips exposed to the stale, dusty air. He tried to move, only to discover his wrists and ankles were still bound—but now pulled together behind his back in a brutal hogtie.

Most of the elaborate rope work had been removed, leaving only the essential restraints needed to keep him immobile. The concrete floor beneath him was cold and gritty against his battered skin. Weak light filtered through high, filthy windows, illuminating the vast emptiness of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse.

Paulo's head throbbed as he twisted it to look down at his torso. The movement sent shockwaves of pain through his bruised neck. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. A rectangular piece of cardboard had been stapled directly to the skin of his chest—each metal staple penetrating his flesh like tiny daggers.

Written in thick black marker, the message was brutally clear:

YOUR LOAN HAS INCURRED INTEREST $250,000 DUE BY NEXT WEEK OR IT WILL BE WORSE

Blood had dried around the staples, forming crusty coronas on his purple-mottled skin. Paulo let his head fall back to the concrete with a dull thud. A hollow laugh escaped his throat, rapidly transforming into a sob.

He lay there, bound hand and foot, his body a canvas of torture, wondering how he could possibly find a quarter-million dollars in a week—and what "worse" could possibly mean.