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Do Unto Others

February 18, 2011

“Kill ’em all. Let God sort ’em out.”
—Popular Mercenary Maxim

“He is my refuge and my fortress: In Him will I trust.”
—Psalm 91:2

When Becker had been found on the s***ter, the victim of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound, Duke knew it was bulls***. The young one they all looked up to…Mitchum…that was his name…was far too smug, too nonchalant about the whole thing.

Becker had a resume several pages long. Most of his assignments listed were so sanitized even someone in “the know” like Duke had a hard time piecing the locations and ops together with the news stories of accidents, tragedies and false flag jobs throughout the world. He had come highly recommended and the young men Duke hired along with the old man looked up to him initially.

Becker had the most incredible pokerface Duke had ever seen. The majority of his face hardly seemed to move even when he spoke, which was infrequently, much less when he was silent. There was something absurd about the man walking his dog around Duke’s compound. The idea of Becker having a pet struck Duke as improbable if not impossible. The dog wasn’t even particularly intimidating. Just some sort of Spaniel… Duke forgot which kind.

That was early on, just after Duke locked down the compound. They awaited the throngs of suckers who couldn’t afford their own castle, stocks of food, supplies, weapons.

They never came. That was the problem, Duke was certain. Boredom. Without an enemy to engage the troops, in this case a small group of mercenaries commanded by Becker, they had naturally turned inward. Like any human being in Duke’s estimation, the dog among them closest to Alpha had made a move for Top Dog and succeeded.

Reminded Duke of his days scratching and clawing to the seat at the end of table in the corporate boardroom. Except, of course, there was no need for bullets when one had corporate fixers accepting extravagant sums to ruin those in his path. Ruin, but not kill.

So after Becker was found, dog sitting quietly by his lowered trousers, blood spattered all over the stall, with only a slight look of surprise in his dead eyes, Duke knew it was Mitchum.

But it didn’t end there. Duke had tried to save himself some money by not hiring whores, despite Becker’s suggestion that he do so. The Mexican cleaning staff would do, he figured. Why pay extra for someone who only works one job, and entertainment at that?

But the Mexicans had fled in the night, only three days into lockdown. Hopped the goddam wall, he assumed.

So, that left Duke’s wife and daughter as the only females within sight. He supposed his son would have done in a pinch.

His son! Stupid little bastard got himself killed defending his mother. Didn’t Duke teach the little s*** anything at all? Thought some karate he took at a two-year college would be enough to stop Mitchum and his wolves… stupid f***.

He hadn’t died pleasantly either. Mitchum reenacted something he said he read pirates did centuries ago.

Mitchum’s men (that’s what they were now that Becker was out of the way) slit the boy’s abdomen just enough to pull a small loop of his small intestine which they nailed to a post. Then they took turns burning him with a torch and watching him dance and defenestrate himself as he jumped about from the burning.

It took him forty-five minutes to die.

Of course they made Mrs. Duke watch, which only made her useless as a piece of ass. She slit her wrists the next morning or some time in the night.

Weak. They were weak.

So it was just Duke and his daughter left. Fortunately for Duke, she seemed to have gotten more of his genes than the late Mrs. Duke’s.

She had resisted at first, of course. She screamed for her dad, knowing full well he was right where he is right now: handcuffed to a very sturdy bar embedded in the Master Bedroom window sill. The bars were reinforced and deceptively long, extending deeply into the concrete wall below and high above. Completely unmovable without a tank, and even then the vehicle would need a running start to pull the wall down.

But there was a weaker link in Duke’s chain. He had at last pulled a drywall screw from the sheetrock after hours of looking for one and scratching through the paint, compound and gypsum. Now he was busy picking the lock on his handcuff as he thought about his next moves.

First, this was obvious, he’d have to retrieve the pistol hidden in the fireplace. He’d have to check it’s operation, but quietly.

Next, he’d have to sneak in and blow Mitchum’s brains out.

It wasn’t personal, not really. Mitchum had saved Duke a lot of money, in fact. Despite the fact that money wasn’t worth much at the moment, Duke had been careful about keeping something he could sell.

That had been the real problem. Duke had a sizable, well-protected wine collection in a hidden cellar. But the mercs had found it and somehow managed to get it open.

The wine collection was incredibly valuable. He could trade a single select bottle for transport anywhere in the world to the right buyer. His fellow elite would jump at the chance to own a rare bottle of the red stuff.

Mitchum and company had of course begun drinking it. He was losing future wealth and influence with every lost bottle. Stupid bastards didn’t even realize most of it was vinegar by now. It wasn’t for drinking. It was for collecting and, when necessary, for improving Duke’s lot in the new order outside, whatever that turned out to be.

But Missy was doing a great job distracting them. She had turned from prude to slut in less than a day. Realizing her lot and that there wasn’t anyone coming to save her, she had understandably accepted her role as f***toy.

Duke could hear the moans, groans and squeaks from upstairs periodically. He could even tell now when it was Mitchum himself doing the deed.

And that would be all the edge he needed. Once he had killed the leader, the others would naturally look to Duke for guidance. He’d take them as far as necessary and then have them put down.

Missy was another question. Her dedication and usefulness should not go unrewarded, but could he trust her after this? Well, he never trusted anyone anyway. She’d make a decent ally when climbing his new social circle now that she understood how the world worked.

Click.

Finally.

Duke slipped off his loafers and crept to the fireplace. His eyes bulged when he felt…nothing…where the pistol should have been.

“Looking for this, Pop?”

Christ…

“M…Missy! Quiet, Honey, they’ll hear you. Daddy is free now, so give me the gun so I can help you and we can get away…”

“Help me like you helped David? Or Mom?”

“Honey, there was nothing I could do…You saw. They killed Becker…”

“Yeah, but you put us here. You hired them.

“When David died, did you cry?”

Jesus Christ, the bitch is nuts.

“Of…of course, Ho—No!”

The bullet missed Duke’s penis but splattered his right testicle all down his pantsleg and the carpet.

So, this is pain.

“Ho…Missy…n.n.no…”

“What’s the matter, Pop? Does it hurt?”

Duke got it, finally. This was what it was like to be powerless. To be poor. To lack control.

Maybe he had been too harsh.

“Honey…”

God, it hurts.

“Honey… Give me the gun now.”

“Eye for an eye, Pop!”

The second bullet took out the right orb in his skull as well as some gray matter, a piece of skull, and a chunk of hair. His scalp waved in the air like a red flag as he dropped to the floor, lifeless.

Mitchum entered and slid up to Missy, slipping one arm around her shoulder.

“Good work, Babe.”

“Thanks, Mitch. Ready to go?”

“Yep. Tired of this place. Let’s see the world.”

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