A Good Beating

by Davyd LaPonsie 2 months ago in fiction

Detective Vallen got himself into a hard spot

A Good Beating

Blood, my blood runs like water down my chin; dripping into a puddle on the crotch of my jeans, pooling right behind that awkward fold that the zipper makes that looks like a boner. How long have I been sitting in this chair? How many times have I been beaten by these two?

They’ve been taking turns all night it seems like. Once one gets tired the other jumps in. Ugly fuckers, the both of them.

They both look like they fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. The big one; blind in one eye that’s milky white, the other eye is ice blue. He has cauliflower ears and is built like a boxer. Fat belly, but obviously carries a lot of muscle. Piece of shit has a wife beater on with jeans, a big shiny belt buckle, and riding boots. He scowls at me which accentuates his broken nose and makes him uglier.

“MOTHER FUCKER!” He yells then winds up and punches me hard in the stomach. I yell and choke back vomit.

Something like this has happened before. It may have been this same damp basement. I can’t seem to keep myself out of these places. Fuck that hurt…

I heard about these two guys from my connections on the streets. A few of the vagabonds from here in town came into the station and asked for me, Detective Vallen, by name, and tipped me off on a good lead. So I did some background checks, asked some questions, did some surveillance and here I am arms tied to this chair.

The bright light is painful on the eyes. This is a small room, grey walls of cement. A drain in the center of the floor with a hose leading from a utility sink. They get a lot of people in here with their line of work and need to keep it clean.

Another fist collides with my face and I spit blood.

The cobwebs clinging to the single flood light hanging above me from the ceiling obviously never get dusted though. They have a wooden workbench to my left, but no tools on it. These lug heads use their hands for their work. Sickos.

The skinny one walks up now. He looks like a moonshine runner. A trucker cap covering messy hair, no shirt to cover his bowl chest or spindly arms, just baggy jeans and cowboy boots. He leans in close and I can smell tobacco-stained breath. I thought his bird nose was going to poke out my eye.

“You gonna wish you hadn't come here,” he whispers to me.

I respond, “Fuck you.”

He walks around behind me and grabs my jaw. Forcing my head back and my spine straight. The big fucker takes his belt off and holds it by the buckle. Then starts whipping me in the chest with it. He’s tired I can tell. They both are, but it’s not over quite yet.




He’s grunting with every strike.




I’m finding it hard to breathe now.




The skinny little shit is staring down at me uncomfortably. I don’t like the way he looks at me. My head craned back so I’m staring him right in his shit brown eyes.





I choke out as loud as I can. There was hardly any air left in my lungs.

“WOO!!!” yells the skinny fuck, and he lets go of my head which drops to my chest.

I catch my breath for a moment as the skinny one unties my hands from the chair.

“Good session guys” I pant, getting up from the chair

“You sure can take a beating. That was nearly 35 minutes!” John says as he puts his belt back on.

Billy laughs a backwoods laugh, “Yessir! Usually, folks come down here for, ugh, other services, but we is happy to do whatever it takes sir.”

I shoot Bowl Chest Billy an awkward look when he says this, “I don’t get off on this guys. It just clears my mind and relieves stress from the job.” My wrists are red and burning as I put my shirt back on, “It helps me focus.”

“Oh sure sir!” exclaims Billy with a big brown-toothed smile. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. Little fucker… probably thought that fold in my jeans was a big fat boner. Sick fuck.

I take out my wallet from my back pocket and hand a few hundred bucks to John. I don’t want Billy trying to take it from me with his ass cheeks or some shit. Fuckin' sicko.

“Thanks,” John says calmly as he counts the money. I like John.

“Yessir! We hope we can see you again soon Detective Vallen.”

I smiled a bloody smile at both of them. Mostly at John.

“I’m sure I’ll be back gentlemen! And just Vallen is fine when I’m here as a customer. Thanks again.”

With that, I turned, opened the door and stepped out. As I’m walking away I feel light, relieved, and excited all at once. They may be a couple of sickos but they are good at their work.

There’s that awkward wrinkle in my jeans again.

How does it work?
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Davyd LaPonsie

Davyd is a writer from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He writes stylistic flash fiction, dark and theme driven poetry, and new age/ edgy short stories that focus on deep characters with strong personalities and unique quirks. 

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