Interrogation

[Graycrash]

“Fuck you…”
Challenged Harry Beningfield in a lazy voice. It had been two hours since the Inspector had captured the sullied old alcoholic, dragging the wretch from his humble abode, a meager collection of metals and scrap torn from the hull of abandoned vehicles. Harry had been unceremoniously bound to a rickety chair that creaked, and, thanks to the interrogation, it had been creaking all through the cold night. Fortunately for the interrogator, the culprit’s mind was beginning to whine like the very piece of flabby wood he was seated upon.

It had been nearly thirty years since Junior Investigator Andrew Robert Turner fell into this dank pit, filled with a watery darkness that fluttered under a pale light; A pale light that spiraled downward, ‘till it could no longer illuminate this hole. Not even dimly. But thirty years is a long time to be spent in hell. ‘Home,’ the Vagrants called it. ‘Home.’

Robert was beginning to see why.

The Inspector removed his glove, a tan, mangled chunk of leather, wrenched off a man he murdered. The pinky section of it was long since missing, but it didn’t matter. Heat was a rare thing several thousand feet underground. A bare fist, white and clenched, hung in the air, tiny depths and folds in the skin adopting their own shadows, with pinches of hair sprinkled against it. Bits of dirt and grime he had collected over the years spotted the knuckles; Painted them. Pale, cerulean capillaries wrapped themselves around his metacarpals, tethered tightly, as if some dead plant was curling its roots up pale pillars of indiscriminate and unruly justice like rotten shades.

It was irritating, really; He had tried his hardest to leave this Home. Andrew really did. His efforts were in vain; Futile, dishonorable, despicable. The World he now unwillingly dwelled in was named ‘Road,’ for reasons that could be plainly seen.

If you were on the surface.

Andrew recalled his first visit to this hole: Highways – Oceans of pavement and asphalt- blanketed empty road. One could ride across them for days, and never see a single building; Never see a single person. Low walls would be your constant companion, bleached white in a sun that never truly sets. Generic yellow lines would blur past your vision, the low hum of the car’s engine keeping you awake while blue clouds fluttered in a red sky, such contrasting colors always causing one’s pupils’ nerves to command the brain to cackle in some eruption of glorious emotional outburst concerning the unfathomable concept of well-being.

If you were on the surface.

Robert diverted his attention back to the flabby little man sitting in the chair. For the first time that dark-solar, he studied the details of his plaything; Thick jowls hung down his cheeks, dragging his eyes down with them. A cliff of bone shadowed those tired retina, and thin, black, unkempt bristles of hair stroked his scalp with a touch lighter than the snow falling around them. However, among all these basic qualities, the Inspector notice one fine detail that intrigued him with firm zest; His bright, amethyst irises enveloped by a pitch black ring of nothing; Darkness. The owner of these dual gems was leaning over the floor, his immolated wrist bounded to the back of the chair by a grubby, narrow length of iron cable he wretch off the corpse of a long dead Angelus. The most unaware of onlookers could clearly observe the deep crimson lashes curling around his sweaty palms in no particular pattern; not caused by his captor, but by his own, failed attempts to pry his hands free of their bonds. His success was laughable; he only managed to draw some speckles of blood from his broken hide.

Robert sighed to waste such a knowledgeable man, as he would be, more than likely, the only other Human he would ever meet in his undeserved penance. Harry’s torturer eased himself into a nearby stool that had always been in the cabin, evidence of his history etched into the shreds of leather still clinging to the corkwood. Andrew could think of no analogue to their presence, and strived to ignore them. He leaned into the wall for a more comfortable view of this ugly lump of flesh bleeding over his flooring. He removed an expensive container of cigars from the inside of his moldy, brown trench-coat, a golden plaque punched into the faded leather, with various designs and glyphs etched about its frame. With a flip and a snatch, an unlit cylinder of lung cancer was removed from its prison. Robert spoke the brass voice of an aged, old man.
   
“You know what I think, Harry?”
   The pathetic excuse for garbage lifted his head up lazily, a bruised and swollen face swimming through the gloom. Dry blood encrusted his lower lip. Robert continued.
   “… I think that you’ve been a good man.” He paused, preparing an expression of inquisition.
   “You’ve sat here for hours and told me all the little tidbits of information that I’ve required. That’s good… That’s good…”
   He shrugged.
   “Sure,” he said, waving around the cigar between his fingers for emphasis, “We’ve his a few bumps in the road, but they were nothing a bit ‘o… cooperation couldn’t handle. You were very unwilling when we began…” 
   Harry merely starred at him, too exhausted to even articulate hatred.
   “You know what I like about you, Harry?” Andrew questioned.
   “You’re a quick learner. I like that. It’s a good trait.”
   Robert paused for a third time, his tone descending into anger.
“Yet, you run around this whole damn World, eating any fucking little bird that has ever told any fuck anything about everything.”
   He flicked his wrist towards his victim.
   “… That makes you quite the prize.”
   The Inspector could tell that the lapses in his speech where beginning to grind away what little was left of the Harry’s sanity. A grim smile crept up Andrew’s features, but he did nothing to stop it.
   “For your efforts, I think you deserve a reward.”
   Harry’s eyes widened in despair, but this time it was different. In such commerce, such implications almost always meant certain doom. Robert noticed this, and leaned forward. He was practically breathing on the little hostage’s skin now, adding unnecessary moisture to an already cold brow, dampened by fear’s soft kiss.
   “However, I’m running a rather important business here, as you know, and there’s one little question you’ve hedged and evaded all night.”
   The word “all” was drawn out and the interrogator’s teeth clacked together as he pronounced “night.” Robert continued.
   “You’re en-league with a very powerful group of individuals. You know the ones…”
   His disturbingly cheerful smile faded, leaving behind an indifferent footprint.
   “The Merchants… The Burgundy Merchants! That’s it…”
   The fingers of his free hand snapped in approval to his discovery. He paused.
   “They have been redirecting anti-freeze into their reservoir for awhile. Now, these bastards found their plan to be so ingenious, so subtle, that they thought we wouldn’t notice the slight drop in supply.”
   He gestured to himself, cigar still in hand.
   “I bet you’re wondering, “How did this sick fuck find out?””
   He paused.
   “… Let’s just say… A Little Birdie told me.”
   Harry averted his glaze in disbelief.
   “Now, what I want from you is just a few more facts; A single question to squeeze that last sliver of words from your mouth.”
   A soiled finger signified his request.
   “Just one,” Harry thought. Andrew leaned in closer, his nose mere centimeters from the sufferer’s cheek. The subjugator could smell the heavy musk of blood, sweat, and tears; a salty, mechanical odor that drove some innate, primal instinct within the bowels of this inquisitor’s black soul, a certain sagacity of materialism that made his job ever-so slightly easier. He reveled in the disgusting ecstasy ignited within him.
   “I need to know the combination of pipes they’ve altered, so that we may redirect them into a more local source… Keep a more watchful eye on our possessions, y’know?”
   The speaker’s tone was almost friendly now. Harry retained his silence, though. Unusual, considering his fiery and arrogant personality.

“Hm. I think I’ve broken him,” Andrew thought. That wasn’t his original intention; Thoughts of suicide where going through his unstable participant’s mind at this moment, and a desperate man was one to fear. Quickly, Robert continued his prepared speech.
   “Tell me what pipes have been moved.”
   Harry didn’t answer. Robert repeated himself, his voice elevated in volume.
   “Tell me, Harry, what pipes have been moved.”
   Silence.
   “Harry, you’re a supervisor; You know what I’m talking about.”
   Through his dialect, Andrew rose from his seat, his unhygienic palms supporting his body on the knees of bent legs. The subjugator stared at his kiosk of information for some duration; all the while, Harry remained silent. Golden eyes stared at lavender, the perpetrator’s eyes wandering about in a loose rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. Harry was thinking. Andrew was listening.

Harry wasn’t talking.

“Tell me what fucking pipes have been moved!”
Andrew’s voice rattled the still dust that had accumulated between the two, his fist clenched as his rage surged throughout his form. Suddenly, even before Andrew had finished his thunderous command, seemingly random letters and numbers began to flow from the lips of Harry Beningfield like water from a broken dam: One through Nine, A through B; Every possible amalgamation of literary characters and numeral symbols. But Andrew had shattered the mental barrier that had been forged into his repulsive mind by the Art; the whimsical phrases and codes hammered into his memory by strict discipline and subtle implications. The mallet: shadows of intentions and whispers of uncertainty. The hand: Monsters posing as Men.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Don't ask. I was suppose to advance this, but never did. The original name of the little universe I created (Though, absent here.) was called "Pistolwhip." However, I felt that the lack of structure didn't deserve a label.