The straps only get tighter.
You ready?
Ready in two.
It’s for his own protection. It’s hard to talk with the restraints around his jaw. Last time round in this contraption, he nearly bit his own tongue clean off.
Jst gt n wth t, mthrfckr.
The red light on the camera blinks in disbelief, and then it begins.
SILK-LINED COFFIN PRODUCTS
present
SURFING AGONY
Ice ricochets through his veins. He smells something burning, most likely hair. They always shave before they start, but when the nerves are playing pinball with your fingers you always miss a bit here or there, and then they start to fizzle when the switches drop. One of the other voices says,
He’s burning.
Leave him.
He’s lost in a country below the country he came from, where their sort of sport is prohibited. People still watch them in the country he came from. You can’t stop people watching, not unless you want to become like those other countries, countries where people aren’t allowed to watch what they want. Because in that sort of country, that sort of sport is… well, it’s safe to say that the sport has been perfected here. So they exercise due caution, but there are always stray patches of hair smoldering here and there.
Did he say something?
I didn’t hear anything.
The fucking cable hum is killing the audio on this one.
It’s amazing how many thoughts you can fit into such a short space of time. Each of them has something different to get them through. G-Jax counts and ranks the women he’s fucked. Hallo Gritty recites proofs for irrational numbers under her breath. Firebreathing pictures himself beating his ex-boyfriend to a pulp. Nobody said they were a healthy bunch. Continue reading →