Max Preece was feeling very satisfied with himself; just a few more steps and Julia Wilmot’s investment accounts, offshore holdings, and the trust properties would be his; drugging the old bitch and keeping her topped up with gin and illegally-obtained Oxycodone meant she was completely tractable and just about ready to sign anything he put in front of her; her dimwit, army-minded oaf of a son wasting money on that derelict hovel was too stupid to work out what was going on, all he cared about was trying to turn that sow’s ear into a silk purse, and that hottie daughter of hers? He was going to fuck her whether she wanted it or not; there was more Oxycodone on tap, and he didn’t care how much he fed the hot little bitch as long as it kept her quiet while he fucked the shit out of her.
Dreaming pleasant dream like these, in a warm haze of self-praise and fine scotch, he was rudely awakened when he was grabbed by his lank hair and hauled upright, his eyes slamming open to look into the rage-filled eyes of Tyler Wilmot, Julia’s huge, “army-minded oaf” of a son, and he suddenly didn’t look at all simple or dim-witted, he looked tooled-up and scary…
*****
Getting into the house was easy; I’d worked out half a dozen routes to sneak unseen in and out of the house by the time I was twelve; doing it quietly so as not to tip off that little slimebag was a little harder, but at the end of the day it’s my house, left to me in my father’s will, part of the Wilmot legacy, and if I wanted to burst in there with a Mardi Gras parade, a clown car and a brass band I had every right to, but right then I wanted to give that slime the scare of his life.
Obviously that creepy little fuck had forgotten it was my house, not his, to judge by the happy look of placid joy on his toady little face as he made himself free with MY furniture. When I yanked him upright and shocked him out of his little world, I actually think he shit himself…
“Hello Max!” I grinned, watching fear turn to terror as he saw Georgy and her incipient black eye and split lip.
“I hear you like hitting women,” I purred; “Georgy says you hit her, and I just wiped a ton of concealer off my mother’s face, and guess what? Someone’s been hitting her too. Do you know who it was? Come on Maxie, you can be honest with me, do you know who repeatedly punched my drugged mother in the face?”
He opened his mouth, and I assumed he was going to lie, so I hauled off and slammed a right into his left eye, snapping his head back. I work out, I weighed at least forty pounds more than that slobbering gut-bucket, all heft, not an ounce of spare fat anywhere, and I’m fit, military fit, not gym-fit, and not at all soft and paunchy and blubbery and disgustingly out of shape.
Being stiff-armed by me, with all my weight and anger behind it, must have felt like he’d been sledge-hammered. He literally went out of focus. I swear I hit him so hard it momentarily separated his astral body from his real one as he squealed like a stuck hog.
“Shall we try again, Maxie?” I gritted, and when he opened his mouth I just assumed he was going to lie again, so I punched him again, this time a stiff shot to his bulging belly, hauled him back upright again by his lank, thinning hair, and stood back and kicked him in the balls just as hard as I could, like a soccer forward taking a penalty, my instep driving my builder’s boot up into his crotch and pulverising his nuts. His shriek of agony as he stretched up on his toes was music to my ears, but I wasn’t finished; I hadn’t even got started yet…
I grabbed him by his throat and held him upright against his buckling knees.
“You’re a thief, and a prick, and a woman-beater, and a crooked, lying, spineless, creepy little dog-fart, Maxie, and I’m taking my family back, have you got that, Maxie?”
Once again I just naturally assumed the bubbling, whining noises were him lying to me, so he got another shot in his blubbery gut that came from down near my knees and a looping right hook to the side of his face that caved in his cheekbone and sent him flying, just missing the open fire, which was more by luck than judgement, I have to admit, but he wasn’t paying attention.
I think he’d just realised what happens to people who lay hands on the women in my family, and the spreading stain on the front of his Armani suit trousers, paid for, I have no doubt, with my mother’s money, gave testimony to his state of mind at that point.
As he was lying there I reasoned ‘why not?’ and kicked his short ribs hard enough to snap them and make them float free. His scream of agony was music to my ears.
Grabbing him and hauling him upright once again by his lank hair, in agony be damned, until he faced me, I slapped him (none too gently, I have to admit) to focus him on my words.
“Hey, don’t fall down, you little monkey’s tit, we’re not finished yet; you’ve been hurting my family, living it up in MY house, making free with MY possessions, drinking MY father’s very valuable vintage scotch, which, by the way, is much too good for a slimy little shit-goblin like you, spending MY mother’s money willy-nilly, throwing your weight around with MY family, and generally acting like lord of the fucking manor. Uh-uh, big no-no; this is MY manor, and I don’t like that, Maxie, I don’t like that at all; in fact, it offends me deeply, and do you know what I do to things that offend me deeply, Maxie?”
He stared at me with his watery, streaming eyes like a deer in the headlights, agony writ large all over his pasty, doughy face.
“I erase them, you worthless little turd, so what I’m going to do, I’m going to call the police, and you’ll sit your fat, flabby arse there on the ground, not stinking-up my furniture, or I’ll snap your worthless neck and call it an accident. When the law gets here Georgy’s going to swear up and down you assaulted her and tried to rape her. They’ll see and take pictures of her injuries, and my mother’s injuries, which I know weren’t there two days ago, find the drugs you’ve been feeding her, put two and two together, and beat the shit out of you in a locked cell somewhere no-one can hear you beg. When you’ve finished confessing to everything they can throw at you, and you WILL, you’ll go to jail for a long, long time, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, you disgusting, arse-crawling, scabby little dog’s turd.”
Max stared at me in horror as I told him what came next.
“Some of my men went into the Prison Service and some of them went into the police when they came out of the army, they tell me stuff, like what goes on inside the cells when the lights go off, especially to poxy little vermin like you, and guess what? I’m going to have them keep a very special eye out for you, just so they know what to do with you when you show up, and arrange for the very best people to welcome you. My men know and like my mum, they respect her and what she stands for, most of them have sat at that table right there and had dinner with her at one time or another, and they’re not going to like what you did to her one little bit.”
Max’s eyes bugged out as my grip around his flabby throat tightened.
“They tell me sweaty little fat fucks like you are a favourite late-night treat in the lockup, did you know that? They like all that blubber to hang on to while they jam you like a blow-up doll; I just know you’re going to be belle of the ball, Maxie. They’re going to love gang-banging the crap out of you, oh you’ll be so popular, and best of all, no-one will lift a finger to stop it; they’ll be queuing up for their turn.”
I loved the look of horror in his eyes, but wait: it was going to get better.
“By the time they’re done with you they’ll be able to slide a fucking howitzer up your sloppy arsehole. Isn’t that a comforting thought, Maxie? Just think, you’ll finally be popular; so many wonderful people are going to want to be your friend, then fuck the shit out of you, isn’t that nice? I hear they smack you in the face so hard your lips swell up, because that looks so hot when you’re sucking their cocks, and make you wear lipstick made from boiled Tango so you’re pretty enough to fuck like a Saigon whore.
Before I call the police, though, I might just beat the cowboy shit out of you; call it a going-away present from the family…”
I knew the court would hand him a relatively light sentence in some cupcake white-collar holiday resort masquerading as a prison, and that he’d probably only serve a third of it anyway, so I wanted to impress on him that retribution comes in many forms, and my way was a lot more painful and memorable than the law allowed for.
Now he knew I also had ways of keeping track of him, and anything I didn’t like, or if I felt it was time to ratchet-it up a notch or two, well, we’d be having another conversation…