Licking His Psychic Wounds
Chapter 12
Jean-Claude had plenty of time to think about revenge while in the hospital’s psych ward. Maybe he was crazy after all, believing he could exact a pound of flesh from those who tortured and mutilated him. But that was the obsessive, unerring thought that kept running through his troubled mind during his waking hours. His sleeping ones were filled with nightmares of what he experienced at the hands of his tormentors. He woke up every morning in a cold sweat, sans hands. It was to be a constant reminder of what he’d endured at their treacherous ones.
Bad news traveled fast in Port-au-Prince, good news was less swift and frequent. Jungle drums had been replaced by virulent gossip over the years and everybody knew everybody’s business. The overly ripe grapevine conveyed the juiciest, most salacious and often inaccurate news imaginable.
His employer already knew of his situation and had started the paperwork for a disability pension from the Social Security Administration on his behalf. Until received, he’d remain on extended sick leave. That was the only good news that Jean-Claude could think of at the moment. But maybe, just maybe, he’d get his just desserts soon. But those would only follow the main course for what he had in mind.
He decided to room with a friend instead of returning to his family. He didn’t believe they’d come after him again because they got what they wanted. He’d no longer be working for the embassy. Still, he had some lingering doubts and a healthy dose of paranoia. So he’d stay away from home for the sake of his family’s safety.
The prostheses donated by the International Red Cross gave him some feeling of normality. The plastic, ersatz hands were held in place by cups fitted over his stumps. The hands were then screwed into the bases and locked in place. His roommate kindly lent him a helping hand with the fittings. He chuckled at his inadvertent pun, realizing it was the first time he’d laughed since his ordeal. He now referred to his torture as the ordeal. The word was less horrific than what he actually experienced. He tried to block out the vivid memories that haunted his mind, but couldn’t. They always remained with him. Nothing he did seemed to soothe his angst. But his unbridled feeling for revenge might permanently erase the dark memories of that fateful night. He hoped so for his sanity.
His new hands weren’t in the least bit functional, only cosmetic. However, appearance was important to him too. Perhaps there now would be fewer stares or side glances or pointed fingers. Regardless, Jean-Claude was pleased he looked less freakish when he walked about.
It didn’t take long for him to identify his chief tormentor, the grotesque, child-like figure in the voodoo mask. A little leg work and money brought him the name and nickname of Desmond Dumont, the Poison Dwarf. And filling in the rest of the blanks would be easy. Along with a plan, he now had a target.
***
Carnival was his favorite time of the year. The music, the dancing, the undulating crowds, the colorful costumes and overall cacophony of the celebration overwhelmed and delighted his senses. But it was being in disguise that mostly appealed to him. The stilts he wore allowed him to tower over most of the other revelers. For four days each year, he was normal, at least as much as he could be given his disfigurement. Despite appeasing his mother by claiming to be a believer, he cursed Bondye for his misshapen body.
But above all else, Desmond relished the mayhem he’d caused to many of the partiers. If he suffered in life, others would as well. One of his favorite, nasty pranks was to poison the drinks and food of the celebrants. Whether adult or child, it made no difference. He refused to discriminate against people. Anyway, it was all good fun in his twisted mind.
He was very skilled in the dark arts of poisoning, having studied the subject extensively over many years. But his book learning was transplanted by experiments on animals in his early teens. He kept meticulous notes on how long it took for a particular poison to work its deadly wonders. Too much or too little of one of his concoctions resulted in different outcomes, some unintended, others not so much. The weight of an animal played an important role in dosing protocols. He carefully calculated weights and transposed his results to humans, either to make them ill or to kill them. At his mother’s urging, he graduated to secreting poisons into the food or drink of victims who threatened or mocked The Family. And he reveled in his handiwork!
Carnival though was simply a bonus, an opportunity where he could play out his darkest fantasies at will. Watching a victim wreathe on the ground in agony was the fun part. Sometimes the dose was a little too strong and the victim died in the street. No matter, life was cheap in Haiti and people died every day from lesser things. Regardless, Desmond was proud of his craft and accomplishments.