The Comeuppance Cometh
Chapter 25
Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras in French, was the traditional name for the day before Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. While the fun and frivolity continued apace, it was also a solemn, serious day to the devout. Many Christians took part in the Sacrament of Confession on the day, when priests heard confessions, assigned penance and forgave the sins of the penitent. All of the churches were open for business for those who’d sinned the past few days, through debaucheries, gluttonies, drunkenness or other youthful indiscretions. As a practical matter, it was a good time to cleanse the soul for another year. God, the biggest sin eater in the universe, would work his magic once again.
It was dusk and the working streetlights began turning on throughout the city. Some of the houses lit candles and placed them in front windows. There had been few serious incidents reported and the authorities were relieved. Carnival was almost over and they began to relax. The many gendarmes still present did the same. Some had let down their hair and guards by eating and drinking on duty. No matter, it was carnival and to be enjoyed!
I then saw him and couldn’t believe my eyes. He was walking with others along the parade route, sans costume. And it wasn’t his doppelganger. No, it was Jacques in the flesh. Damn, he’d returned from dead! Others noticed him as well, pointing fingers and whispering among themselves. They kept a safe distance away from him, fearing he might be contagious, possessed and didn’t want the same fate. He was a dead man walking, a zombie!
But how could it be? I’d checked his breathing and pulse. They were both absent. I simply couldn’t figure out the trick, it was illogical and medically impossible. Maybe there was something mystical and magical about this voodoo stuff. In any case, Mama Mambo now had tremendous bragging rights. Her feat and fame would quickly spread throughout the entire country in a matter of days. She’d be an outsized rock star!
I decided to walk back to my hotel and have dinner alone. Frank was busy, but I’d never question him about his whereabouts. After all, I could now fully trust him to look after my back and best interests. He’d saved my life and I’d forever be indebted. In his case, payback wouldn’t be a bitch. It’d be a very appreciative Dick!
***
Desmond was walking tall in his costume and stilts. His Batman shtick was pretty good for a deformed dwarf. He had no difficulty wending his way through the crowd and taking in the night’s many sights. From his lofty perch, he felt on top of the world. He no longer had to stare at navels and belt buckles, at least not tonight. He mingled above them all for a glorious, short time and was happy. However, his Mama had stayed home, avoiding the celebration for the most part. He didn’t know why, but suspected she didn’t want to be seen in public after all the negative media attention.
***
Even in costume, she couldn’t be missed. No, that would be too embarrassing. It might be too dangerous for her health as well. She was keeping a low profile and staying under the radar. If she left her bolt hole, she might be whacked like a mole. That couldn’t happen because she wasn’t finished with the miserable prick Dick Avery. And she blamed Desmond for screwing things up. She thought best to let things blow over and then take another shot at Monsieur Avery. Don’t send a boy out on a man’s job. She liked the old expression and she’d now man-up and bring Dick down herself!
However, she’d scale back the number of assaults on the U.S. mission’s Haitian staff, but not stop them. Oh no, she’d brokered the deal with the Cubans and there was still money left on the table. And she wanted to collect her rightful share.
***
Jean-Claude dressed as Frankenstein. That’s what he felt like, a freak without hands. He walked around like a zombie, holding out his arms and groaning. The groaning was heartfelt. His new hands were covered by the long sleeves of his costume so his shame was hidden.
One of his friends pointed out the Poison Dwarf towering above all others in the procession marching around Champ de Mars square. He was an easy mark to spot. Jean-Claude took a position inside the entrance to a little used alleyway and waited. He had all the time in the world, but Desmond didn’t. Not if he had his way.
But how would he lure him into the alley? He’d already worked out that part of the plan and more. His friend would be the bait. She was a very attractive young lady wearing a very skimpy costume that left little to one’s imagination. She’d seductively wriggle and writhe around Desmond and beckon him to follow her. Sexual innuendo and teasing were traditional elements of the celebration. Maybe more, if one got lucky. And that was what Desmond hoped when he spotted her.
Desmond stiffly walked into the alley and then it happened, suddenly and without warning. Jean-Claude quickly cut down Desmond to size with a sweeping hook of his right hand, the prosthetic one replaced by an actual hook. He immediately fell off his stilts to the ground and cried out in pain. It would be his last sound and hurrah in this life. Jean-Claude brought the hook to his throat and slashed his larynx so he couldn’t yell for help. It wasn’t enough to kill, only quiet him while he went about his work.
His friend served as lookout and would warn Jean-Claude if someone entered the alley before he was finished. It wasn’t likely, but in the off-chance someone entered, he would pretend to be drunk, a more common experience than a seduction: just a couple more falling-down, drunken revelers. And Desmond wouldn’t say a word in disagreement.
Jean-Claude removed his mask and Desmond shuttered, immediately recognizing his victim.
“Remember me, remember my hands? I think you do. Well, now it’s my turn to inflict pain and agony, you grotesque monster!”
With that, Jean-Claude showed him his other hand, the one now fitted with a nasty looking, metal claw. Desmond’s eyes widened, anticipating what might come next. And what came next wasn’t pleasant, at least for him.
“You have defiled my body and scarred my soul. It’s now time for you to suffer for what you’ve done to me. Don’t worry. It won’t be quick or painless. I’ve waited a long time to get my revenge and I want to savor every second. And it will be sweet.”
Jean-Claude then placed the clawed hand to the costume and ripped it open, exposing Desmond’s torso. He was now in shock, sweating with labored breathing. OK, get this damn thing over, he thought. But that was not to be, at least quickly and that was Jean-Claude’s desire. Make the bastard suffer like he did.
“Maybe your voodoo can save you, but I don’t think so. You’re mine and I’ll do as I wish with you.”
The back and forth of the claw across the skin of his chest made hatch marks, nothing too deep, but they bled profusely and Desmond tried to move away from his captor, but to no avail. His assailant had straddled his legs so he couldn’t move.
Next, Jean-Claude inserted the hooked hand into the underbelly and ripped upward. It had to be excruciating pain, although Desmond was unable to express an opinion, one way or the other. The viscera were exposed and Jean-Claude went to work, pulling the small intestines from below the stomach and piling them on Desmond’s chest. He looked down at his chest and was aghast, terrified at what he glimpsed. He was still conscious, but hoped he’d pass out soon to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness that might come. He really didn’t appreciate pain, unless he was on the giving end.
Desmond knew he didn’t have long to live. He didn’t believe in any religion or their gods. At best, he was an agnostic, an atheist without balls, as he’d read some place or another. He accepted his fate and wished for a swift ending, but that wouldn’t happen. More pain was to come.
Jean–Claude applied the claw to his scrotum and pulled upward, cleanly separating his testicle sac from the groin. It would be a gift to Mama Mambo, one she’d understand and rail against. Her son had been castrated. And she’d be next on the list for retribution. Jean-Claude had no remorse whatsoever for what he’d done. He only looked forward to doing something similar to Desmond’s mother, The Voodoo Queen of Port-au-Prince. Only then would his rage subside and he could soothe the angry demons which occupied his thoughts and dreams.
He inserted the hook into Desmond’s rectum and pulled with all his strength. It was the final insult to an already traumatized body. He would soon bleed out and die from the trauma. Jean-Claude finally felt vindicated. He felt alive!
Maybe now, they could both rest in peace.