Fiction Novel/ several Characters
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) Spanish (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Malcolm, Mother ******* idiot. I hiss out letting the steel door behind me slam shut. My head is throbbing muscles coiling as the urge to break the neck of the piece of ****. Aaron boy, my father asked me to hire runs deep iron flows like lava through my veins. And I need to get a hold of myself. Rash emotions lead to stupid decisions. Errors like the one I now need to eliminate. It was a mistake. And I know better than to ever mix familial ties with business decisions. Nevertheless, I gave in when asked, and here we ******* are. Millions could have been lost. Charges would have been pressed. Now I'm left with no choice but to right a wrong that never should have been. The feds are now looking into the Jamison family and its ties to the dealing of stolen weaponry in narcotics. Because of a simple **** up, something someone heard come out of Michael. A person under my employees. I'm making every tidbit of information on the Jamison account disappear. Nothing stays on that file. Not so much as a single cent. My I T department is making it as if they never existed. Moreover, in this country they don't a few steps inside, in the harsh scent of urine and perspiration invades my senses. My nose flares and discussed as I look toward the back, skipping over the three empty cells and focus on the two near naked men with their hands tied to a metal pipeline above their heads. Their feet are chained to the ground, limiting their movement. They're the cause, and I am the effect. Decisions have consequences, Repercussions rectification is that will appease the victims of their idiocy. One spoke about things he doesn't understand, while the other tried to bribe the hand that feeds demanded that I kneel or else because of that. Tonight I am their judge, jury and executioner. The god. Each one will beg forgiveness, too. Good evening. At the sound of my voice, one of the men looks up in his eyes, widen His bare chest is heaving with each rapid intake of air that does nothing to calm his nerves. Instead, his eyes locked with mine while a Quimper leaves his split lip. His fear is palpable and it fails to move me mother ******* pathetic. You knew better. My eyes flicker to the other man and take account of the few bruises already forming on his face. He seems to be muttering a low prayer under his breath, tears running down his cheeks while his eyes looked toward the wall passed me, avoiding his reality. No begging, no pleading for leniency. They're smarter than I expect. No better. Nothing pisses me off more than someone who can't accept their fate with dignity. Evening, boss, everyone answers a low rumble that reverberates off the walls. Unlike other men in my position, I don't wait for my clean up crew to arrive. Instead, they stand at the ready, wearing protective gear and white masks, their faces air bowed, arms behind their back says. I passed them on my way toward the two men who have caused me this unnecessary headache. Any problem getting them here? I asked cover here, the head of my security and right hand man. None. He's watching the to squirm, smirking as he hands me my favorite knife. Thank you. Taking it from his hand, I flick my wrist and admire the sleek blade. This small token came from my father the day I took over a sharp blade with a solid gold handle, the exact replica of the one he kept inside his desk upstairs when he was the CEO of Asher Holdings, back when the bank played a smaller part in the underground world of money laundering of phone rings, and Javi Air is quick to remove it from his pocket. I recognize it and know it belongs to the gossiping **** Both men see soul movement, their eyes on me as I accept the phone from hobbies outstretched hand. I know who it is. I know what he'll say. Pressing the green button, I put the call on speakerphone and wait. Silence looms, and the harsh breathing on the other end comes from a man I still admire, someone who should have taught his son a few lessons early on. What is your decision? Malcolm? Straight to the point, his tone not showing his true emotions. What do you want it to be? I toss back, walking slowly over to a son, a son that reeks of fear and his own ****, who couldn't keep his mouth shut after I gave him the opportunity to work for me, work his way up the ranks. Family is the most. At My Godfather's lame attempt, I laugh. It's harsh and sardonic, causing another scared whimper to leave the men save that sanctimonious drivel for someone who buys it. Henry. We both know it's ********, agreed. But he is my only son, that I can understand the need for a man to have a male heir, someone to take over. Spare him, and I'll pay for the damages myself by the forgiveness of your client. What else? I take the few remaining steps between myself and Michael, his son, his eyes air on mine, throat bobbing as words fail to escape. True fear has a way of paralyzing people. Then their basic motor functions become non existent because you'll be paying me every last sentence either way. What do you want? Blood? My reply is automatic, and so is my hand. As I lash out, cutting a jagged line down Michael's forearm, hiss scream curls around the room, penetrates every square inch and then breaks his father's heart at once. My lips stretch into a wide smile is a soothing calmness, settles over my limbs. They're pain brings peace beside him, the wannabe blackmailer fights against his bindings. He winces but doesn't stop moving as the steel around the wrist cuts the skin there. This is a mistake. Please. I'll never say another word about Javier air backhands and with the butt of his gun. Silence. Malcolm, Please don't do this to our family. Henry's voice rings through cutting off the pathetic pleading of a son's friend, same low life punk that thought he could blackmail me. Discipline them. But don't kill my son. I've learned my lesson, Michael adds face tight with pain. I'll do whatever you want. Fix this. But please, no more interesting blood flows from the wound dripping down and onto the concrete floor. It pools near the centre follows the small slope down and into the drain. I had the foresight to add into the room's design when I remodeled the bank. This is the lowest floor, two below what the actual building plan show. Okay, once more, I punish him, this time, sinking the blade of my knife deep into his thigh. My fingers manipulate the steel tip, twisting it as I tear through muscle crimson splatters all over my white shirt, ruining another garment. Michael subs turned into a loud scream as I pull the knife from us flesh, he rides, bowing as he tries to move away from me in the background. I hear his father's outrage revel in his pleading, but it's still not enough. I want more, more blood, more destruction, more compensation for my time. Within my rage, there was also the compulsion to teach this boy a lesson he will never forget. Prevent him from ever doing this again. Save his family. Both the embarrassment. End grief, untie him heavier and bring over a chair, I instruct, taking a few steps forward and over to the other man, a man who is currently giving into his panic that fight or flight response that is coated deep into our d. N. A. That helps people survive disastrous situations. He won't be as lucky. Javi unlocks Michael's handcuffs and lets him fall to the floor. The crumpled bleeding mess, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor follows, and it's loud within this space heightens the anxiety. Get up and sit. Javier Aaron Struck's standing over Michael show some appreciation for Mr Asher's hospitality. A few men in the room chuckle, and I hold a hand up, effectively shutting them up while have ears. Words air Funny. Now is not the time to give in to amusement