Hearing Voices

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A chapter selected from the Audio Book, 'Hearing Voices' by Axel Cruise.

Vocal Characteristics



Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)


North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) Russian


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
29 the gruesome twosome burst into the room. They were clutching their rifles with both hands and kept moving their heads back and forth. Between Isabel and me. We just stared at them. Eventually, their brains finished processing the zero situation, and they shuffled around my chair and took up position behind me. One over my left shoulder, the other over my right. They were still breathing hard. The door was directly opposite me. It was standing open in a trap is owed of light beamed onto the floor. It was a dim sewer. Green color in a long shadow was cast on top of it by the figure standing in the doorway. It was a man. He was wearing a full length black coat and heavy boots. He was carrying a mid sized briefcase in his right hand. He was older than his henchman by a couple of decades, but was in much better physical shape. He was strong and lean and clearly the brains of this operation. He stood silently in the doorway, staring into the room. The eerie light from the tunnel lit him up from behind in the shadow covered me completely. He crossed the threshold. And then we were five. He turned the light on. I glanced up at the ceiling. There was a fluorescent tube mounted right above me. It was old and dirty and admitted a dull white glow. But that was more than enough to illuminate the chamber, which was completely gray. We were in nothing more than a subterranean concrete box. I saw Isabel in full color. The chains on her arms were sick and bolted into the wall behind her. Seven more sets. The chains were likewise bolted all the way down the same wall. To my left, Isabel was sitting calmly against it. Her eyes swept across the room. She wasn't worried. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee were still behind me. They were about three feet back for me. Still breathing hard, still totally incompetent. The door slammed shut. I looked across at the man in the black coat. He took a couple of paces toward me and then stopped. He stared down at me for about a minute, then turned away and put his briefcase on top of a long wooden table that was pushed up against the wall. To my right, he flicked the locks open lifted the lid and looked over the contents. Then he glanced back at me and smiled. See, I said, Now there's a face for radio, the male voice said. I can't believe he actually caught up to us. The man skin was the color of John Dis. It was all leathery, increased like an old catcher's mitt. He was completely bald in. His head was covered in scar tissue. A particularly deep scar cut diagonally across his lips, distorting his smile like a Picasso. I had met this man Vlad, five years ago. It was a brief acquaintance, to be sure. Less than five seconds, in fact, and one in which no more than four words had ever been exchanged between us. But despite all that, the interaction had in no doubt ruined him. He turned back to the briefcase. His hand began dipping in and out of it, moving back and forth across the table. As he said it, he proceeded to do this in silence Every now and then, stopping to glance back and grin at me. The male voice said. Oh, yeah, he's really enjoying this. Can you blame him? Isabel was watching. Glad intently, he continued to dispense the briefcases contents until finally, 30 metallic implements of various shapes and sizes rested atop the old piece of wood. They were all surgical in nature, and they were all pristinely sharp, perfectly arranged in three rows of 10 each one ranked specifically according to cutting depth. Vlad was, among other things, ah, fully licensed surgeon and a first class forensic anthropologist. And although originally from Ukraine, he had once been one of Russia's finest interrogators. But Flat was a modest man. Two. He didn't care for fine clothes or any of the flash, brash and crass that hes it adored. Vlad had simple interests. His work was his passion. He loved it. And that wasn't a good thing. If you sat where I waas, Vlad took two final things out of the briefcase. Ah, hammer in a stack of old cloth, he laid the hammer to the left of the three rows, perfectly straightened vertically. Flush with them, he put the cloth in one of the corners. Then he closed the briefcase and put it down on the floor under the table, out of the way, then keeping us back to me and his gaze on the equipment he had laid out. He took a deep breath and wiped his hands slowly over his head, his fingertips pushed backward from his forehead. Spreading out slightly is, though, running through hair, reaching all the way to the back of his skull, which was covered in scar tissue. His fingers lingered on the rigid skin. I figured he was remembering exactly why he needed to relish this moment, he said. In the ability showcased Year did not shy steer pomelo. He was still looking down at the table. His voice was calm, but his fingers were pressing hard into his head. Nobody said anything. The handcuffs were digging into my skin. My joints were beginning to burn. Vlad turned to face me. A jagged half smile crinkled up on his face. Nebula, be shy. Steer the Nash Ice T a poem. Uglow, he said. Again. His accent was thick in heavy, roughly translated. He was saying I'd have no luck if not for misfortune. It was an idiom similar to what Lightnin Slim, Albert King and Ray trials had cried out about in years past. But Vlad meant it to convey his realization of a blessing in disguise for example, Glad said, switching to English in order to accommodate Isabel but keeping his focus squarely on me. It would seem like such unfortunate ality that Dema was killed today inlay it just hours later, The Universal restores balance by giving you in return, I stared back, unimpressed. You know that unfortunate ality is in a word, right? Vlad didn't reply. His hands just crushed into fists. Set asides. The female voice said. Yeah, sure Make him more mad. That's just what we need. Vlad turned back to the table and took off his coat. He folded it up and put it on top of his suitcase. Then he walked back to me, cracking his neck side to side and rolling up his shirt sleeves. More scars revealed themselves. Long is in her forearms. They were long and thick and gnarly and reminded me of Sofia's veins, Vlad said. Isaac Blaze. I gave him a bashful look named robber. He punched his right fist into his left palm and started cracking his knuckles. This will be and immense pleasure for me, he said. That's great, but any chance we can speed this up? I've got a plane to catch. Vlad switched hands and kept cracking knuckles. He was standing just a few feet to my right. His eyes were blazing and I could see him doing everything in his power to hold back his furious anger, he had to restrain himself. If he gave in now, he'd never get out what he had to say. He said. Who is this man? I said nothing. Vlad grinned again and then rushed at me, leaning down and shoving his head right in my face and sniffing me like a rabid dog. It is a question that has plagued me ever since that they, he said. I leaned away to my left, squinting, my right eye closed as his live a hit my cheek. Vlad lingered in my face, growling, fighting the urge. He had to restrain himself. He stood back up and stepped away again. But they have come to realize I was wrong, he said. The question should not be who it should be. What? I blew out my cheeks, the male voice said. Oh boy, Here comes the monologue. It is an odd thing, Toby, a torturer. Glad said, because you start is the devil and you finish as a priest exchanged a look with Isabel. Glad began to pace around my chair. I learned my trade quickly, he said. And for over 30 years I have practiced and hold it. But even before my first year was up, I had begun to develop a sharp sense for discerning truth, for knowing exactly when a person had nothing left to give I side. I'm not gonna have time to get one of those giant Toblerone xem. I flat stopped behind me and slapped his right hand onto my left shoulder. He squeezed hard. I felt his fingernails dig into my skin through my shirt. It seemed I had a talent, he said. Yes, I was quite gifted, in fact, and the better I became, the more I learned. He let go of my shoulder and walked around in front of me again. He looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes and brought something to memory. He said Hope is, in reality, the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of men. I exchanged another look with Isabel Flat looked back down at me. You know this quote? He asked. It's Nietzsche and he was right. Hope, courage love, faith. They're nothing. They just prolong the pain. This is a truth I see for myself. Many times before those who believe they suffered the most. He looked at the table in, gestured with his hand. I have 30 tools of confession, the three rows, I call them. And you know where most people achieve absolution. I Iand is it number one? Number four, he said. In 30 years, that has been all it takes. Only a rare few have needed number five, and only one man has ever surpassed that. He was very special, truly exceptional. But even he only made it to number eight in 30 years. Never has anybody going to past the first throw. Never. He paused, and he gritted his teeth and looked at me, and then 36 of them did.