The Claw

The older man was buried in thought.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said the younger man, scratching an inflamed patch on his neck.
“Oh, sorry, I was lost there. Could you repeat the question?” came a voice from the back of the plain white panel van. He moved out of the shadows. The younger man responded with revulsion which he attempted to disguise. There was something uncanny about the older man, who wore a thick uncombed beard and had pale blue eyes that seemed to be floating in a sea of glue.

“I just wanted to know what you were, I mean, w-what you were…”
“What we’re doing here?”
“Yeah.”
“We have orders. Targeting, usual protocol.” He patted his laptop, which was attached to a 17 inch monitor that showed an infra-green 3D portrait of the subject’s body, tracked in real time, with a cross-section of their brain highlighting the parietal and temporal lobes.

“Soo basically what we’re doing…” the older man scratched his own neck, fished in his pocket for a cigarette, found a sole Marlboro Red and fired it up with a silver Deadhead Zippo. “We’re using the old Raven’s Claw to pulverize the subject’s brain. Slow cooking. We can fry them deep and they’ll never be able to track the beams back. The entire idea is to cause the subject to completely despair after incurring massive brain damage from no known source.”

The young man had heard all this information recounted countless times, but he asked every night nevertheless, like a child anxious to hear his favorite bedtime story.
“This man must have done some fucked up shit to merit…extrajudicial punishment,” he managed, struggling to enunciate the syllables.

“Yeah, not really,” said the older man.
“What do you mean, ‘not really?'” Again, the younger man had heard this too recounted countless times; it just amazed him that he was playing a vital role in the 24 hour government sponsored torture and mutilation of a U.S. citizen who, as far as he could tell, was really innocent of any crime whatsoever.

“He’s on the list, that’s all we need to know.”
The audio feed clicked on. The two men simultaneously started as the target first groaned, then screamed into the void.
“Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!”
On the screen, a trickle of tears down his beautiful face.
“He must have done SOMETHING wrong,” said the younger man again, seeking assurance.

“Not really,” said the older man, letting out a wet fart.
“So, he’s been accused of crimes he didn’t commit, and our job is to ensure that he eventually succumbs to his injuries and attempts suicide?”
“Yuppers.”
“It’s so cruel, it’s almost…sublime.”

“Fucking A right, like some Marquis De Sade shit. Do you wanna do some crank?” The older man thumbed the volume on the speakers, muting the shrieks.
“Yeah, ok, it’s the good shit you got from that chick in West Sac, right?”

“Fucking A right.”
“So what’s going to happen to his mom and dad, in their 80s, with no one to take care of them after he finally commits?”
“You know the answer.”
“I do?”

“Yeah you do. Shit, his old man will have a heart attack, his mom will die of a broken heart. They’ll look at our dude’s Kaiser Permanente record and write him off as a head case. The man will be instantly forgotten, his memory erased like tears in the rain.”

“Ya know, this shit is really bumming me out.”
“Then let’s talk about his bereft, super hot girlfriend who will be left vulnerable and in need of..comforting, shall we say.”
“Yes, let’s.”‘