WOO

A well-dressed man, his handsomeness elevated by affluence rather than genetics, sat alone at a table, encircled by other tables occupied by other artificially attractive patrons at a trendy sidewalk café. A half-eaten plate of exorbitantly priced morsels sat before him, growing cold.

A waiter walked by. The well-dressed man rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation as he gestured for the man to come to his table.

“Yes sir?” the waiter asked.

The well-dressed man pushed his plate to the other side of the table in a demonstrative display of disgust.

“Is your food not prepared to your satisfaction?”

“I should say not,” the well-dressed man replied with a haughty sneer.

“Sir, how can I…”

The well-dressed man inhaled deeply.

“Where should I start? The eggs were runny. And cold. The turkey bacon tasted like worn shoe leather. And don’t get me started on the avocado toast.”

“Sir, I can…”

The well-dressed man shook his head.

“There is nothing you can do. This meal, this restaurant is irredeemable.”

“Sir…”

After a brief moment of feigned consideration, the well-dressed man reached into the pocket of his charcoal Brooks Brothers suit.

“Actually, there is something you can do. Allow me to pay for the meals of everyone here. No reason for them to spend their money on such a thoroughly disappointing brunch,” the man proclaimed, his voice growing louder, prouder with each word.

Then the well-dressed man withdrew his hand from his pocket, revealing an overstuffed billfold from which he retrieved a shiny black credit card. Which he flippantly tossed at the thoroughly confused waiter, bouncing the card off the waiter’s chest.

As the waiter bent over to pick up the card, the well-dressed man snatched his cell phone from its resting place against a bottle of ketchup. Having served his purpose, the waiter no longer interested the well-dressed man who shifted his focus to the still recording device. As he did, his over moisturized face twisted unnaturally with artificial austerity.

“Friends, stay away from Sally’s Café. Their meager attempts at gourmet cuisine are not fit for a pig’s trough. Zero black diamonds.”

The well-dressed man paused, shedding his current mask in favor of another. That of the convivial bon vivant.

“Fortunately for the other patrons, Black Card Badass was here to save the day. At least they won’t have to waste their money on this gruel. Don’t worry about me friends. Remember. It’s just money. It’ll grow back. Now I need to find somewhere to eat. I’m still hungry. Post your suggestions in the comments. Until the next…”

A white panel van screeched to a halt just in front of the café, ruining the well-dressed man’s signature signoff. Two men, clad in black, emerged from within, quickly throwing a hood over his head and hustling him into the van through the open sliding door. The man felt a prick.

His eyelids became heavy.

And then everything went black.

As the van sped away, apart from a vaguely disinterested glance, no patron made any effort to assist the abducted man.

**

Groggy and disoriented, the well-dressed man awoke in a strange room. Sterile. Cold.

Masked medical personnel shuffled back and forth.

He tried to move. His wrists and ankles were secured to a surgical table.

He freaked. Thrashed hysterically.

His restraints held fast.

A gowned guard walked towards the bed. Stood over him holding a strange looking contraption.

Looked like something a woman would use to curl her eyelashes.

A gloved hand.

Coming closer.

Pressed the device against his right eye socket.

Little metal teeth bit into his flesh.

A trickle of blood dripped down his jawline.

His heart in his throat, the well-dressed man watched helplessly as the guard repeated the process on his left eye.

Gloved hand.

Closer.

Teeth biting.

A trickle of blood.

The well-dressed man stared, frozen, unblinking, at the dingy off-white ceiling tiles.

Until an unseen hand pushed an unseen button.

A coolness wiggled through his veins.

And then everything went black.

**

Woke up in darkness. Utter, pitch-black darkness. Reached for his face.

No hood. No evil eyelash curlers.

Bandages. Wrapped around his head. Covering his eyes.

He frantically tore at the gauze until nothing remained.

No change.

Still complete darkness.

He reached out a hand. Touched the floor. Ice cold. Concrete.

Reached out his other hand. Pushed himself up.

As he struggled to his feet, a light flickered on.

Small. Off in the distance. But how far?

Wobbling unsteadily, he walked towards the light.

Another flicker. Then another. Then another.

A path!

The well-dressed man hobbled hopefully into the unknowable darkness.

About halfway to the farthest light, the well-dressed man noticed that the room had become… WARM!

From unseen conduits overhead, a murky substance poured out alongside the path, pooling in glowing puddles of yellow and red.

“Is that fucking lava?!!??!” the man shouted as he hobblesprinted down the path, hoping that something other than darkness, or seared flesh, waited at the path’s end.

His feet pounded the concrete floor, propelling him forward as fast as his drug-addled body would allow.

Crimson shadows emanating from the still flowing molten lava played tricks on his mind.

Or did he really see a… door?!?!

The well-dressed man redoubled his efforts. Covered the last forty yards faster than an NFL wide receiver. Crashed headlong into a reinforced steel door.

Frantically swept the door’s surface with his hands. Looking for a knob. Or a handle.

Or a… wheel!

With both hands, he grabbed the wheel and spun.

And spun.

And spun.

The lava continued to flow unabated.

Inching closer.

Closer.

As the lava rose, the lights, his guiding lights, twisted and warped by the intense heat, faltered one after the other.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.  

The man redoubled his efforts, spinning the wheel with abject desperation. The floor beneath his bare feet, once ice cold, turned slippery with his sweat as the molten menace inched closer from behind.

Visions of burnt flesh and melted bones danced in his head as he spun the wheel one last time. A pneumatic whoosh startled him. The well-dressed man stared blankly as the hefty door inched inward.

He dashed inside and slammed the heavy door behind him.

Safe from the lava. But once again in complete darkness.

He wondered what fresh horror awaited him in the shadows.

In response to that unspoken question, piercingly bright fluorescent lights buzzed and hummed.

But not overhead.

The lights revealed a second room. A cold, featureless room of gray concrete. Separated by a glass partition.

And a man.

A haggard dirty man.

The abrupt illumination stirred the man from his resting spot on the concrete floor, propelling him to the glass partition, where he stood, probing the darkness of the other side with desperate eyes.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the man pleaded.

The well-dressed man just stared, his feet bolted to the floor by visceral terror, his mind adrift, his imagination running rampant, conjuring various gruesome twists of fate.

“Please help me!” the man shouted as he banged on the window.

A hiss. Green smoke filled the room.

On the other side of the partition.

The man began hacking. Wheezing.

Staring wide-eyed, frozen with fear, the well-dressed man did what he did best. Nothing.

A small light clicked on, illuminating a table.

On its surface laid several tools.

A handheld sledgehammer.

A giant wrench.

A blowtorch.

“Help! Don’t leave me in here!” the man roared haltingly between gasped breaths as he redoubled his efforts to break the glass with his bruised and battered hands.

The well-dressed man looked at the table. Considered his options.

Another light sprang to life.

An Exit sign.

Hovering in the darkness.

Over the shadowy silhouette of a fire door.

The well-dressed man stole a glance at the haggard man fighting for his life on the other side of the glass.

“Sorry,” he muttered before sprinting to the exit.

“Fuck you! You piece of shit!” the man wheezed defiantly, using the last of his strength, his hands squeaking as they slid down the glass partition, his body coming to rest on the concrete floor.

Not that the well-dressed man noticed.

Already in motion, he crashed through the door as the man on the other side of the partition faded from view.

Headlong into another pitch-black room.

Unseen hands grabbed at him. Overwhelmed him in an instant.

Pulled his shirt over his head.

Then he felt the cold pinch of steel around his wrists and ankles.

Heard the clattering of chains.

Then he was airborne, his arms and legs painfully splayed in every direction.

“You chose poorly,” a metallic voice chastised in the darkness.

Click.

White hot fluorescent light everywhere.

The well-dressed man blinked repeatedly as his eyes struggled to adjust.

A decision he would come to regret.

Before him stood a large man dressed all in black. A balaclava covered his face. In his hands, a blowtorch.

The well-dressed man forced his eyes closed. Began screaming.

The man in black appeared unmoved.

“Open your eyes,” the man in black said with eerie calm.

The well-dressed man refused to comply. Instead, he pissed his pants.

“Open your fucking eyes!” the man in black shouted, grabbing the well-dressed man’s fleshy face with a gloved hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The man in black released his grip. Stepped back.

“Good. Now as I said, you have chosen poorly. As such, a penalty must be administered.”

The man in black sparked the blowtorch. The well-dressed man wailed and moaned and pleaded.

“Don’t worry. You aren’t going to die. Yet,” the man in black said as he began walking behind his shackled prey.

Silence.

But that blowtorch was… near.

Coming closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Perspiration beaded as his back became warmer, warmer.

An intense cold stabbing near his spine?

The crackle of searing flesh.

And the smell.

Oh, the smell.

Then everything went black.

**

A bucket of icy water summoned the well-dressed man back to the land of the living. Lifted his head.

Off a table?

No more shackles.

His Brooks Brothers shirt was gone. Replaced with a threadbare thrift store reject.

His linen pants remained. But urine, and the accompanying acrid aroma, now soaked every stitch.

Looked across the table.

A man.

The same man he had seen die in the gas chamber?

His appearance, haggard before, now skewed towards reanimated corpse. His eyes, bloodshot and desperate, focused on the center of the table.

Focused on a rusty revolver.

“You got out?” the well-dressed man asked.

“No thanks to you,” the man replied snidely.

“What the hell is going on?”

The haggard man shrugged.

“No idea. Got snatched off the street and ended up in that room with the glass wall.”

The well-dressed man looked frantically around the room. Saw a door. No doubt locked.

“We need to get out of here. Got any ideas?”

The man gestured to a card on the table. The well-dressed man looked at the card. At the instructions scrawled in elegant script.

Prove your worthiness with a simple game of Russian Roulette.

Then a postscript. Three initials.

W.O.O.

The well-dressed man looked back up at the haggard man.

Saw the revolver in his hand.

Pressed to his right temple.

Pulled the trigger!

Click.

With a trembling hand, the man slid the revolver across the table to the well-dressed man.

“Your tur…”

The deafening roar from the antique firearm reverberated throughout the tiny room, shaking the fillings in the well-dressed man’s molars. The man, his head replaced by a gory pink mist, snapped backward. Landed with a thud on the concrete floor.

Smoking gun in hand, the well-dressed man stared straight ahead, eyes locked on the back wall of the room.

At the spot vacated by the haggard man and his chair.

Then the door opened behind him.

**

In walked a man. Middle aged. Gray around the temples. Frumpy but with a presence.

A vaguely familiar man.

Walked past the well-dressed man. Past the table. Towards the corpse of the haggard man. Bent down.

Offered his hand to the dead man.

Which the dead man accepted?!?

The revolver fell from the well-dressed man’s suddenly feeble grip.

“Can you believe this waste of organs?” the haggard man asked as he found his feet.

“I wish I could say I was surprised,” the frumpy, familiar man replied, his tone resigned.

The well-dressed man stared at the haggard man. Particularly at the gruesome bullet wound centered on his forehead. The haggard man ignored him.

“Do you need me to stick around?” the haggard man asked.

“No. Your part in this exercise is over. Thanks, Travis.”

Travis nodded. Exited the room, shutting the door behind him. The well-dressed man glared at the frumpy man. Started to speak. But the frumpy man interrupted.

“Bernie, allow me to save us some time.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Please refrain from crass language.”

“You better fucking explain yourself.”

The frumpy man sighed, forcing himself to endure the vulgar man just a while longer.

“This little adventure was a test. One which you failed spectacularly. Like all the others.”

“A test?!? You tortured me.”

“Torture? That’s a stretch.”

“The lava? The gas chamber? The blowtorch?”

“All illusions based on, or outright plagiarized from movies and television.”

“And the surgery?”

“Oh, that part was real.”

“What?”

“A necessary part of the process.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“You can call me the Big Bad Wolf,” the frumpy man replied as he tapped his phone.

And transformed into a giant white wolf. Standing on two legs. Baring blood-drenched fangs.

But for once, during this entire nightmare, Bernie remained calm. Smiled even.

“I figured it out. I remembered where I know you from. I know who you are. You’re Guy Fenetre.”

Guy grimaced.

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m going to sue the shit out of you,” Bernie snarled, smirking, as he pressed his perceived advantage.

“You vulgar simpleton. Who do you think people are going to believe? The attention junkie with the fantastic story or the generous billionaire who builds wells in Africa and sends people to college?”

“Oh, they will believe me. And when they do, I’m going to buy a yacht with your money,” Bernie replied, smugly satisfied.

Guy snickered.

“Twelve times. Twelve times I’ve conducted this experiment. With others just like you. And twelve times, the same result. Why should I expect number thirteen to be any different? A generation of overindulged pseudo-gentry too shameless to be embarrassed, too delusional to be threatened.”

Bernie smiled.

“Pay me.”

“What?”

“Pay me and this all goes away.”

Guy pondered this option for a moment. Or seemed to.

“No, lucky number thirteen, I’ve had enough disappointment. This time, I think I’ll go another way,” Guy responded, reaching a hand into his jacket pocket.

Guy tossed several loose sheets of paper, folded down the middle, at Bernie, hitting him squarely in the chest. He leaned over and picked the papers off the ground. Started looking at their content.

“What are these? These aren’t real. I don’t have diabetes.”

“Don’t you?” Guy replied with a malevolent smile as Travis snuck up behind Bernie.

Stuck a needle in his neck.

Then everything went black.

**

Bernie woke up in his bed. Shirtless. A dull pain in his left triceps.

Some sort of plastic device. No bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

He tried to remove the device. A shock quickly discouraged any further attempt.

The bad dream now infringing upon his reality, Bernie wondered how he could wriggle free from this nightmare.

Tin Foil Terry.

Not a friend. But a fellow podcaster who obsessed about conspiracy and deep state nonsense.

Bernie grabbed his phone. Shot Terry a text. To meet. To tell this amazing, terrible story.

To expose the truth.

To make Guy Fenetre pay for his bullshit.

Bing.

A response.

A meeting place.

Bernie grabbed a shirt. Hustled towards the door.

As he cleared the threshold, he heard a beep. Felt dizzy. Feverish. Started to sweat.

Then he went down.

Laying in the hallway outside his apartment, fighting to remain conscious, Bernie sensed a presence.

As his vision darkened, the form appeared above him.

A giant black bear.

Looked him dead in the eye.

“You were warned.”

**

Dressed as a paramedic, Travis eased Bernie on to a gurney and, without a care in the world, pushed him towards the elevator.