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Dual Weapons

By Bunny Hops

The incessant tear-choked pleadings had finally subsided to mere dreadful whimpers, and the stag took that as his cue to pull a single loose cigarette from his vest pocket. He was impeccable dressed, and It appeared as if he were a magician performing a lame magic trick since no telltale carton bulged in the vest. He only had brought that one cigarette with him. With the cigarette limp between two fingers he allowed himself a cockeyed smirk as he said, "Now you get to choose: which one of you is going to be raped, and which one is going to be killed."

The cacophony of panic returned.

The stag laughed as he lit the cigarette, taking a drag put not allowing the smoke into his lungs. He didn't need the nicotine; his pleasure came from the family's suffering. The four family members were tied up in the wide hallway of their opulent house, ankles and wrists tied together: an unwilling audience lined up on their knees in front of the stag. They had been forcibly roused from their sleep in the early morning hours and still wore their sleep attire: the husband clad in old stained briefs; the wife in a billowy nightgown; the older kid in plaid boxers and an oversized graphic tee; and the youngest kid in screen-printed cartoon pajamas.

The hallway was lit only in the wayward light from the kitchen, making the glow from the cigarette cause the stag's face to become awash in crimson and casting harsh shadows of his antlers onto the wall. His self-satisfied grin never left his snout.

"Why are you doing this!?!" the wife's hoarse voice cracked. "What the hell do you want!?!"

The stag squat down on his haunches, getting face-to-face with the bound up red panda. His face was stern and serious, so much more so than she had seen up to this point. The cocksure confidence and detached inhumanity fell from his face, unleashing a new level of terror into her.

"Your husband knows why."

His tone was flat. Subtly wisps of smoke escaped with his words. He looked in the direction of her racoon husband beside her and let out the rest of the smoke into his face.

Her husband recoiled at the harsh dry smoke. "Motherfucker," he exclaimed through clenched teeth, his whole body writhing. "I have no idea why your here or why you're doing all of this. Let us go. I'll pay you. I've got the money, you know I do. I can pay you to just to fuck off and go. We'll forget any of this ever happened. Please. You damn sure know I don't know why you're here." He continued to prattle on ceaselessly.

Emotionlessly the stag snubbed his cigarette out on the base of the husband's ear. The raccoon's whole body seized up so hard he tipped over, squealing in pain and terror as he fell to the floor. Once again the house was alive with panic.

Alongside the husband and wife were their two young boys, ages twelve and seven. They were an absolutely adorable genetic combination of their racoon father and red panda mother, even with their bloodshot eyes, tear streak fur, and snot covered muzzles. The youngest even wet himself; the acrid smell was only thinly masked by the cigarette smoke. The stag almost felt sorry for putting them through this. Almost.

The stag stood up and unsheathed his knife. The incredibly ornate handle of dyed inlaid wood and gold leaf designs matched the scabbard. The stiletto-like blade was about 20 centimeters long, thin and sharp, the double edges slowly coming together along its length to create a violently acute point. He placed it carefully on the shelf behind him, gently nudging aside a couple of framed family portraits and photos from various vacations.

"That's one weapon," he said once the noise subsided enough. "Now let me introduce the other one."

In dramatic fashion, he extended an arm to the light coming from kitchen, never taking his gaze from the family. Obscuring the only source of light was the broad shoulders of a muscular stallion dressed like the stag in business casual attire and standing a good two heads taller than his antlered counterpart, who himself had a head's height over the racoon or red panda. He held a tumbler of scotch in each hand.

"I think you can surmise what he's here for. Now, it's time to decide. Pick the victim of this weapon," he nodded to the knife on the shelf. "And pick the victim of that weapon," he nodded to the stallion, who nodded back. The light from the kitchen reflected off of the stallions stark white teeth, illuminating his beaming grin.

The stallion walked over the stag, setting one tumbler on the shelf next to the knife. He took a sip of the other glass before grabbing the racoon by the shoulder and tilting him back up into the kneeling position.

The husband huffed at the stag, rage once again overcoming the fear. "You're not going to get away with this. There's security cameras all over this place. When we go to the cops -- when we go to the media -- they'll catch you scumbags. You're done, you're through. You might as well just use both your weapons on yourself."

"Now what kind of professionals would we be if we didn't disable all of your security features before we ever set foot in this place," the stallion said through a grin, his voice deep yet oddly pleasant. "And you're not going to the cops."

"And why the fuck wouldn't I?"

"For one: we'd kill the lot of you before you ever set one paw in the station and kill whomever you spoke to: police officer, dispatcher, paramedic, neighbor, family."

"And two," the stag took his scotch from the shelf, "you don't want the reason why we're hear known. Especially in today's day and age."

"WHY ARE YOU HERE!?!" the wife suddenly exclaimed, tears bursting from her eyes. The outburst set the kids crying again.

The stag once again turned to the racoon husband. "Do you remember Desmerelda Clay?"

"I haven't got a clue, and you know it," the racoon responded, but averted his gaze from his assailant.

The stag took a sip of the scotch, "Mmm, cheap elitism. Expensive, but cheap. You know, a nice inexpensive Bordeaux would be much more sophisticated. A sign of class, not of wealth. But, no, this whiskey is quite telling, isn't it?" He took anther sip to punctuate his point.

The stag examined the raccoon's ear. The skin was so red and bloodshot it glowed through the thin fur in the dim light. The circular cigarette burn was already blistered and warned of infection. The stag calmly and systematically grabbed the ear and twisted it one hundred eighty degrees.

The stallion laughed deep from his chest as the family once again went into vocal chaos.

He let go of the ear. "Well, someone remembers her, and that's why we're here."

He crouched down to meet the racoon face-to-face. "Freshman year at university your frat held a party. Ms. Clay went to the party and met you. One thing led to another and you locked her in your room and copulated with her multiple times against her will. By the end of it she was no longer even resisting. Once you finally succumbed to all the alcohol and sex and passed out she put her panties in her pocket, climbed out the window, and walked across campus to her dorm where she washed down a bottle of pills with a bottle of wine. When she woke in the morning covered in her drying vomit she mustered up all the courage in the world to wash up and go to the police. But with your daddy's lawyers at your disposal, and a group of friends willing to lie to the police on your behalf, you were able to shut down any investigation and keep any charges from being filed. A technicality with her showering before the rape kit was performed was the nail in that coffin. You didn't stop there, though, oh, no. Your unrestrained slut shaming of her got her to use a box cutter to open up her arms from elbow to wrist. Now does that ring a bell?"

The raccoon's breathing intensified. He skin under the fur on his face turning the same shade of red as his burnt ear. "Dessie was a lying bitch slut and everyone knew--"

"Please just kill me," his red panda wife interrupted. "Don't hurt my boys. Please, they had nothing to do with the girl. We had nothing to do with her. Please."

"You filthy cunt," the husband spat out the words, "You'd have them rape one of the boys?"

"It's better than them dying!"

"You know what?" The stallion said. "I think the raccoon has finally made one of his decisions. We won't be raping one of them."

He went behind the wife and forced her down by the neck with one massive hand, unzipping his trousers with the other.

"Please, please," the husband begged over the screams of his wife and sons. "Not in front of my boys. Please. They don't need to see this."

The stallion looked to the stag for an answer. He took a sip of the scotch before responding, "Don't say I never did anything for you," and nodded for the stallion to take it into the room abutting the hallway.

She screamed as he bunched up the back of her thin nightgown and dragged her into the adjacent room. She tried to kick and flail about, but her wrists and ankles were still tied together in a loose hog-tie. The stallion chose not to muffle her high pitched wails and left the door wide open. The pleasure the stag took at hearing the red panda thrown onto the bed was visible on his face, even as he tried to obscure it up with another sip of the scotch.

"Listen to that," he said, jutting his jaw to the open door. "Hear her suffering and remember what you did to Ms. Clay all those years ago. After all, that's why we're all here."

It was evident the stallion had begun his physical penetration of the wife. Her cries were interrupted by rhythmic, systematic jolts. The raccoon was solemn, his head tilted to the floor as if in shame. All too soon his wife's cries droned out into mournfully accepted grunts until they subsided completely. The stallion's nostril exhausts never wavered; they were as systematic as his thrusts. Faintly the crowd in the hallway could hear the springs of the mattress being exercised in slowly increasing rhythm. Soon the stallion's nostril noises were accompanied by guttural grunt while the red panda stayed silent. The oldest son clearly understood what was happening to his mother and let out a sorrowful sigh and only barley caught himself as he began to wet himself.

The sounds from the adjacent room continued on with subtly increasing intensity for much longer than most of the hallway inhabitants could handle. The husband tried to keep his composure as tears streaked down his face and dripped onto the floor. The oldest son choked on his whimpers as tears flowed freely down his face, and snot bubbled up from his nostrils. The youngest son was just as distraught, but clearly following the queues from his father and brother, unable to fully grasp the situation. All he knew was his mom was being hurt.

The inhabitants of the hallway heard the stallion begin muttering obscenities and sacrileges to himself with obviously building excitement. His grunts sounded over the noise of the compressing springs. The crescendo terminated with a half dozen violent thrusts that caused the red panda to break her silence with a handful of pained screams. The stallion let out one last moaning exhale, punctuate by the thick splash of his released fluids on the polished hardwood flooring.

The house fell silent save for some heavy breathing.

After what felt like an eternity to the family the stallion dragged the wife back to her original position. She collapsed next to her husband where he dropped her; she didn't try to right herself back up, all her energy had drained from her. She looked decades older than she had minutes ago.

The stallion went back into the room and promptly returned, using a hand towel to blot off the semen and blood from his still half-gorged penis as it draped meatily from he fly of his slacks. His self satisfied smile could've lit up the room on it's own. No doubt he'd be ready for another room soon enough, if necessary.

"One down, one to go," the stag's voice cut through the silence.

He gripped the dagger. Pointing the sharp tip at each of the four family members in turn, intentionally letting the dim light from the adjacent room glint off the blade.

"So who will it be?"

"You're a monster," the raccoon husband stated blankly, eyes downcast, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

"You're right. And that changes nothing. So decide: who will it be? Who will be the recipient of this weapon?"

"You haven't got the balls to kill anyone," he snarled. "Rape is one thing, and you had to get you lackey to go ahead and do that for you. Murder is entirely different."

The blade sliced through the raccoon's ear, cutting through fur, skin, cartilage, and the cigarette burn in a two centimeter gash. The cut was so clean it took seconds before the raccoon realized what had happened. Thick droplets of blood splashed to the floor before the pain flared up.

"You're going to give a name, even if I have to cut it out of ya," the stag began to loose his aura of calm.

He grabbed the back of the raccoon's head, burying his thick cloven nails into the base of his skull and tearing at the short fur there. He wretched the father's head up and brought the impossibly sharp point of the blade a centimeter from his eye. The raccoon's pupils turned to pinpricks as he anticipated what was coming next.

"First I'll take an eye. Then I'll think I'll slice off the head of your penis, just for fun. I'll cut thin slices down the rest of your prick's length until it's nothing but a bloody scab nestled in your pubic hair. But I think I'll leave your balls intact. I'll gladly slice off your fingers, however, joint by joint. But, no, I don't think I'll have to do any of that, since you'll give me a name. You'll give me the name of who I'm going to kill."

The stag flicked the blade so quickly the raccoon couldn't even blink in time. He cried like a dog being stepped on in the night and tears gushed down the one cheek. The blade had only sliced a thin cut across the white part of the eye, but it's pain was enough. The fear it invoked was more than enough.

The husband voice was so impotent and choked the stag momentarily wondered if he had spoken at all, or merely cried.

"Louder," he ordered.

The raccoon's voice cracked and broke twice before he could vocalize his decision. His wife breathed out a pitiful, exasperated, mournful noise. She was devastated, but at the same time pained in her relief that the ordeal was almost over. The two boys, however, began to cry in panicked gasps.

Now it was the stag's turn to beam a smile. He moved over to the boys, keeping his posture perfect, and slipped the dagger effortlessly between two ribs on the left side of the seven-year-old's chest. He held it there for only a second or two, but in that time the kid locked eyes with the stag. The stag could read those eyes like a book: the confusion, the pleading, the fright, the fading. He'd seen it all before.

When the knife was first pulled free no blood escaped the wound. Then with ever waning beat of his pierced heart, a dark crimson stain appeared on his pajamas, eventually pouring down his side to mix with the urine he and his brother left on the floor earlier. To his credit, the boy never gasped a word. He silently accepted the life draining from him until his heart gave out and beat no more. His shoulders slumped and his eyelids drooped slightly but did not close. A sigh passed his lips as his final breath left his body. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from the side of his mouth.

The family was silent through all this, but now the older son began to say his brother's name over and over again. At first it was a question, but soon morphed into a chant as realization dawned on the young boy. His voice grew soft, but did not grow silent.

The stallion had slipped out of the hallway as the child died, but returned with a leather briefcase. He had slipped his now clean penis back into his pants, but the crotch of his trousers strained to contain his still half erect member.

The stag took the briefcase and cracked it open. Shuffling through the contents he picked out the manila folder he wanted. In one fell swoop motion he flopped the folder onto the floor in front of the raccoon's downcast eyes and clasped the briefcase closed. The stallion retook possession of the briefcase.

"What you got there," the stag crouched in front of the husband, gently pushing up on his chin until their eyes met. The stag smiled at the defeat he saw in those eyes as he continued. "That's the boy's death certificate. He contracted myocarditis, a rare cardiovascular viral infection, and passed away in the night before you could even process that he was sick. How tragic. Set up a 5k in his honor. There's some information about the infection you should read up on in the folder as well. I've included contact information for an associate that'll take care of the body for you. There's also contact information for a discreet doctor that'll take a look at your wife. No questions, no reporting. I highly recommend you take her to the doctor as soon as possible, since she appears to be torn up a bit. It happens, couldn't have been avoided."

"I may have gotten a little carried away," the stallion boomed. "Just be glad I didn't get a chance to fuck this one," he ran the back of his hand across the twelve-year-old's check, not phased when the boy recoiled in disgust. "I would've split him in two." His booming laughter reverberated throughout the expansive mansion..

Through a window the stag could see a faint light on the horizon begin to appear, shining through the many trees of the family's property. Dawn was soon upon them.

"Well, look at the time," the stag said, looking at his wrist as if he had a watch, "we best be going."

The stag moved behind the family and, using the knife he had just used on the youngest boy, cut through the wrist and ankle bindings of the family. He started with the dead child, then moving on to the living one who gave some halfhearted resistance. The mother and father gave no such resistance, only to collapse onto each other once freed.

The stag and stallion gathered up their belongings: the knife, the briefcase, the pieces of rope, even the crushed cigarette. Before they left the hallway the stag stopped and turned around to once again address the family.

"You know, you'd be amazed about how many people will immediately choose self-sacrifice to save their families from hard. Most of the time we reward that sacrifice by only using one of the weapons. But you? Self-sacrifice never even crossed your mind, did it?"

They turned and left, leaving those final words to linger heavy in the air. In the relative silence their hooves could be heard clicking and clacking on the hardwood flooring as they left the house. No one moved from their positions, even as the backdoor opened and closed and the deadbolt slid into place -- the pair must have brought along a set of keys with them. The sound of their car rolling down the driveway faded into the distance.

They were now all alone together in hallway reeking of the multitude of bodily fluids. What was worse was what they knew they'd never be able to scrub away or paint over or mask with air fresheners: the death and the fear.