Grimoire Diabolique

“Shaddap,” Vinchetti said, turning his attention back to Tony. “Ain’t that somethin’? Ain’t that some work?”

Tony continued to examine the fine details of the “work” with a watchmaker’s study. “You ain’t kiddin’. But… I don’t get it. They ain’t dead already, are they?”

“Naw, just unconscious. Doc here shot each up with some heavy duty tranks.”

“Actually,” the doctor interjected, now holding up his Bush automatic syringe, “I used the latest barbituric-acid derivative, Phenolax. Induces total unconsciousness in less than twenty seconds. It works by reducing the biogenic output of the diazamine receptors in the brain and—”

“Shaddap,” Vinchetti ordered then said back to Tony, “And they’ll be coming to in a few minutes—that’s when the fun begins. Remember what I said about Hymie, right? The fat hump plowed down four plates of hash and eggs for breakfast, and I’m talkin’ stacked plates, Tony. I’ll bet this kid’s got five pounds of grub in his belly, and now Doc’s gonna make him throw it all up.”

Tony’s minor powers of calculation ticked for a moment, then he saw the ploy. “Aw, boss, that’s low down. He’ll be puking it all up right into Darcy’s mouth.”

“That’s the plan. Slick, huh? And shell have to scarf up all that puke and fast, or else she’ll kick, right, Doc?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Prouty replied. “Once Hymie begin’s to aspirate the vomitus, it will have no place to go but into Darcy’s oral cavity, and due to the obvious fact that their mouths are surgically adhered, Darcy will need to swallow it all as quickly as it is disgorged. If she does so, she’ll survive; however, if the volume of the regurgitant exceeds her capacity to swallow it, her tracheal passage will become obstructed, whereupon the vomit will congest in the upper bronchi. As I was remarking to Mr. Vinchetti earlier. She’ll have to eat it, or she’ll drown.”

Vinchetti cracked his hands together. “Damn! Ain’t it great the way Doc talks?”

Tony’s brow furrowed in an expression of deep admiration. “I like it. The skinny bitch drowns in Hymie’s hash and eggs.” Then he scratched his head. “But how are you gonna make him puke?”

“Doc just injected him with this fancy stuff,” Vinchetti answered.

“A simple saline and copper sulphate solution injected intra-muscularly,” Doc said. “Once the compound comes in sufficient contact with the stomach’s exterior blood supply—”

“Shaddap,” Vinchetti said. “Just take his word for it, Tony. It won’t be long before Hymie’s blowin’ chunks like a fuckin’ bilge pump.”

“You figure she’ll be able to do it?” came Tony’s next query. “You know, eat all that puke?”

Both mobsters considered the rather remarkable question. “What do you think, Doc?” Vinchetti asked, chuckling. “I mean, seein’ that you’re a gambling man, if you had money to bet, would you bet she could do it?”

“I would, sir,” Dr. Prouty responded in certainty. “The primal instinct for a human being to survive is unfathomably spirited. In fact, I’d say she’ll survive several cycles.”

“Cycles?” Tony asked.

Vinchetti explained. “See, if the bitch manages to swallow all that puke, then Doc injects her with some of that fancy copper stuff. Get it? Then it’s her turn to puke into Hymie’s mouth. They’ll just keep puking back and forth like that till they croak.”

“That rocks!” Tony exclaimed.

Prouty noticed a gradual increase in respiration in the victims. Eyelids began to flutter. “If I may interrupt, sir. I believe our subjects are regaining consciousness.”

“Tony! Turn on the camera,” Vinchetti made the zealous command. “Get us a wide shot, the whole table. I want to see ’em convulsing’n shit.”

Tony did so, and soon the convulsing began. First, though, came the initial recognition of the calamity. Hymie and Darcy’s eyes did indeed flutter open. They stared glazily for a few seconds…and then the rest hit them: they were strapped to each other, face to face, irrevocably joined at the lips.

Then they began to scream into each other’s mouth.

The sounds were muffled, of course, more like a panicked mewling, Hymie’s lower, in staccato-like gruffs, Darcy’s a long high baffled whistle. It was a sound unlike any Dr. Prouty had ever heard. An additional leather strap girding their necks prevented any possible action to pull back and tear out the staples. The victims squirmed within their bonds, bug-eyed, trying to kick, frenetically jerking, trying to somehow twist out—but each and every gesture proved futile.

All three men stood stock-still, watching raptly. A considerable erection became evident at the front of Tony’s preposterous white slacks, but Vinchetti himself seemed to be growing bored. “Hey, Doc. We got video runnin’ here, ya know, and we ain’t got till fuckin’ Christmas. When’s Hymie start to let ’er rip?”