Isn't it amazing how pain can become so great that it isn't pain no more? Just a numbing sensation that runs through your whole body, causing your nerves to calm down after awhile and your breathing to relax slightly. I thought this over, which was an amazing thing to do since I was tied up to a steel pole coming out of this damp, gloomy basement while my 'torturer' sat skimming a knife over my bare body. Blood trickled down my body, gathering onto the floor in a small black pool that slowly began to spread out.

Why was I in this predicament? Let’s just say to make a long story short; I listened to a bad guy.

But introductions should come first, shouldn’t they?

My name is Julius Makael. I’m something of an entrepreneur. What kind of business do I do? The illegal kind. Pretty much the only one an entrepreneur can actually make any sort of profit on. What part of my business is illegal? One hundred percent of it.

To give you my appearance so you can get a better picture of me. I’m five foot ten with glossy, brown hair that reaches down to my broad shoulders. My eyes are of a dark bluish color with a slight purple tinge. My nose is small and slightly hooked with my mouth thin but quite red; giving off the appearance that I wear some sort of make-up. I’m slightly pale, of the same color as a newspaper without the black lettering. I’m willowy. I pretty much have neither fat nor much muscle either. I’m rather plain looking besides my most unusual eye color. I’ve also been said I look feminine.

And the color of my blood dripping off my own body while I thought about the numbing effects of pain.

Silly, isn’t it? But what the hell are you suppose to do when a three hundred pound bodyguard for a gang is pounding you? Talk shit? That’ll get you more punches and maybe if you’re unlucky, a broken jaw or rib. Nah… I’ll think idiotic thoughts while my blood is dripping onto the floor.

While I’m reminiscing, I’ll tell you how I got into this rather silly predicament.

It started when I opened my business over on the West side of Chicago. I opened a business of selling illegal weapons that were stolen from a police custodial armory. These armories were piled high with weapons that were taken from captured convicts or suspects, or anything in between. How could I stay in business with illegal guns out in front of my steel-barred windows without the police showing up to arrest me? Because this was the West side. No police ever came into the West side unless it was a damned emergency. And even then, they went reluctantly. The gangs and hoodlums, my best customers, like to shoot up the cars with guns they had and ones that I sold. Easy money for me.

I lived in a nice apartment complex in the West side. And when I say nice apartment, I mean kids smoking out in the parking lot, either cigarettes or pot. Where the colored people shot at colored people. Where whities like me were scared shitless to go out lest you would be mugged or murdered, which was an everyday happenstance. The apartments themselves were either two or three rooms altogether. That included that bathroom.

I lived there with a heroin addict whose taut skin was turning black with over usage. Her name was Christian, spelled like the religion. Though this girl was no good Catholic schoolgirl. She had been fucked so many times that her pussy was permanently swollen and she was always exhausted, coming in at four in the morning and shooting up in the bathroom. Her arms were covered in bruises from her customers. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken along with her chest. Her body was even paler than mine.

I had to feel sorry for her. She had it going in her life before shit happened. She was going to college and was working at a restaurant and an old-folks home. Her parents died in a crash of some kind. That’s where her life went to hell. She dropped out of college and was fired from her two jobs. She moved in with a friend of hers and started snorting cocaine and smoking pot. She tried meth but she didn’t take with it. After living a couple months broke, she sold her body to couple of guys, making some easy money to but soon became addicted to heroin. After awhile, the two guys couldn’t pay enough for her heroin upkeep. That’s when she became the classic heroin-addicted whore. On the corner in skimpy outfits and asking people if they ‘wanted a good time.’

But she really has nothing to do with this little narrative. She is just a person I remembered at times of pain or anger or despair. She was a tiny reminder that whatever road my life took it, it couldn’t be as bad as that.

I was wrong. And it wouldn’t be the first time.

It happened one fine smoggy day in Chicago. A man came into my shop. The guys’ appearance was like any other scumbag or hoodlum who came into my shop. Dirty clothes, messy hair, and a foul odor hanging around them. This guy was a little bit different though. He came in like he was the King of bloody fucking England; his nose in the air and a slight arrogance in his gray eyes. I tend to ignore people like these unless they want something and they pay cash. Hell, I had a sign in the window saying that,

‘In God We Trust, All you other motherfuckers pay Cash.’

But like a good cashier, I asked him what I could for him. The mans voice startled me. It was perfectly clear English and it was like listening to teenager right out of puberty. That slight tinge of a high-pitch in a deep baritone. He asked me if I was the owner. Hell, I could amuse him. I said no, he was out at the moment. What can I do for you? I asked again, yet he just looked at me, like I was a bug that he would love to crush but was ordered not to.

He spoke in that voice, that damn voice. “I’m looking for Julius Makael, owner of this gun shop. Where may I find him? It will be of great interest to him. And a profitable one, too.”

My ears perked up at this. Profit? Who could resist money? Not I. I told him that Julius would be at the Old West Side Apartments, Apt. 63. He would be there in a couple of hours.

The man just nodded and left. But not before tossing down a Benjamin, which I quickly grabbed and pocketed. I sat there for a half an hour more, thinking about what this guy could want or offer. He looked like a fucking hobo, for Christ’s sake. But his eyes and his manner betrayed otherwise. After weighing the odds whether any more customers would come, I decided to pack up and make for home.

My car was not the best on the West side, but it was better than others. It had some slight rust spots and it liked to choke on wet days. I’m mentioning this because that old rust bucket will be mentioned later.

When I arrived at the apartment Christian was sitting on the bed, her eyes slightly glazed and a needle and belt near her. Sighing, I went to grab her but was stopped as an unseen hand grabbed my hair and slammed me forward on top of Christian. Her skimpy shirt came down, past her shoulders, showing her pale nipples and breasts. I also saw a knife sticking out of the back of her head, blood still fresh and staining her shirt.

I cried out and turned around to come face to face with the man at the store, his hand gripping my throat firmly. If I‘d tried to back away, he would’ve ripped my throat out.

“You told me you weren’t Julius. You lied. Not a good start to our little relationship.” His voice was soft but still the same, a slight high-pitch in a deep baritone.

“What is it that you want of me?” I sputtered, fear rising into me. I thought that my life was over then and there. I wish it ‘d been.

“Like I told you before, I have an interest, one that you will find profitable.” He let go of my throat, and I sat down without think about the body lying next to me staining the sheets and mattress, rubbing my throat while I watched this mysterious intruder.

“What sort of interest?” I asked after a minute of debating whether this man was going to kill me or not.

“Human interests.”

“Like killing?” I asked, standing up startled.

“Maybe. Not that you will do the actually killing if it did happened. But it might come down to killing, if my interests take a swing towards that. Emphasis on the might. I want you to do what I tell you for a while. Each, lets call them chores… Each chore will earn you three thousand in your American currency. And it won’t hurt no one.”

I debated. This man didn’t want me to kill no one, but what did he want me to do for three grand each? And he also said that I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Who did he define as no one? My sense of money won over though and I agreed. This led to a series of events that eventually led to my imprisonment in a basement while a bodyguard beat the living shit out of me and a psychotic sociopath took a knife and skimmed it over my naked body.

All the chores, or events as I called them later, were different. And with each one, I grew more curious about this stranger. He told me to call him Azriel. A name that gave me chills every time I heard it or anything like it. The events though, I’ll give short descriptions of the ones that I can remember. There was so many that it was hard to keep them in order, but certain ones stuck out more than others.

The first one Azriel was easy enough for a person in my position. I didn’t know if it was a compliment or an insult. I was suppose to give two teenagers knives and to watch what they would do, recording it on a camcorder that he gave to me. He was there watching me the whole time as I found out later. The kids, two colored kids, were picked on for their small stature. As I followed them through the West side, I watched what they did. They walked like they were gangsters. And every eye followed them until a gang of about nine or ten kids stopped the two their age. These kids were bigger than the two and were obviously bullies. The lead one grabbed one of the kids that had a knife and started threatening him. That’s when hell broke out.

The kid reached down into his pocket and grabbed the knife, slicing the bullies arm, leaving a deep cut that bled copiously. The other kid took out his knife and did the same to the nearest bully that he could reach, causing panic among them. They tried to fight back, but all were scared that these two skinny black kids would kill them.

An older gentleman, about ten or twelve years senior of my twenty-six, came out and grabbed the two kids with knives and started beating the shit out of them. He took the knives and asked where they got them. My first thought was to run, but I stood fixed, horrified. The boys stammered something about a white guy over in a different area of the West side. They were crying so hard that the man couldn’t make any sense of them. And again, he hit them then told them to be off. He also said that if he found knives on them again, this last beating wouldn’t be anything to the next. The two ran off.

As did I with the tape in my pocket.


Sounds fucked up. That was only the first. After this first one I went back home to find three grand in a packet and a letter attached to it. It read as follows:

‘Julius- Job well done. You have seen what kids will do to each other if they are given the chance. Not here comes the second task. I want you to…’


The second chore I can’t remember, but it had to do something with a gang fight. I remember a little about it because I came home with three cuts across the chest and a knife wound in my leg.

The next event that I can remember was slightly different.

I was told to go to Courtyard of the Harem. It was a title of a block on the West side that was dedicated to strip clubs and whorehouses. Whores walked the street, showing off their ‘wares’ while men hoot and hollered obscenities. Half the men going into the places were drunk, and when they came out they were completely wasted. Drug sellers sat in low riding cars selling whatever anybody wanted. Pimps sat talking to good paying customers and talking to their whores or beating on them.

I went into a whorehouse named the Goddesses Boudoir, a rather old fashioned yet pleasant operation of sexual pleasure. Of any kind. Inside, the lights were misty and gave off a red hue. Women walked around with their breasts bare to the eye and men drinking at the bar, eyeing girls in a way to make them shiver if they saw them.

I sat down and ordered a Miller Lite while lighting a cigarette. I was told to wear a nice outfit, which was pretty much picked for me. It was black tank top with khakis along with steel-toed boots. I felt out of place here with gang members and pimps and white-collared workmen sitting here looking at the girls or being taken to a room upstairs to get a quick fuck or anything else that came to their minds. The bartender slid the beer down and I took three long draughts of it, leaving only foam behind. Then I ordered another one.

After drinking nine beers rather quickly, I felt a buzz going on. It made me feel a little better about what I was doing. A little.

I ‘bought’ two of the higher-class whores, which wasn’t saying much about them, and I paid for a room. Azriel gave me an description of the two females that I was suppose to rent that night and that they answered to the names of Jessie and Rachel. One of them was a blond with hazel eyes, with one hell pair of tits. The other had black hair and blue eyes and had a nice ass. Both wore fake golden rings to show how much they cost, which was about four hundred each, paid by Azriel. The room was about ten feet by ten and had a single window located opposite of the door and looked straight down into the back alley. It had a single queen sized bed with pillows flowing from it. The pale pink sheets were freshly changed and the mattress flipped. The room had a garbage shoot that led down to a basement if a person wanted to get rid of anything; say a condom, or drugs, or anything else that had to be disposed of.

The girls’ names were Jessie (the blond) and Rachel (the black). They both apparently came from the East side; both pretty much had the same story as the deceased Christian, but never got into drugs heavily. They did it for the money, which they said if it was a good night they could make over three grand. Not bad for screwing eight guys a night, if it was a good night.

I poured some wine that I brought up from the bar and gave the glasses to the girls. They drank merrily, as if this was just a party. Self-denial must be a blessing to those in these kinds of situations.

After two bottles of wine and an order for more, we started to play a game. We would ask a question, and if the other person refused to answer or gave off an answer that was so ludicrous that it had to be a lie, the person would have to take off an item of clothing.

Soon, I was bare ass naked, watching as the girls asked a series of questions to each other. As they did so, I made to pour more wine, but in reality I placed a small camcorder beneath my shirt, aimed at the bed.

The night passed quickly and I found myself in between the two girls, all three of us naked and beneath the blanket. I stopped drinking after the fourth bottle of wine, my head dizzy. They continued until they reached their sixth; both wasted that they didn’t know where they were.

I recorded the whole thing. Them undressing and us getting into the bed. Us fucking for three hours straight. Everything. Even them coughing up blood from the drugs that he put into their wine, staining the bed and pillows and their skimpy clothing. Azriel said they would help the girls to relax and that there might be a side effect. Blood. I got off the bed and dressed quickly. I grabbed everything and dumped it down the garbage chute. I opened the window up, grabbed the camcorder, and jumped out.


Two girls with blood gushing out of their mouths. Boys being sliced open and getting beat the shit out of. I was beginning to regret ever agreeing to Azriel. Bu the money was so tempting. I made over nine thousand just doing three jobs. What else could happen besides a little scratches and some blood coming out of their mouths? They lived, didn’t they?

I found out.


“Why do you want me to do all these things for you? Can’t you do them yourself?” I asked Azriel when he showed up at my apartment one day to give me a chore verbally.

“Because I chose you, Julius, and if you don’t want to do them I can find another person just as easily as I found you.” He replied, his voice empty.

“You talk as if you weren’t a human.”

His eyes flashed, from a gray to a red then back again. “Do you want the money or not?” He still spoke quietly, but with a hint of annoyance.

I nodded, but said. “Can I ask one more question?” He nodded. “Why is this so important to you?”

He thought this over for a minute or two before answering. “Call it a documentary. I want to record all the bad things that can happen to people on film. That’s about the best answer I can give you for now.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. This was just getting out of hand yet the money beckoned to me.

Chore No. 4-

The next chore I had to go over to the East side. I haven’t mentioned the East side before because I never really went over there. The East side was what most people see when they watch a television show of a big city. Sprawling buildings that shone in the sun. Nice cars that held people talking on cell phones while they’re driving to their kids’ basketball game. Couples walking hand in hand, romancing over their favorite restaurants or places to go. Of big city hot shots in clubs trying to pick up women and bitching about not getting laid. Chicago. It held everything.

I was to make my way to the Kole Corp. Headquarters in the middle of the East side. It was a sixty-story glass and steel building that was the stock exchange for Chicago. It was a multi-billion company that made or lost millions of dollars each day. A place that I could only dream of working for.

The chore: To go in and record the chaos that reigned after I made a call to the Customer Service desk saying there was a bomb in the building. It sounded easy so I took the job. As I walked through the lobby and towards the pay phones, I couldn’t help but wonder why Azriel wanted me to do this. But the money was good and it would keep on coming. At least I thought.

As I made the call I opened the camcorder and put it down above the payphone where it could get a good view of everything that happened. I also hooked onto it a transmitter that would send the footage to a laptop computer outside in my car. The computer was given to me along with the transmitter so I wouldn’t have to go back in after the police and bomb squad was called.

A female voice answered from the Service desk. “Customer Service desk for Kole Corporations. Jenny speaking. How may I help you?” The lady, Jenny, said this quickly and in a bored manner.

I made my voice higher pitch and spoke. “THERE IS A BOMB IN THE BUILDING. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES TO GET EVERYONE OUT OR ELSE GOODBYE KOLE CORPORATION.” I hung up the phone and walked towards the exit. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lady get up from a desk near the Customer Service Center and make her way to a man standing near a door marked ‘Employees Only’. She whispered something and he nodded, saying something in a microphone connected to his earpiece.

An alarm sounded and a calm, soothing females voice rang out from speakers all over the building.

“Everyone in the Kole Corporation building, please make your way to the EXITS in a calm and orderly manner. This is not a drill. Everyone in the Kole Corporation building please make your way to the EXITS in a calm and orderly manner. This is not a drill.” Repeatedly this voice spoke the same two sentences.

I walked outside and made my way to my car. Inside I opened the laptop and saw what was happening. Apparently, no one made their way to the EXITS in a ‘calm and orderly manner’. Everyone was running to the EXITS, scrambling and pushing against one another. The elevators were packed with people coming down and the stairs too with people running down.

I had to chuckle even though I knew this was serious. These people were so worried about their own lives that they might in all their scrambling and rushing kill one of the people rushing with them. I soon heard police and fire truck sirens coming towards the area and I decided to leave lest someone think I was being suspicious.

At home lay another three grand and a note saying good job. The chores varied from day to day. Sometimes they would be a simple chore such as taking a gun to a place and dropping it off, to as hard as intoxicating people and dropping them off somewhere. I began to feel with each passing day and each passing chore more invincible. I knew that I could be caught or this Azriel person could turn me in; since he had all the videotapes. But hell, he didn’t turn me in for the knives, or the whores, or the bomb threat, or anything else that I was told to do. So why would he now? A simple reason, setup. I got busted. Or to say, I was turned in.


After a chore that involved hiding stolen guns into a shed three blocks down from the apartment, a caravan of police cars came driving into the parking lot of the apartment complex. There had to be at least eighteen police cars in all, and in each one there were four policemen.

I felt ill.

I was in my car at the time counting my money that I had been saving to open a legit business. I stuffed everything into a hole in my seat and covered it with a McDonalds bag. The police all stopped, and the men inside got out, carrying their Police Issued Colt .45s, and I was on the verge of shitting myself.

My mind raced with thoughts. Am I going to prison or can I make a deal with them? I need to get myself a good lawyer. Did Azriel know about this?

Three policemen stepped up to my car and opened the door. The first one spoke.

“Julius Makaer… You’re under arrest for the selling of weapons to minors, of the use of controlled substances, false alarm at the Kobe Corporation, aiding in the kidnapping and rape of one Vanessa Wilkins (A person that I was told to tie up in her own house and immediately leave after.), using counterfeit money, selling impounded weapons, intoxicating multiple civilians, distributing alcohol to minors, et cetera and et cetera. You have the right…” He read my Miranda Rights and handcuffed me. I was too speechless to talk. How did they find out about everything that Azriel paid me to do unless he set me up?


I was booked and sent to the West side Police Station. There I was briefed by a lawyer paid by the state since my money was counterfeit apparently. I was told that I could get a maximum of life in prison if I was convicted of all charges set against me. The minimum, eighty-five years in a maximum security prison. I felt like shit.

I was convicted on all charges and was sent to Rutherford Maximum Security Prison thirty miles out of Chicago. The place wasn’t so bad a t first, until I pissed off a group of people calling themselves Hells’ Angels. Total cliché. That’s what led my ass in for one hell of a beating.

The leader, Ray Koke (sounds like a drug name), and his bodyguard, Louie Frank, were the two in front of me, beating the shit out of me. The basement of Rutherford was merely an old solitary confinement center with four rooms that were padded and pitch black inside. The pole was used for holding people while the guards either beat the shit out of them or soaked them with a high-power hose when the prisoners got a little rambunctious. That was the pole I was tied too, and Louie Frank was the three hundred pound bodyguard cracking my ribs with satisfied grunts every time they broke or something popped.

Koke had a thing for knives. He said while showing me his knife, that he had quite a collection before he was sent to Rutherford before being busted raping a fifteen year old. He skimmed the knife over my body, letting it scrape the layers of my skin off.

It hurt.

Rutherford was a prison that had been around the States for decades. It was based upon an old Civil War fort that was abandoned by the Yankees due to overcrowding of African-Americans coming from the South. It was ran by the state and was considered one of the lower priority prisons. Meaning, the guards were paid poorly and took their position lazily. So the gangs of the prison were the real guards. If you didn’t watch yourself, you would get your ass kicked. Or worse, raped.

Back to the basement. Louie was beating the shit out of my ribs, which were turning yellow and green while Koke was skimming a knife over my back.

That’s when the guards showed up. They knew what was happening but didn’t take the time or energy to stop them, deciding that the two could make me learn respect.

The guard, O’Reily, an American born Irish alcoholic who came to work smelling of whiskey or rum, slurred at Koke. “Okay Koke, ye had yer fun. Time to let the pulp go to de infirmary.”

“Okay cap…just teaching Julius here the meaning of respect.”

“How ye feelin’ dere Julie?”

“I’ve been better…not so bad here as I was fucking your mother.” I said, bringing up blood.

“Why you dirty son of a bitch!” Growled O’Reily, taking out his nightstick and continuing the beaten.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

The beating lasted another half an hour and by the end I was so sore and thoroughly beaten that I didn’t speak, just laying there on the floor in my own pool of blood in the fetal position.

Which led me to of all places, the Kole Corporation. The owner of it, a guy that went about by the name of Feyrnel, asked, or in my opinion, bribed the state to let me out of prison and into his personal custody. I was pretty much his bitch.

The guy was weird. His golden hair and eyes creep me out, along with his royal manner.

I was fixed up at the indoor infirmary at the KC and I had a couple of cracked and broken ribs, enough damage to my face that required a lot of Vicodin to keep off the pain. But, I was alive and not in the state penitentiary.

He told me that Azriel was caught and dead. Good. He also told me that the reason why he wanted me to do all that was because he wanted payback for some wrongs that he gathered over the years. Like what, I asked.

The first chore was just a test to see if I would go through with the shit that he had planned for me.

The job with the whores…apparently they slighted him when he tried to buy their services.

The bomb threat was one of the bigger chores, Feyrnel told me. Apparently, Azriel was working for a guy named Salikarr who worked in the Middle East. The job was to get the plans of one of Feyrnel’s more important projects. And because of my distraction with the bomb threat, it succeeded.

The others were just for other personal slights against Azriel.

I guess I was duped.

“So what are you going to do with me?”

“Give you a legal job.” He answered with a small smile.

I was startled. “Really?” I asked skeptically.

He nodded. “You will have the job in our research department since you know so much about different technologies, and especially of your expertise in weaponry.”

I started to laugh, thinking this was a joke. I cut short when I noticed that he was serious.

This little story of mine ends pretty much right here. Feyrnel was serious about the job bit and I grew to like the fellow, except for his eyes. Those I would never get use to.

I also learned about why Azriel wanted me to do all the chores that I did. But that is somebody else’s story, so I'll let him tell it. So for now…Adieu.


Julius Makaer-March 19, 2006. 6.56PM