author: DebuCatto
“General ger Reizenghest: step forward.”
The voice of The Leader echoed through the lengthy room, smooth but strong, deep but biting; it reminded Amon of the stones on the shelled-out volcanic beaches near the primary front. He did as he was told, the floor of the private meeting room creaking beneath his boot steps, a thin layer of perspiration plain on the bulge of his thick neck.
”Two successful captures conducted in the last 24 hours, sir.” he began, instinctively squeezing one hand into a tight fist, the silver-beaded necklace in his grip making a soft *crk* against the polished leather of his glove.
“One expired today at 0600, following interrogation. The other-”
“You didn’t *fall* on him, did you?” the Leader spoke, the corner of his lip curling ever so slightly into a semi-bemused smile. The others in the room— medal-clad captains, the hulking Surgeon, svelte assassins— remained unerringly stone-faced.
“…No, sir.” He replied, feeling that void rising up in his flabby stomach like antimatter. A whisper of a whisper, echoing back and forth through his core, growing in intensity. Amon swallowed it down, his collar suddenly choking, and continued on, “Exsanguination. The information he released will be tested by a reconnaissance team. The second prisoner will be interrogated upon the termination of this meeting today.”
“Very well. Send me the results as soon as they are ascertained… oh, and Amon?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cut back on the sweets, will you? You’ve set the standard for unwavering dedication to this country, but that compulsion of yours… unsightly. Do better.”
The void was in his throat now, choking him like a stone.
“Yes, sir.”
The train ride to the prison was his second favorite part of the day. It gave him a chance to rest, collect himself, remove these goddamn tight boots… and most importantly, have lunch before the real work began.
A short, boyish waiter did his best to maneuver two meal carts into the spacious train car, sweet and savory scents carried through with him.
“Your meal, General. Should I call you General? Oh, dear, I never remember…”
Amon took a draw from his cigarette, blowing the acrid puff in a smooth stream across the train car, and put it out in an ashtray by the window. He never looked at the waiter, too busy at a low table, plotting pins on a map centered between stacks of papers all stamped “Confidential”.
“Leave the carts.” he ordered, pointing back at the connecting door. “I’ll ring you if I need more.”
“I-I, uhm-” the waiter stammered, a bit taken aback by the sudden request. He set two platters back down and bowed, quickly shuffling back to the door. Before he left, however, he turned back and mousily chirped, “You’re looking very fine today, General. I hope you enjoy your meal.”
And with that, Amon was left alone. He took in a deep breath, reached down, and undid the large round belt buckle on his front. Instantly, it practically burst out of his grip as his belly spilled forward unfettered like a fat sack jelly, soft and supple rolls of flesh surging into his lap. The polished leather of his waistcoat creaked with the strain of holding it all in, equally shiny pants doing the same. He felt both lucky and cursed that his uniform was primarily leather; lucky that it was sturdy and a bit stylish, cursed that it hugged the twin globes of his vast ass and squeezed his blubbery belly into one great obsidian ball. Sure, his back was covered by the tail of his coat, and his chest was partially disguised by the multiple layers of his upper uniform, but his gut… it bulged out for the world to see, squished around belts and buckles and pushed the zipper of his jacket up. It was unavoidable, but at least it made him seem more imposing… at least, he hoped. The bulging muscles of his arms didn’t hurt in that aspect, anyway, though even they seemed to have a tinge of broad softness about them these days.
None of this was of any concern right now, however. The only concern he had, he thought, pulling the lid off one of the covered trays next to him and bringing the dish to the top of his belly…
…was how flaky the butter cake was today.
The rest of the ride was spent with little else but the savoring of fine flavors, each dish as decadent as the last. Silky ganache truffles were plucked from polished trays, their intricate chocolate patterns appreciated only momentarily before being sent down to his hungry belly. Latticed pies with dustings of freshly cultivated sugar were consumed with little fanfare while he perused the marks on the map ahead of him, mind split among rich flavors and front lines, travel routes and creme fillings. He only brought his attention fully back to the food when the sky outside vanished; the neon glow of the low-energy tunnel lights filled the cabin with an unearthly atmosphere and bathed the map in shadows.
“Ah well,” he sighed, taking a bite of eclair. “For the best.”
He’d need to build up his energy for when he reached the prison, he reasoned. Interrogations always left him a bit tired, after all, and he had plans for the night beyond. And what better source of energy than a hearty breakfast and a quiet moment? So, with one hand on his half-packed gut, he leaned back, finished the eclair, and declared it time to move onto the main course.
Amon was waiting by the door when the train pulled into the station. He adjusted his vest— feeling twice as tight as before the trip— and straightened his collar in the reflection of the door windows. Satisfied with his appearance, he drew a cigarette from his chest pouch and lit it, the orange glow from the lighter mingling with the red light of the security checkpoint. He loved the way the colors mingled; if only they’d let him add some of that color to his uniform. Sure, he was allowed a bit of red here and there, and his medals offered a patch of vibrancy against the black, but he wanted something that was really *him*. He made a mental note to get with his tailor tomorrow.
The doors slid open in front of him, the train car rocking ever-so-slightly as he stepped onto the platform. Just as he did, four soldiers rushed up to him, each clad in the same drab uniform: white shirt, black tie, black pants, all wrapped up in a militant black trench coat. They regarded him with hesitation, or what seemed to be hesitation; it was a little hard to tell how they were feeling, as every common soldier had their head wrapped in featureless black fabric.
“Well?” he huffed, glancing around at each of them. They each turned their heads to eachother, shuffling gently.
“Clear me, you goddamn fools, and open the gate!” he snapped, growling out at them with fists clenched at his sides. The all jumped simultaneously, two rushing to his wide sides to give him a once-over scan. They had to spiral around him to capture the full breadth of his form, something that frustrated him every time.
“Quickly.” Amon spat, venom seething from between clenched teeth.
The two by his sides gave thumbs-up signs to the other two soldiers waiting on either side of the large subterranean entrance to the prison, who each pressed buttons in their respective booths. The screen above the huge gate flashed a green checkmark, followed by a scrolling “Welcome, General!” in the swirling text of his native tongue.
He left them with darting glares, but they didn’t seem too bothered; they just regarded him with salutes as he passed into the corridor beyond, the large iron doors grinding back together behind him.
A cold wind wrapped around his wide body, a welcome comfort on the long walk through the halls beyond guard offices, captain’s quarters, bunk rooms and resting areas. By the time he reached the elevator, his feet already ached and he had to rest against the wall of the elevator to catch his breath. He’d said it before, and he’d say it again: the interrogation room was much too far from the entrance. Why bury it so deeply? They were already deep beneath the earth, and nobody’s ever screamed loud enough to be heard through a mountain.
“It’s good for you,” The Leader had once said after he proposed a relocation of his working space. “Perhaps if you walk it long enough, you’ll lose that gut.” Only after a long grumpy silence had he said he’d think about it, and the work order was sent out only to be lost between the wall and filing cabinet belonging to an overworked desk boy.
The elevator doors opened at the bottom level, beneath even the normal prison cells. The hallway was well lit, cobbled floors glistening gently from the daily mopping, disinfectant strong in the air. Amon walked slowly to the door at the end of the hall, boot-steps reverberating strong and brief along the walls. He produced a key, twisted it in the lock; he’d always insisted on the old-fashioned nature of the interrogation quarters, down to the heavy wooden door and candelabras. It almost made the spacious room feel displaced from time. A place plucked out, made solely for pain.
The prisoner was waiting for him beneath a swarm of hanging chains that clinked gently above. He looked strong, all bulging muscles and squared features. He had a cloth wrapped around his eyes, and shackles on his hands and feet, holding him fast against the uncomfortable wooden chair.
“Come to kill me?” the prisoner asked, leaning his head back.
“Not if you talk.” Amon breathed, placing his coat on the hook by the door. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, contemplated taking his gloves off for this one.
“Then you’re just gonna have to kill me, ‘cause I’m not feeling chatty today. Say, you mind taking this blindfold off, though? I prefer to look death in the face.”
Amon said nothing, just wandered slowly behind him to untie the bow of his blindfold. And just as slowly, hands behind his back, he stepped out in front of him.
“Aw shit.” the prisoner gulped, suddenly presented with the hulking jailor. Eyes darted across the glaring, blue-eyed visage above him, from the devilish inverted red pyramid on his lower lip to the bullish golden ring in his nose to the high cheek bones that gave his face a snake-like sharpness. Amon could see his stomach collapse, the air— and courage— rushing right out of him.
“W-Well,” he gulped, trying to regain his composure. “Aren’t you a pretty one.”
Amon swiped him across the cheek with his fist, shallow enough to just graze his teeth. He needed him to talk, after all.
“Enough.” Amon barked, leaning in close. “Battle details only. Give me something useful.”
The prisoner clenched his eyes shut, wincing away the pain.
“Fuck, okay,” he said through clenched teeth. “Details…”
Amon grabbed him by the jaw, squeezing his face painfully. “Now.”
“Okay, here’s one: it feels like a marshmallow.”
Amon’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Your gut, on my knee, feels like a fat, warm, squishy goddamn marshmallow. How’s that for details?”
The grip held a moment, tightening ever so slowly around his jaw. And then, Amon released, turning to take slow steps toward a polished wooden cupboard just beyond the sight of the prisoner.
“What’s the matter? Can’t take the truth?” the prisoner laughed, throwing his head back.
“Thinking.”
Amon pulled the cupboard open. On one side, a tidy row of records shelved just above a little boxy record player he’d received from his mother for his birthday.
“What?”
Slowly, he pulled open the other door, mind still wondering what to listen to after he was done, what could possibly wash away what he was about to do. Behind this door, similarly tidy, were a number of instruments; whips, surgical instruments, knuckle dusters wide enough for his generous hands. Strong but soft hands moved across the tools, fingertips ghosting past metal and wood and stone. He stopped when he reached a simple iron-core baton, the surface painted with a thin layer of protective rubber. Not for safety, of course.
“Thinking,” he repeated, wrapping his hand around the baton, glove creaking with the force. “Of how I’m going to hurt you.”