SPOILED, part 17 (Patreon)

Arthur Sweet was blearily aware of the barn doors opening, of Ben Townsend being thrust back into the pen opposite his own, a long trough being set up before the lad and filled with hot dogs - bloody mountains of them. The young man’s foot was then reshackled, and he got to work eating.

Arthur couldn’t watch. He couldn’t think. All he could do was swallow and swallow this grainy, slightly sweet, porridgey substance that never seemed to stop flowing into his mouth from the tube they’d stuck to him. If he stopped, his cheeks ballooned with the stuff and he began to choke. There was no choice but to keep eating. And eating. And eating. He’d consumed so much now, he was positive his stomach was nearing rupture point. His throat was sore beyond belief. The warped skin around his massive, distended gut wailed in agony. So long had this forced feeding gone on, Arthur’s belly had billowed out of his shirt entirely (which now hung in vague rags about his mammoth torso), his belt had given up trying to murder his waist and had snapped cleanly in half, offering a moment of brief relief from this unending torture; even the seams of his trousers were giving way. 

He hadn’t slept. He could barely keep his eyes open. Breathing was becoming a greater effort the longer this went on.

Manni…

Visions of his partner swam dreamlike against his eyelids. Where was Manni? Was he safe? If they’d hurt him… Arthur would… he would… So hard to think. He just had to keep swallowing… Keep swallowing…

He looked over at the Townsend boy through watery vision; he was knelt before the trough, attacking the hotdogs. Why were these people doing this to him? What the bloody hell was going on? All this copious food, the forced feedings… Didn’t make any sense… 

But Arthur knew one thing: He had failed Ben. And Jamie Beck, and the other lads… and even Manni…

Where are you, Manni? I need you…

Time lost all meaning. Arthur had no idea how long he’d been hooked up to the feeding tube anymore. When he refocused his eyes, he saw that skinny lapdog of the huge man’s cleaning out Ben’s trough and then stepping over to the feed silo and pushing its lever back into the upward position. After a moment or two the substance stopped flowing. The extra 24 hours was up. It had finally fucking ended.

When Law came by to remove the tubing and mask from Arthur’s face, their expression was one of warning - Do not act up again.

Arthur couldn’t’ve fought back if he wanted to. His body was about to pop. When the mask came off, he sucked in great lungfuls of fresh air. It was glorious! He then felt the restraints loosen around his wrists behind him, and he was at last able to lay his hands down, though standing upright felt too great an ask just yet. He simply remained downed, breathing in the cool night air, vaguely aware of the skinny waif locking his pen back up with a glare and leaving the barn.

It was dark in here now. Just Arthur and Ben. A crow cawed outside, the sounds of farmwork long ebbed. A soft wind rustled the crops outside. 

‘Detective Sweet,’ Ben’s voice spoke unsteadily between the pens. ‘Are you awake?’

Arthur went to shift himself into more of an upright position - Jesus fucking Christ, his body felt heavy! How much had they forced into him? It was like he’d been poured full of concrete.

‘Yes lad,’ he grunted as he managed to prop himself onto his fat arse which felt more encased in padding than ever. ‘I’m up.’ He was already exhausted. 

‘Are you okay?’ Ben asked.

Arthur needed a moment to catch his breath. ‘Oh yeah, I’m just dandy,’ he managed between pants, but then gave more thought to what this boy had been through, the power of cognition seeping back slowly. ‘Don’t you worry about me. Tough as old boots, I am.’ He waited another moment for his breath to return; it was hard going. ‘More importantly, are you okay? Have they hurt you?’

Silence for a while.

’Not… not really... Yes and No. I don’t know...’ Ben replied quietly into the darkness. ‘They just… God, I don’t even know where to start.’

Arthur shook his head, fighting the mother of all food comas just waiting to take him. His body felt so, so heavy.

’There was… another bloke with me, back at the castle. Did you see what happened to him?’ he asked.

‘Was that the other detective? The Manni guy you were asking about? I didn’t see him, no. I’m sorry.’

Arthur felt a cruel pang shoot through his laboured heart.

‘That’s… that’s okay, lad… That’s okay…’

Oh, Manni…

For a long while neither spoke again. Arthur’s digestion was apparently nowhere near done; breathing was not getting any easier.

‘I will…,’ he started, and faltered. ‘I will get you out of this, Ben. Whatever the fuck this is.’

He heard the young man sigh.

‘You can’t fight them,’ Ben said. ‘They’re too powerful. They’ve got their fingers in every pie you can think of, every resource, even the police.’

‘Yeah, we found that one out the hard way,’ Arthur muttered ruefully. 

‘It’s a massive organisation,’ Ben continued. ‘They call themselves The Rookery. Did you know that already? How much do you know?’

‘Not much, lad,’ Sweet had to admit. ‘Rookery eh? Explains all the bird shit.’

This elicited a faint laugh from Ben, who then went on to relay everything he’d learned. He told of his time with Mr Wren, Mr Falcon, and now Kingfisher. He spoke of horrific scenes he’d witnessed - of a handyman who’d been inflated with compressed air until he literally burst like a balloon (‘Christ Almighty!’ Arthur exclaimed). Ben mentioned anonymous tip-offs he’d been receiving ever since this started, with still no clue as to their sender. There was an extremely small band of resisters within the organisation, it seemed.

‘That’s what the old morse code was all about, was it?’ Arthur asked. ‘We saw it coming from a tower in the castle. Manni made a run for it, but I… I couldn’t keep up…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ben said. ‘Yeah, I tried. The castle chef helped me, but I only went and fucked it all up.’

‘Oi, no you didn’t,’ Arthur replied heatedly. ‘No you didn’t. None of this is your fault, you hear me? These people are fucking mentalists, and I will find a way to shut them down, Ben. You mark my words. They won’t get away with all this.’

What neither of them had realised, however, was that at some point the barn doors had inched back open, slowly enough to avoid their usual creak.

‘Is that so, Detective?’ Mr Kingfisher drawled, pacing in from the cool night. He flipped on the barn lights and let his thick boots fall in lazy footsteps between the pens. Tonight he’d chosen to pair his tight flannel and denim with a rather grand stetson. ‘You are gonna shut us down…’

Arthur tightened his jaw. He could still taste the thick porridge-like substance in his throat. This time, however, he didn’t speak.

‘And how, pray-tell, are you going to do that?’ the huge man carried on. ‘You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t fucking care.’ He raised his voice to address the pair of them. ‘Gentlemen, I am seriously disappointed. I have invited you here, into my home -‘

‘Oh, spare us the bloody theatrics, you prick-‘ Arthur piped up.

‘YOU SHUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FILTHY GODDMAN PIE HOLE, OLD MAN!’ Kingfisher suddenly bellowed. It was so loud the barn might have even shaken a little. ‘I AM SICK TO -‘ He swallowed, took a breath. ‘I am sick to death of hearing your ungrateful whining complaints.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to be happy about being locked up in your little funhouse farm, having fuckin’ donkey feed pumped into me mouth? Where are my manners?’

’So, on account of your staggering lack of respect or gratitude,’ Kingfisher plowed on, ignoring Arthur’s acidic sarcasm, ‘you leave me with no choice. I think we’re going to have to get you both hooded up. I’m sorry, Ben. I really did want this to be special for you, I wanted to save it for a special occasion, but… Let me tell you, this one here? He’s gnawing on my last nerve, and quite frankly I need to shut him the fuck up.’

‘What?’ Arthur squinted at the massive man. ‘What do you mean ‘hooded’? How’s that gonna - Ben, what’s he going on about?’

But when he looked over at Ben he saw only raw terror on the lad’s face. He was shaking his head like the apocalypse was coming.

‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Kingfisher answered, and clicked his mighty fingers above his shoulder. ‘Law! Get the pig hoods and the tar! We’re doing this tonight. Right now.’

* * * *

This had to be the place. It had to be. A perimeter fence, high but scaleable, barb-topped, one dirt road going in and out, and a checkpoint manned by two brawny-looking farm-types. Silos and barns off in the distance. This had to be The Farm.

From his vantage point among the nearby trees, Manni Dey had watched SUVs come and go all day, their drivers always of a portly build. It’d been the same back at the castle; these people had a hard-on for fat. Manni supposed he couldn’t exactly throw stones in that particular glass house.

It had gotten late, the sun dissolved. Perimeter lights had all come on, and the last car to leave had departed about an hour ago. Guard rotations seemed to have stopped too. Perhaps this place was packing up for the night. 

He had to be sure. Had to plot his move carefully. He’d come too far, hitchhiked too many times to fail now.

Arthur was beyond that gate, along with a whole heap of trouble, if that Locklandrie goon was to be believed...

Manni eyed the perimeter guards’ movements with laser focus. If only the floodlights hadn’t come on, he could have snuck past in the shadows maybe.

He waited, and watched. 

There had to be a way in.

* * * *

Law returned, flanked by beefy farmhands, with two black leather pig hoods and a heavy bucket of thick tar. Mr Kingfisher took these with a grunt of thanks and looked each of his fattened victims up and down thoroughly.

‘Now, which of you should go first?’

Arthur, fighting the incredible weight of his body, had brought himself to a standing position, and now rattled the bars of his pen with renewed rage. 

‘Enough with your bloody kinky S and M bollocks already. What good’s a mask gonna do? You wanna stick a carrot up me arse and all?’

Kingfisher gave a smile that was almost regretful. He looked to Ben.

‘You didn’t tell him about Old Bill, did you?’

Ben shook his head, his mouth entirely devoid of moisture. He felt his heart might explode. He could hear blood rushing in his ears. ‘I didn’t get that far...’

Mr Kingfisher then turned back to the wild detective, and proceeded carefully to line the inside of one unzipped pig hood with the thick tar using a decorators brush. The gloopy substance appeared the consistency of treacle. 

‘Oh, my dear detective,’ he said without looking up from his task.

At a nod from their Master, the large farmers opened up Arthur’s pen and manhandled him against the wall, gripping his arms and head.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Sweet roared. ‘I’ll bloody crack your skulls, the lot of you!’

‘Soon, all will be quiet, just you wait,’ Mr Kingfisher told him, now slowly making his way into Arthur’s pen, tar-laden hood in hand. ‘Once this goes on, it never comes off. It’ll keep your mouth wedged wide open. You’ll no longer need to see, or talk, or complain ever again.’ He glanced back for a moment. ‘Law, you remember the first pig we ever did this to?’

‘Yes Sir,’ Law responded.

‘Remember how he cried and wailed and tried to make begging sounds through the hood?’

‘Yes Sir,’ said Law. ‘He tried day and night to pull the hood off.’

Ben was pretty sure he was going to be sick.

Arthur’s eyes turned livid.

‘No! No, you fucking dare...! You fucking try it, you sick fuck...!’

‘Oh, I still remember those panicky little screeches he used to make,’ Kingfisher reminisced happily ‘when it started to sink in - he was gonna spend the rest of his life in that pig hood. Never talking. Just eating and eating. All for me.’

The huge man startled chuckling to himself.

‘You’re a fuckin’ psycho...,’ Arthur uttered, forgetting to fight back at the restraining heavies.

‘Please,’ Ben whispered. ‘Please don’t do this to him. Please...’

Mr Kingfisher held the hood open carefully in both of his massive hands, its sticky innards facing Arthur, getting closer.

‘Don’t you worry, Ben, we’ll get to you soon enough,’ Mr Kingfisher replied, focusing on his task, cautious not to get the tar on his own fingers.

Arthur tried as he might to wriggle and turn his head, but the farmers were too strong, their grips iron. The hood was inches away from his face.

‘No...,’ he breathed, feeling his chest hyperventilate. Beads of cold sweat ran freely from his forehead. ‘No...! No!! You fuckin’ dare!’

‘It’s better this way,’ Mr Kingfisher whispered. ‘You’ll see.’

And he brought the mask to the terrified detective’s big round face -

All went black.

‘What the fuck?!’

The barn had been plunged into darkness. The outside Farm too. 

Kingfisher stopped. 

‘What the fuck just happened?!’ he roared.

His lackies were umming and ahhing. Ben couldn’t see a thing. He had no idea what was going on.

‘Someone’s tripped the breakers!’ Kingfisher’s voice boomed in the blackness. ‘GodDAMMIT!’ Ben heard him stomp back out of Arthur’s pen. ‘Leave the fuckin’ pig! Get out there and find out what the FUCK is going on! Law, you’re with me! Get to it, all of you! GET!’

There was much kerfuffle as the party made their exit in complete darkness. At some point someone kicked the bucket of tar and swore, but after several confused moments the barn door swung closed, the only sound being Kingfisher’s muffled, incensed psychobabble, baying for blood.

* * * *

It didn’t seem possible, but Manni’s prayers had been answered: the lights had gone out. All along the perimeter fence, and within each of the distant farm buildings, every light just... died in an instant. 

He watched on as the two stationed guards clearly panicked under the moonlight, unable to agree on how best to proceed. After much gesticulating and finger pointing, one of them stormed off, back into The Farm, leaving the other farmer stationed at the front gate by himself.

This was as good as it was ever going to get. If Manni was to infiltrate this place, now was the perfect window of opportunity. He moved fast. The gate was now closed, annoyingly, so he ran quietly along the perimeter edge until he was just out of sight, and leaped onto the chain-link fence. He’d not given much thought to how his fingers were supposed to support his entire hugely-bulked weight, but was fast learning the answer was Painfully. He clambered quickly, doing his best not to rattle the metal, then awkwardly undid the jacket he’d tied around his waist and threw it over the barbed topping. It made for an uneven cover, but it was the best he could do. As he drew his hefty bulk across the top, he felt stings and nicks scrape into his flesh - the jacket doing a poor job indeed. But once over to the other side, he pulled his jacket back. Only it wouldn’t budge. It was snagged on the barbed wire. Manni cursed to himself but gave it up. No time to worry now. Who knew how long this blackout would last. After some descending, he jumped the last couple of feet. 

It produced a louder thud than he’d been anticipating, his bodyweight clearly heavier than he realised.

‘Who’s there?’ the far, echoing call of the gate guard. 

Manni saw a flashlight being fumbled with, and couldn’t be sure a radio wasn’t being sought, so he made something of a rash decision: 

He charged headlong at the guard. It was a bit like his old rugby days back at Cambridge, only now his massive piston-legs practically flew him toward his target. In seconds he connected, and knocked the torch - and the breath - from the farmer. They both skidded into the earth, mud and dust flying in the moonlight, and before the man could react, Manni thrust the taser into his side, keeping up the shock until the guard’s body fell into limp unconsciousness. 

‘That’s one down,’ Manni breathed, standing and brushing himself off.

He felt the beard that was starting to come through from his days on the road, not shaving, not stopping, pocketed the taser and grabbed the burly ragdoll farmhand, slinging him over one shoulder. Better to hide the sleeping body somewhere.

Manni gazed toward The Farm, its outline just visible beneath the stars, and took a moment just to breathe. 

He was in.

‘I’m coming, Arthur.’