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Part 8 of indebted, a reverse time-skip from Newbie planning a new brothel in part 7

Note: TThis version, due to the fact there are no sex scenes in either version, is identical to the NSFW version.

Trigger warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and gunshot-administered torture, reference to institutional rape, references to violence and weaponised fire, sabotage, discussion of murder to the protagonist, and genetic tampering.

My family wasn't the first. They weren't the last. But they were hard-hit nonetheless.

Unremarkable. Normal. Hard times. Debt. None of us deserved this, yet we had to face the consequences.

Parents, tortured, destroyed, accounts drained. Not enough. Assets drained. Not enough. House sold. Not enough. Nothing was enough. It was because money was numbers and the numbers never ended.

It would have been enough. But their interest rates were too high. We were too late.

Parents, gone. Parents, three metres underneath.

Foster care was somehow worse.

And then i left. Fell on hard times. The parent-abusers made a lot of money. Maybe i could try the same.

I turned to one of my old friends, both of us 19, both of us faced with the true real life.

A 25 year old, too, a business manager. A struggling business.

And his accountant, 18.

Plan: a contract. We'd make our own business. We'd give people money. We'd have dodgy terms and conditions. We'd draw them in, still. When they can't pay, the business manager gets free employees. Very very effective.

Plenty of money for me, too. I'd never be my parents.

"South city business inspectors!", they screamed, banging against the main door. I'd taken a seat here knowing this could happen ever since the north invaded.

Come in, i communicated, mainly by unlocking the door. “What would you like to do?”

“Find and destroy crime”, said the leader, behind him a group of people on clipboards, ready to enumerate everything.

“Plenty to be found. Take a seat, i'll tell you about it. You might need some more paper, i'm warning you", i said. “I'm a loan shark.”

A furrowed brow and serious eyes.

“Our terms and conditions indicate that without payment, we take them to work here", i said. “30% of what they earn goes into their debt, well, actually, i'm not sure. The rest goes to us, bribes and catering."

He scribbled something down. Many somethings. We talked more. We revealed more. we damned the place more. He was shocked. “Guilty of loan abuse, of institutional rape, of bribing, of underpaying, and possibly causing severe familial disruption.”

“I did say you'd need more paper", i said with a reptilian smile. "I'll handle the rest of management, and half of you come with me. There's plenty to talk about. The other half should go to the bedrooms, down the sex rooms hallway, all the way to the door with the double Venus sign. It's locked strong at night, so don't bother trying. Knock down the wall of the adjoining bedroom instead." 

“Free everyone. That's important”, i added.

I hadn't checked whether the humans had successfully escaped into their safe-rooms. They likely heard before me. Their bedroom was closer to the center of the brothel, in any case.

Well, stupidity kills. Tonight was the night i could finally finish my plan. That was most paramount.

The team split down the hallway. I felt a pang of guilt for sabotaging my co-workers like this, but i knew it'd hurt more to let these poor souls be raped by yet another day here.

Money no longer interested me. It was paper, really. It was immature to care for it, i thought. Take what you need and live comfortably, i thought. Keep money away from your main priority, i thought.

I was always bound to this place by the manager's contract. Since he'd gone missing, the contract was on the edge of flames, on the edge of irrelevance. That was one of the main terms.

I took my group of inspectors, about 6 of them, up to the management area. A stab through my heart. Our humans. The inspectors were fanning out, checking rooms. My humans, my responsibility, they were there. How were they? Were they comfortable? Were they being shot by the bedroom-invaders? Where were they?! Where?!

There were 10 saferooms, spaced around in groups of two. It's the kind of impulse purchase the brothel manager did. Noted; impulse purchases have shitty reasoning but shitty reasoning is still reasoning. Humans should be safe. Everyone will be safe, then.

My humans were here. They needed us to keep them safe. The werewolves? They'd never need any sheltering from society. Once they leave, they can knock on the government's door and rebuild their life from their support. The humans had no such rights.

I was too impulsive. I let my desire to sabotage the brothel get in the way of my desire to preserve life. It was too late now, though. I hadn't the time to finish my planning.

I heard the inspectors behind me knock desperately against a saferoom. The same old shout, the same threat; “Humans, out or face a fate worse then death!”. They always started assuming the worst, and slowly lightened their threats to coax people out. I really did hope someone smart was in there, someone who looked past it. It was a trap. These safe-rooms are expensive for a reason. They'll protect you. They're terrorist-grade, and some faux-military unit, barely armed with their tiny human-proportioned “incapicitator” will never even scratch the outside. Keep the door the fuck closed.

I was so glad no saferoom doors opened. A week's worth of provisions for each werewolf in the capacity rating. That was a little annoying to me. These portions were all meager and all-too-carnivore-friendly. I can't put fruit there, because they'll rot. The unrottables were too hard to get. Poor humans.

“There's nobody in the saferooms”, i lied to an inspector. “We keep them locked and stocked with supplies; condoms, sex toys, plan Bs. We don't care for our workers at all, you know, being illegal.”

It hurt for me to say things like that, because it set me on yellow-hair's path, the path which turns you into a mite as horrific as the brothel manager… was. Well, at least i hope he was.

“Really?”, he asked. Well, i think “it” would fit better. Willing to kill a human for simply being different dehumanized you beyond what little humanity remained in a werewolf.

“Yes.”

I led him to a safe-room. I knew this one. It was the defective one with a hole near the bottom of the bubble. It'd have been the perfect gun-hole to destroy a thigh with, to incapacitate someone. No, i never let anyone stay there.

Inside, as expected, lay the mountains of supplies.

“Talk about long term planning", said an inspector who stumbled back as a loose box of boxes of condoms tumbled to the floor.

“Safe-rooms contain rations for about a month, so not that long-term.”

Another lie. This is where we kept our Plan B Plan Bs; the Plan Bs who were in reserve for if we ran out. This one was dated for year-210, three years ago.

“We need to move quick before the management wakes up”, i ushered. These keyholes weren't invincible. Small things were generally delicate and weak, and if made by werewolf hands, almost defective. I was glad these were imported from America. Enough well-paced shots, even with the pistol, and the humans won't see the light of day. They'll see the light of a barrel's flash as their illegal existence ends in a simple balloon-popping noise.

Well, no, it'd be much slower. They like to be slow and methodical. They like to move up. They start with the feet. 5 shots, spread for maximum pain. Then the calves. They shoot from behind and try to shatter the femur. That causes a lot of pain. Pain can be a bitch. And then the kneecaps, best kept simple; one glancing shot from behind and another into the cap itself. Shatter and make sharp. A perversion of one of the north's guiding policies. They loved to misuse words and phrases like this.

Move up. Destroy the thigh. Careful here as you continue. A poorly-placed shot will damage the back and numb the person. So, if a man is the victim, they shoot the balls. A woman usually shoots for the men can't bring themselves to. Two shots, one for each, left first for the basic humans. Right first for the wanted humans.

Instead, go to the hands. The knuckles, the middle, the middle of the wrist, a glancing blow across the forearm.

And that's almost done. Let them writhe for 15 minutes. And then shoot across their neck. Be careful to shoot through the Adam's Apple, to maximise suffering.

Drowning then happens, through blood.. Slim Joe knows this procedure. He studied the law dictating it and told me about it. I gave him advice to calm down for he was a little traumatised. I really hope he hadn't told newbie. I could tell he still had some aspect of naïvety left in him. Don't demolish the child spirit, a resilient butterfly. Protect it and nurture it.

Because there were 9 humans, they'd make sure to distribute the shots. Everyone would have their turn for each bullet. Slowly, excruciating, destroy the inner spirit before the body. And that's the way to punish humans. The true, great grudge. I was almost impressed by just how dedicated they were to ensuring humans were scared to come here.

No, i made sure we reached the accounting rooms. A poor prostitute was at work on sums. A team of sum-doers. We broke the Curta by accident; it was too delicate for our hands. Now we use brains instead. It works better to keep people in line, Yellow-Hair often said. It was torture, especially when you had a team of dumbos. You needed at least 3 people of 5 to agree before a sum was accepted. And if there were 3 dumbos, tough luck; you'll still be punished for the “wrong” sums.

And in the rooms nearby were the filing cabinets. Exhaustive info on every prostitute who had ever come to work of us. The internet-form was always asking for that info. We just needed to fill two boxes here; category and nickname. That's why we always “tested” our new clients. I used to enjoy it but apart from newbie, who provided novelty, i hated every session and did them only out of contractual obligation. I'll miss newbie, i guess. I'll miss the rest of the humans.

I had a look at the one still on the table. Category: I. Wing: Gay. Nickname: Newbie.

“Why is species tippexed and replaced with ‘werewolf’?”, quizzed the peering inspector.

“Their big hands make spelling errors on the human-sized laptop. We fix it.”

“If its just werewolves, why do you even need ‘species’?”

Fuck. Better lie. Let's go quite far off track. “Do you know of Prachet-Irving?”

“Of course, standard primary school material.”

“What if i told you that some of the abominations he made still existed?”, i started.

Wait, i know how to make this a not-lie…!

“Do you know of the sex dolls?”, i asked.

“Enlighten me.”

“They're a special class of creature, thriving off conflict and drama. Prachet-Irving wanted them to help in theater. What they tried to do was hang around the conflict-barer and, and, a-”, i trailed off. I had forgot about them. “Shitty lives they have but they're not conscious, i think.”

“Oh, you jogged my memory. We should have rid them a long time ago. They're back?”

“Yeah. What did they do?”

“If the drama doesn't stop, They disappear for a little while and then… and then they focus it onto the cause. How many did you have?”, asked the inspector.

“One in the gay wing, three in the lesbian wing, seven in the straight wing", i said, well, admitted, really. “All just stopped existing a few days ago.”

“That explains it”, he said. “The cursed eleven. Prepare for the hell of a time.”

This is folk superstition; they're sex dolls and they chase drama, but they never fight fire with fire.

Well, fire… oh, i love fire!

Yellow-arms arrived, groggy. His bedroom was the furthest from the outside.

“Why the actual fuck have investigators arrived?”, he asked.

“They forced their way through to here, couldn't stop them”, i lied.

“Then why were you explaining Mr Troy?”

Fuck, he was listening. YOLO, IDGAF, here's my chance to express my opinions.

“To damn us", i said. I wanted to watch yellow-arms flame up.

“You'd never. I had shelved doubts that you were loyal a long time ago.”

“I hate it here. We're fucked either way, too”, i said, to quote Muscle Mike. Yellow-hair didn't like Muscle Mike. ”Attack me and the brothel is still going down, or maybe you can run away, and the brothel is still going down."

“You're asking for a fight, aren't you?”

I simply punched his face in return. Too much drama. Blood is better, anyways. I always made sure to donate mine.

“I've recorded every note of cash's serial code. The notes are in a flowerpot near the entrance, the one with the dying plant", i shouted at the inspector. I was taunting yellow-arms too! The inspectors would get there quicker then yellow-arms, at least after what i'd do to him.

He was staring at me, gearing up to attack back at me again. I wasn't quite qualified in fighting. The inspectors wouldn't waste their pretty bullets on him too; we were both complicit. Less to worry about if one or both of the criminals dies due to their drama. Less prisoners.

No, i'd have to take him out myself, i realised. I swung a fist at the bridge of his nose. Don't make this hard on me. I've never wanted to hurt anyone.

He retaliated with a solid swing at my stomach. I didn't care much for his tired reaction and i stepped back. I watched some blood pour out of his nose.

“Yellow-hair?! More like red-hair!", i teased, watching the blood make its way into his hair. It ran past his lips and into his chest, dripping in beautifully formed droplets. Your sin is red and i can see it leaking out of you.

What a beautiful liquid it was! It dripped like honey from his abused nose, infecting every strand of his hair it could find, every centimetre of skin it could find, the tacky wooden floor. Blood is beautiful and to watch this devil bleed his sins out like this was perfect.

He stared at me in disgust. I could see him rile up yet another punch. I brought up a different one and aimed it at the head. It sent him spinning.

He fell, ready to be finished.

“And i hope you stay the fuck away from me, monster”. I swung my final punch at him, careful to give him a simple blackout, a simple concussion. Don't make him sleep too long. That'll be bad when the ethanol gets hot. Let him wake up first. I want him to panic. I want him to fucking suffer. 

He was handled. I told the inspector to leave for an hour. I told him it'd be incredibly dangerous for him to stay. He told me he needed to get some supplies anyways, so he'd be leaving.

It was a dumb idea to leave a criminal, like me, in this sex den. But it was a very good idea to leave me here. You'll never have to deal with The Spice Restaurant anymore.

I went to the bar downstairs. There was a continuous line of prostitutes leaving the building. The faces were lost with a kind of shock, some euphoric, some anxious. You're better off now, don't worry. Half of the prostitutes were women. Great, they're evacuating the straight wing.

I took from behind the counter a Jerry can. Pure ethanol. Don't breathe in the fumes. 

“Careful of the dizziness if you're going that route”, Skinny Joe had said to me just a few days ago. He was a clever chap. He read so much. What was he doing as a prostitute? “Get out of the space as soon as you can. The disorientation will hit eventually, and you're on the way out if that happens."

The safe-rooms stay cold, don't they? Air-tight, hopefully. Well, fuck it. I don't give a fuck.

Raw ethanol. Two jerry cans, each holding 40 liters of the stuff. It's a little lighter then water, so even with the weight of the can it won't be 40 kg. That's good.

I watched the prostitutes trickle away until none remained. And i began dousing the main room in the alcohol. Do i feel dizzy? I should open a window. Vapor point 13 degrees. It's 20 here, plenty of evaporation. Ignition point, 370 degrees.

The carpets were not going to come back from this. The tacky wallpaper isn't coming back from this. The floorboards aren't coming back from this. Nothing's coming back from this. NOTHING! NOTHING, OH GLORIOUS FUCKING NOTHING!

Pure euphoria. No more crime, no more rape, no more shoddy shit. NOTHING'S COMING BACK…! AT FUCKING LAST!

I went through the holes in the thin bedroom walls to spread my ethanol there. I poured a lot. I was going dizzy. I had to move quick now.

The lesbian's main room was much more utilitarian then the gay one. It was a common stereotype here that lesbians had a bunch of sense and not a bunch of time to waste on frills. It was appealing, a mezzo-futuristic kind of room. Some plastic really helps a fire. Crystallised oil. 

I poured in the straight wing, too. A boring room. The gay room was about being vintage and neoclassical. Here, modernity was what mattered. Follow the latest trends blindly, i guess.

The entire brothel was covered. The plastered-up cracks, too, were covered. They didn't dissolve, as i was half-expecting. Lawyers are slimy liars, after all.

I trotted upstairs, into the sex rooms. Beds absorb a lot of ethanol. Very good fire-starters.

I passed into management. I was sure to douse the filing cabinets in the alcohol, the debt records, the identity records, everything we used to track down our prostitutes. Not the money, though; it was mostly fireproof and it'd be very important to give our humans a starting chance in this cruel world.

Red-arms still slept. I doused him in enough ethanol to keep him asleep.

I covered every part of this place in the ethanol. You'll never have another person into your trap again.

Back to the gay wing, my wing. The bar had matches in it. They were used to light our various “spicy” cocktails. Oh, what a beautiful cocktail i had brewing here!

“Never light a match in a room with flammable fumes", said Skinny Joe once. "Only light it where you're safe from the explosion.

I stepped out of the brothel. The cold night air, fresh and unpolluted, brought me back to my senses. A pang of guilt at the childhood friend left lying there. No, he deserved it.

I set out a long line of ethanol, a good 50 metres from the brothel's corner.

And i struck the match. A flash as an explosion moved to hit the brothel. The walls were strong, but the windows weren't sealed An explosion would rock the brothel.

Wait, no, that makes no sense. Explosive limits 3.5%-19.0%. The upper end of this limit was above human tolerances. Werewolf tolerances were a little higher. It must have evaporated more in the time it took to walk back. Lucky i had escaped, damn.

The fire worked its way through the ethanol and into the building. It was a torch of paper as the flames came to grip it like our clients gripped our workers, the heat powered by an external cause, an external obligation.

Boom, at last; air got in. The walls buckled and the whole place exploded.

I felt something change inside me. I felt almost guilty, but i could replace that with euphoria. It felt amazing to know that the majority got what they had been wanting. It's been too long.

Guilt, again. The humans'd be lost. One thing i knew is that they'd be in the country that hates them. I wish i could help them without helping the crime. 

I walked away from the torch i set alight. The brothel was so large it had merged all the buildings it once connected to, save for one house i was planning to turn into a library. Well, the plans had fallen flat.

I ran from the brothel to let it burn without my involvement. I didn't want to hear yellow-arms dying screams.

And i looked back at the brothel. The uninformed outsider would never expect that such a typical house would feature such a dark inside. Look good, hide the bad things deep inside. There was plenty inside, too.

The occasional once-hiding prostitute somehow still trickled out as flames spread across the roof. Luckily, no management trickled out. Not that there were any left.

The handcuffs clicked into place and i was dragged into the police van.

And i saw him in the corner of my eye, the Minotaur, smirking wickedly at what we had done to ourselves.

Stay tuned for part 9, in which newbie helps setup a new brothel