Everyone Lies by A. Garrett D. Page A

tighter. No air. His boss’s face fades from the edges, Dip’s heart slows, falters.
    *
    He hears voices, first, in the dark. He knows he’s not dead, or if he’s dead, he’s in hell, because it’s his boss’s voice he can hear, and Beefy’s. He tries to be still. They are discussing which to use next: Slendertone or pliers. Beefy is standing at the box, helping him choose. Jackal is standing where he was before, so Dip thinks he can’t have been out for long.
    ‘Let’s ask him. Which d’you want, Dip?’
    The boss’s back is turned to him, but he must have X-ray eyes or something, because when Dip shakes his head, he says, ‘Mate, you got to choose. Slendertone or pliers?’
    ‘I never messed you about, Boss. I always played it straight.’
    ‘I know it’s a big decision. I’ll give you a minute.’ He reaches inside a padded shoulder bag, takes out a laptop computer, turns it so that Dip can see the screen.
    Oh, shit, they’re going to record it. They’re gonna put me on fucking YouTube. His wife would see this. His fourteen-year-old son.
    His boss makes a final adjustment, standing on the far side of the box and crouching to eye level with Dip, checking the height.
    ‘Made up your mind?’ he asks.
    ‘I won’t choose. Please don’t make me choose. I didn’t do nothing.’
    ‘D’you think we should go with the pliers?’ the boss asks Beefy. ‘I think we should go with the pliers.’
    ‘Boss, please, Boss. What the fuck—’
    The boss laughs. ‘What the fuck? What the fuck? You can see it going round and round inside his head, can’t you? What the fuck did I do? ’
    The boss balls his hand into a fist and raps once, hard on Dip’s skull. ‘Think. You know what you did. Now make up your mind.’
    Beefy hefts the pliers, a question on his face. The yellow plastic of the handles is stained a brownish red.
    ‘I can’t. I can’t.’
    His boss says, ‘The pliers.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I think that was a decision, Beefy.’
    Beefy frowns, but he sets the pliers down.
    The boss picks up the grey pebble-shaped controller for the toning machine, and offers the Jackal two metal rings. ‘Put these on him.’
    ‘Cock rings? You want me to touch his cock?’ Jackal shoves his hands in his pockets.
    ‘You’re just out from four years in the nick – don’t tell me you’re squeamish.’
    Jackal ducks his head so low between his shoulders his neck disappears.
    ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ The boss ditches the cock rings, flings the wires at him instead. ‘Here, use the clamps.’
    Dip feels the bite of metal in his scrotum, and he howls.
    His boss slaps him, open-handed, across the face. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’
    Jackal attaches the second clamp and Dip screams again.
    ‘I mean it,’ the boss says. ‘You’re getting on my nerves – shut the fuck up.’
    Dip presses his lips together, but can’t quite stifle the sound.
    The wire jacks are connected to the controller and the boss squints at it. ‘Okay, so …’ He presses a button and Dip jerks, but feels only the tearing pain from the metal clamps. Even that begins to fade, receding to a dull throb.
    ‘You have to press that one, Boss,’ Beefy says, pointing.
    ‘Pleaseboss, pleaseboss. Pl eeeease .’
    ‘Oh, this one?’
    Dip shrieks. Molten steel pours down his cock, his balls are aflame. He fights his restraints. He screams, pleading for it to stop, but the words don’t come out right.
    ‘What? I don’t know what you’re saying, mate. You’re not making sense. You’ve changed your mind? You want the pliers, is that it?’
    He’s crying, he doesn’t want the pliers, he doesn’t want anything, except to make it stop.
    His boss presses a button, and the pain subsides, but he can still feel the aftershock as tremors rippling across his lower abdomen. His thighs are shaking, rattling the legs of the chair, sending it jittering a few inches across the floor.
    ‘Please stop,’ he whispers.
    ‘I know what you’re thinking,’