More Public Humiliation Whump (READ WARNINGS ⚠️)
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Aka my magnum opus, in my humble opinion.
⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour
2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.
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Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.
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You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.
The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.
Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.
"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."
There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.
You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.
But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.
The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.
You hadn't seen Whumper approach.
He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.
You hadn't seen Whumper approach.
You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.
Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.
It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.
It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.
(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)
Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;
"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".
He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.
"Please."
The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.
Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.
"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."
You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.
Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.
People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.
"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."
"Did- I didn't-"
You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.
Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."
There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.
You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.
You reach Whumper's side and look down.
The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.
His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.
You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.
Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.
"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.
You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.
You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.
But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.
You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.
"No."
Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.
"Say that again?"
He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.
You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.
"No, Sir."
Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.
His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.
The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.
Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."
The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.
But it may as well be packed to you.
Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.
You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.
You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.
The gun stops at your inner thigh.
Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."
He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.
The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.
If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.
Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.
The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.
"I'm sorry."
The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry-"
He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.
"Show me, then."
Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.
Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?
You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.
The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.
"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."
You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.
You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.
For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.
There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.
Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"
You breathe in and choke.
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