ysabetwordsmith | Poem: "Why Retribution Has Come Upon Him"

This poem was written outside the regular prompt calls. It fills the "mad doctors" square in my 10-1-20 card for the Fall Festival Bingo. It has been sponsored by Soupshue. This poem belongs to the Dr. Infanta thread of the Polychrome Heroics series, but it follows the mad science storyline in Officer Pink.

Warning: This poem contains intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. It features the aftermath of mad science torutre, the inside of Carl Bernhardt's head, because Charlie is always a warning, a prison break, Dr. Infanta and the Undertaker being scary, vengeance, graphic description of torturing someone to death, Go Home Charlie, and other mayhem. Please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.

"Why Retribution Has Come Upon Him"

[Tuesday, October 6, 2015]

Carl Bernhardt had waited,
if not patiently, at least deliberately,
for several months after his conviction
before he began watching opportunities
to escape with any serious intent.

There were so many, after all.

It wasn't like anyone else
could keep up with him.

He was a Super-Intellect.
It was ridiculously simple
to outthink the guards who
dared to hold him captive.

No jail could hold him
if he didn't want to be held,
and he wasn't one of those
pathetic little hangers-on who
worried about their reputations.

He had better places to be,
and important things to do.

So one dark autumn evening,
Carl slipped through the routine,
picked pockets and locks, and
let himself out the back of the prison.

He infiltrated a laundry truck while
it was being loaded, and nobody
checked laundry that had, after all,
already been checked indoors.

He rode it off the prison grounds,
but not much farther; when it stopped
at a light he ghosted out the back.

The woods were empty of
everything except shadows
and a low, moaning wind.

Or so he thought.

"Hello, Charlie,"
said a voice like
the wind. "We're so
glad to see you here."

They stepped out of
the shadows then,
a vast black horse and
a little girl on his back.

"What -- what are you doing
here?" Carl said, backing away.

Already his mind began calculating
escape routes, weapons, probabilities ...

"There is no satisfaction in vengeance,"
she said, "unless the offender has time
to realize who it is that strikes him, and
why retribution has come upon him."

Carl scoffed. "You're no judge and jury,"
he said. "They already had their turn,
and you can see where it got them."

"No, we're the executioners," she said,
her teeth gleaming faintly in the darkness.
"You decided to decline the hospitality
of the white hats, so now it's our turn."

"Somehow I think the authorities would
object to that," Carl pointed out.

"They can try," she said calmly.
"Carl Bernhardt, you have tortured
and maimed and murdered for
the last time. Your life is forfeit."

"I've heard that before," he said,
putting a large oak tree between them.

The horse phased through it like dark smoke.

"Then tonight we'll play it out again,"
she said coolly. "Run from us."

Calculations, angles, possibilities ...

If he could reach the road again, he
could time running across it and
let the traffic to kill his pursuers.

That was sure to work;
it had worked before.

Carl ran.

The slope was
slippery underfoot
with dead leaves,
and he slid down it
barely controlled.

Carl could hear
hoofbeats behind him.

He ran faster, risking
injury to avoid certain death.

Ahead he could see cars,
streaks of white and red light.

Much closer and no one would
dare to attack him, not in public --
a few steps farther and he'd have
the road with which to trap them.

A weight struck him from behind,
slamming him breathless to the ground.

Carl struggled to rise, only to find that
his failing body would not obey him.

A hoof the size of a dinner plate
stomped on his ribs, pinning him down.

"Be careful," the girl scolded. "Don't
spill it! We don't want to waste any.
He owes so many people."

The hoof moved, and Carl
sucked in a splintered breath.

Then it came down on his hand
instead, and he shrieked.

"That's more like it,"
said the girl. "You can
play with him while I work."

Her hands found his face,
and the touch burned worse
than that time he'd spilled
acid all over his arm.

Carl screamed, but
nobody came to help.

The heavy horse walked
slowly over his body,
crushing his bones.

Carl could feel the life
draining out of him,
like a rush of blood.

The girl was singing
a mad little tune as
she killed him slowly.

One by one, the lights from
the passing cars faded out.

And then there was nothing at all.

* * *

Notes:

"There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him."
-- Arthur Conan Doyle

Current Mood: busy
Crossposts: https://ysabetwordsmith.livejournal.com/5981129.html

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

*nods* and then they use him as a target at the anything goes games.

From:

kengr

For a super-intellect, he sure was *stupid*.

From:

siliconshaman

He was arrogant. He thought himself capable of out-thinking anyone, so he underestimated his enemy one time too many.

From:

siliconshaman

Well.. the world is just a tiny bit brighter for his absence in it.

From:

technoshaman

Oooh, is either what Carl (disembodied) encounters next (in the context of demons), or what the chaotic-good Doctor does with his recycled energy (in the context of angels-from-a-certain-point-of-view) eligible for today's fishbowl? Because MOAR!!

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