Agent Tim opened his eyes. Face down, looking at the leaf-littered forest floor. He rose on his hands. Agent Tim was alone. Just him in his suit and the wind sighing through the tree branches.

He checked his holster; his Glock was missing.

His keys, wallet, and phone were gone, also.

The wind died. Agent Tim stood up and tried to recall where he was. The last thing he could remember was leaving the office late in the evening.

Agent Tim checked out his surroundings; he was in the midst of a flat, boring forest that could be anywhere between the Rockies and the Appalachians.

No track went through the tree trunks.

No relic of human habitation stood out.

He was well off the beaten path.

He checked himself. Nothing pained him. No headache or dizziness to indicate head trauma.

From three feet behind him, the sound of stealthy footfalls crushing leaves spurred him to action.

Wheeling about, he prepared to defend himself.

A Herculean man in VSR camo towered over him; his right hand grasped a long matte black dagger.

The man seized Agent Tim’s throat. Agent Tim tried for a punch to the solar plexus, but the man slashed his arm to the bone.

A dull thump in Agent Tim’s chest followed.

The dagger was driven through Agent Tim’s breastbone.

The blade slid out.

And driven in again and again with such force Agent Tim heard his ribs break with each thrust.


A jolt of electricity shot through Agent Tim’s body. His arms spasmed to his naked chest where the dagger went in, only for his arms to be checked by the handcuffs securing them to the scratched and splintered table before him.

“Valery, prod our guest again. He seems still a little drowsy.”

Another shock seized Agent Tim’s body, causing every muscle to clench.

“Alright! I’m awake!” Agent Tim shouted. His eyes came to focus on the man across the table, an older balding fat piece of shit in some rumpled tan suit that looked like it hadn’t been updated from the 1980s.

“Ah! Good, Mister Tim. Valery, enough,” the man across the table said, dismissing Valery with a wave of his hand.

Valery retreated into a corner of the room, his face shrouded in shadow.

The man in the suit leaned back. “As I was saying, Mister Tim, we would like to know the structure of your operation in Donbass. We have already caught a couple of your agents trying to infiltrate from the Russian side of the border. Not very well, I might add.”

Agent Tim gave him a hard stare and said, “I’m FBI. We don’t conduct foreign operations. So whatever you think, you’re wrong. Right now, the finest investigative agency in the world is looking for me. Who the fuck are you?”

The man leaned forward. He looked long and hard into Agent Tim’s face, his right eye’s sclera shot through with blood. “Mister Tim, you may call me Chernevog. And I ask and you answer. Or…” Chernevog looked behind Agent Tim.

Agent Tim came back with, “Well, Chernevog, I got nothing for you.”

“Very well, then. Valery?” Chernevog said.

A massive hand slammed Agent Tim’s face against the table’s metal top. Fists hammered his kidneys.

The beating went on until Agent Tim faked passing out.

He was dragged down a concrete hall before being dumped on a bare floor. A metal door slammed shut. Three bolts shot home, steel on steel.

Agent Tim saw a dark and dank cell. In the darkness, he made out bare concrete walls and floor. In the corner was a thin mattress, a chamber pot, and a plastic pitcher of water.

The only light was a narrow window set ten feet above the floor where an unsteady orange light flickered.

He laid on the mattress and closed his eyes.


A crisp breeze blew across his face; speckles of sunlight danced across his eyelids. Agent Tim opened his eyes. It was the forest again. He was wearing his suit again. He noted it was near noon and started walking west.

He walked for several hours, never seeing a sign of another living being, never seeing a sign of civilization. The first shades of night descended in the sky between the trees.

As he made his way up a small hillock, he paused and leaned on his walking staff to catch his breath. All his walking had led him through more of the same; this small rise was the first real change in the landscape he had happened upon.

Agent Tim felt some hope.

The Herculean man stepped out behind a tree. He had on the same camo, had the same dagger.

Agent Tim took his walking staff in both hands and thrust it at the man’s gut.

It impacted something as hard as a brick wall; the shock numbed Agent Tim’s hands.

The Herculean shot in on Agent Tim and stabbed him in the chest, again and again and again.


The cell door banged open. Shaken at the sound of metal on concrete, Agent Tim jumped up, ready to fight in the dark. Someone struck him in the face and body-slammed him. A dim outline loomed over him.

A Russian-accented voice said, “Mister Tim, we take you to Mister Chernevog. Maybe you’ll answer the questions now?”

Calloused hands seized him and dragged through a dusty corridor.

Agent Tim was secured to the table across from Chernevog who started with, “So, we see if you want to talk. Tell me about your operations in Donbass. Who or what organization of traitors you are in contact with in Russia? What are your operational goals?”

Agent Tim spit a gob of blood onto the table. “Really, just fuck you. I know we’re still in the U.S. It’s only a matter of time before HRT kicks in the door of this shithole and puts a motherfucking bullet in your Gorbachev-looking dome.”

Chernevog cracked a wide smile, revealing a mouth filled with gold crowns and white teeth, veined in blue and gray from heavy metal exposure.

“No, Mister Tim, your HRT will not be saving you. No one can save you. You are beyond that, well beyond that. You are ours. We will do what we want with you. Beat you, mutilate you, even fuck your soul. Have you not asked yourself why they haven’t found you yet? How long do you think you’ve been here?”

Agent Tim thought a moment. “Two, maybe three days.”

Chernevog let out a deep rumbling laugh. “No. Two weeks. Here, Valery, hold Mister Tim’s arm.”

Those calloused hands pinned Agent Tim’s arm to the table and Chernevog told him, “A little something to open your mind.” Then Chernevog slipped a hypodermic needle into Agent Tim’s arm and pushed the plunger home.

‘Take him back to his cell and don’t be gentle.”

Valery walked Agent Tim back to his cell, pausing at random intervals to slam Agent Tim against the stone walls at random intervals.

Back in his cell, Agent Tim searched inch by inch the joints of the walls and floor.

An itching, crawling feeling stole over his skin; a slithering feeling roiled in his guts. He started to feel dizzy and a kaleidoscope of colors played across his vision.

He gave up and let the trip took hold.

He rocked back and forth on his bare mattress.


Agent Tim opened his eyes. He was curled up on the forest floor. He stayed curled up. When a shadow came over him, he stayed. A rough hand clamped over his throat and slammed him against a tree.

His Herculean friend positioned the dagger over Agent Tim’s heart and pressed it in slow. He stabbed Agent Tim seven more times, each with slower and slower deliberation.

His blood poured forth, coating the man’s hand.

Agent Tim towards the end could only whimper one word: “Mother.”


Agent Tim only glowered at Chernevog.

“I see our special cocktail is not to your liking?” Chernevog said, cracking another grin. Agent Tim noted some of the teeth were pointed. “Did it open your mind? Allow you escape from inside your cell?”

Agent Tim only made the “jerk off” motion.

“Ah good, you say we not fuck you? Only ‘jerking ourselves off?’”

Chernevog stood up and leaned against the door. “Valery, show this suka how you give it to American whores.”

The chair was ripped out from underneath Agent Tim. As he stood, Valery yanked down his shorts. Agent Tim could hear Valery undoing his belt buckle.

A goatish body odor wafted into his nostrils.

He sunk to his knees.

A baton was forced under his chin.

He could feel Valery slapping his long, hard dick against his ass cheeks.

Agent Tim jerked back and headbutted Valery.

The baton clattered to the floor.

Agent Tim back-kicked and connected with Valery’s stomach.

Valery staggered.

Chernevog socked Agent Tim in the face, grabbed his hair, and pinned him to the table.

Chernevog, pissed off, shouted in his ear, “You talk or take it now!”

Valery kicked his bare feet apart and ran the head of his cock along Agent Tim’s ass crack.

“NO! I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!” Tim squealed.

Chernevog nodded his head.

Agent Tim felt a white-hot burning pain blast through his anal sphincter. He felt like he had to take a world record-setting shit.

Chernevog kept whispering in his ear, “Pedril.”

Then the ass pounding commenced.

Valery pressed and withdrew the whole length of his shaft slow and hard until he built up to a furious pace. Valery played battering ram on Agent Tim’s chocolate starfish and came inside Tim’s rectum, moaning like a retard in ecstasy.

Agent Tim sank to his knees, his butthole quivering in pain.

Valery redid his pants and stepped back into the shadows.

“Talk, no?” Chernevog asked.

Agent Tim only blathered, “No. No. No.”

“Okay,” Chernevog produced another syringe and injected Agent Tim, “we keep going, then.”

Chernevog exited into the hall.

“You know Valery, I’m going to personally sit in when the CIA waterboards your ass. And I will see to it you get sent to the shittiest federal pen. No nice supermax with 23-hour lockdowns,” Agent Tim turned and giggled in hysteria, “you’re going into the general population where you’ll get properly fucked.”

Valery, concealed in shadow, didn’t say a word.

Chernevog returned ten minutes later with company.

Twelve filthy ugly men packed into the interrogation room. They were dressed in gray dingy stained coveralls.

The B.O. was stifling in the closed space.

Agent Tim looked away from the deformed pig face of the first man who approached as he unzipped grunting in anticipation.

His cock was oozing and pock-ridden.

They took turns.


He laid on his mattress, prolapsed asshole squishing between his ass cheeks. The orange glow was stronger now. The room pulsed in yellows and reds. Roaches swarmed in one corner. Something kept on scratching at the walls.

Agent Tim cradled his head in his arms, sobbing until he passed out.

He dreamed he was in the empty lobby of the federal building. The atrium soared up five stories in clean 70’s Brutalist concrete.

Muted gray light come from nowhere, everywhere.

There were no guards, no workers hurrying to and fro.

Just two figures waiting in the center of the atrium.

A man sitting in a high-backed wooden throne and a woman dressed in Middle Eastern garb standing to his right.

Whole again and in his suit, Agent Tim walked towards them.

His Oxfords echoed in the emptiness.

On closer inspection, he saw the man was stripped to the waist and bleeding, flesh lashed and gouged in a hundred places. A crown of thorns sat on top of his head. Blood streamed down his face.

At first, Agent Tim thought they were a statuary group. But the man looked at him with calm penetrating hazel eyes.

The woman stood still in her black robes; a patterned red veil covered her hair. She wouldn’t look at Agent Tim.

Tim started to ask, “Who are you?” when he found no sound came from his throat.

The man turned away from Agent Tim, turned away and looked at the woman.

Leaves crunched behind Agent Tim.

Mister Hercules was waiting for him. Mister Hercules and his assassin’s dagger.

Blood flowed from stab wounds again.

He mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

The man upon the throne spoke, “That time has come and passed.”


His eyes opened to the sensation of moving, to harsh fluorescent lights passing before his sight. He strained against the straps on the gurney.

Valery’s face appeared before him, the face of the man from the woods,.“You not get up, we take you deeper.”

Orderlies in white hospital gowns and caps wheeled Agent Tim down a grimy corridor.

The walls were covered in writing, in letters formed from excrement and crimson gore. One phrase was written in foot high letters, “Lasciate ogne speranza voi ch’intrate.”

The men in gray escorted another inmate in a straitjacket. The inmate’s face was puffed and bruised, white hair matted with blood.

But Agent Tim recognized him.

“Dan! Dan!” he called. “What is this!? How did they get you?”

“Timmy? Is that you? It is!” Dan, his old mentor from the Bureau, said as he slumped to the floor, forcing his captors to struggle with his dead weight.

Agent Tim bawled, “Dan. They got me, the motherfucking FSB. How! How!”

Dan knelt face to face with Agent Tim, blue eyes wet, croaking between broken teeth, “Timmy. Don’t you understand: they always get us.”

The gurney bounced along. Bodies, parts of bodies black with decay, and other assorted offal jolted the wheels.

“Almost there, my sweet little friend,” Valery said as he pulled aside the grate on an ancient cargo elevator.

They rode.


And down.


Valery got close, “You know, Timmy, those little blue pills that make the penis hard? They not so good for old men. But for young men with problem, perhaps.”

Everyone but Agent Tim laughed. Valery patted his chest; a look of mock sympathy crossed his face.

A memory stirred within Agent Tim, the last time he took that little blue pill. He was in D.C.

Monica, a federal intern, was with him. He remembered her moist love lips, being between her thighs, sliding in her ass, pumping until he orgasmed so hard he went numb pulsating—

Valery knocked him out of his revelry.

“No more for that, suka.


After what could have hours, or minutes, or years, the elevator jarred to a halt.

Agent Tim could see his breath.

They pulled him out into a dark space. His escorts’ footfalls sounded, but did not echo. Something crunched under the wheels.

He looked about and saw a vast floor covered in icy frost.

It extended in all directions. That and nothing else he could see beyond his captors.

They continued for hundreds of yards, miles, millions of inches.

“Don’t move,” Valery ordered him.

One of the orderlies place a square of plywood on his chest, then a fat candle was lit and set atop.

“Well Timmy, maybe this is our journey’s end,” Valery said and left with the orderlies.

They faded indistinct in the shadow.

Agent Tim lay still, the candle’s bright flame his only companion.

He waited.

A time or two he tried to distract his thoughts to ones of rescue, memories of fucking interns, but all fled in the oppressing dark.

The candle burned down.

A rancid tallow smell assaulted his nose in the cold.

Then he sensed something.

Not a sound.

Not a sight.

Not even a smell.

Just a feeling of a mass of air being displaced.

Something towered over him unseen drawing closer.

Until Agent Tim could see.

A face as large as the front of a semi-truck.

The titanic, diseased, leprotic face of Chernevog smiled at him.

Tim screamed howls of panicked fear. He sobbed tears of abysmal despair.

He remembered.

He remembered as Chernevog loosed him from the restraints and lifted him into the frigid air.

He remember as he was forced towards and into Chernevog’s massive, gaping, puss-smeared asshole.

And as he was pinioned and suffocated in the acrid, mucus-filled confines of Chernevog’s rectum, he remembered the massive chest pains that seized him as he fornicated with Monica.

He gulped the feces into his lungs to end it all.


Agent Tim opened his eyes…