#murdock/murderplier | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

Text

Day 4: Amputation

(Disclaimer: only four of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Caliban here. For more information about Azalea, go here. For more information about K.O., go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, and if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. To learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here. And last but certainly not least, for more information about R.D., go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: cannibalism/implied cannibalism, torture, blood, gore, dismemberment, exposed bones, mentions of eating/drinking, descriptions of illegal business, knives/blades, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

“Feeling any better, Cal?” Murdock queried, titling his head as he leaned against the wall. This might’ve been an odd thing to hear from a hitman, but Caliban had known him for years now. He knew how to dissect his words, how to tell when he was being at least somewhat genuine.

Sure, there was sadistic mockery in Murdock’s tone right now, but even someone who didn’t know him like Caliban did would be able to tell that it wasn’t being directed at him.

Caliban nodded, offering a semi-positive hum as he carved another piece from the freshly-cooked muscle on his plate.

From one corner of Caliban’s den, a shaking man tried to join the conversation with a choked, gurgling holler. The gunman was still capable of producing sound, but he’d also had to gulp down mouthful after mouthful of his own blood while Caliban put a tried-and-true lengua recipe to good use. (Boiling first, searing second. Ooh, that’d been so good. . .)

“Is tonight the first time you’ve used this thing?” Murdock nodded at the chair he and Caliban had wrestled the gunman into a little while ago.

Caliban paused, thinking as he swallowed the last bite of his dinner.

“. . .I guess so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no actual reason.” Murdock shrugged. “That just makes this kind of special, don’t you think? I get to be here to see you start breaking in my gift.”

Caliban couldn’t help but sputter a laugh. “I thought you said you didn’t put any stock in the niceties.”

“Hey, don’t act like I can’t be fickle.” Murdock preened at his hair, his smile growing even more devilish than before. “That’s how I get my work done.”

The chair in question—or, The Throne, as Murdock called it—was crafted from iron rather than wood. Thick leather straps complimented by heavy metal buckles were attached to the arm-rests, the front legs, the stiles on the back. Its design was simple, yet a bit more interesting than a mere folding chair as well as far, far more uncomfortable.

And it was, indeed, a gift. One the hitman claimed to have built himself as an apology for a few past fiascos that’d happened down here. Needing to restrain a person wasn’t an uncommon task for mobsters, but sometimes mobsters just couldn’t control where they ended up having to do the restraining. And winding rope around Caliban’s block kitchen island never failed to be awkward and frustrating.

Murdock had really gone the extra mile via sneaking into this den on Caliban’s birthday and presenting him with The Throne when he’d ventured down for some standard butchery. (True, he probably should’ve fired that idea at someone else beforehand, since Caliban nearly threw a steak knife in his face when he leapt out of the storage closet holding The Throne almost like a battering ram, but it was the thought that counted.)

“So, what’s next?” Murdock continued, stepping closer to hover by his accomplice. “Between the cooking and the dining, you’ve had plenty of time to brainstorm.”

“Well. . .” Caliban dragged out the word, a conspiratory glint in his eyes as he set his cutlery and now empty plate down in the utility sink. “We both know I’ve gotta take my time with this, right?”

“Obviously,” Murdock chuckled. “Vengeance is best when it’s dragged out nice and far and slow.”

“That’s the thing, though. I can’t get much out of this,” Caliban turned his head to snarl at the gunman, “unless he’s kept somewhat fresh.”

Murdock pursed his lips in consideration, following the cannibal’s gaze to look the gunman up and down. “I mean, you’re thinking of a piece-by-piece basis, right?”

“Golly-gee willikers, what gave it away?” Caliban confirmed, his voice fluctuating between deadpan and sarcastic curiosity.

“I don’t know. Guess I’m just that good,” Murdock bragged, in on the little act. He paced in a small circle, folding one arm against his chest and slightly raising the other to scratch at the hair growing along his jaw. “I’d put my money on this guy being able to last for about a week. You could just start tonight, then go on a three-day-schedule from here and end it on the third.”

Caliban chewed his lip. Remnants of medium-rare flesh and iron were still in his mouth. He knew they’d have to fade away eventually, but he also knew just how deliciously stubborn those particular flavors could be. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Murdock’s face brightened with unorthodox glee. He aimed finger-guns at his colleague, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

Caliban strolled over to the block-island, searching through its drawers and fishing out a number of tools to set down in a line on its countertop. Metal gleamed against the harsh light beaming down from the ceiling. Though his den hadn’t exactly been silent since Caliban and his guests had entered, a sudden cacophony of dull scraping and squealing still made him flinch. He looked up to see Murdock dragging both the gunman and The Throne over to the opposite side of the block-island.

“I thought this might make things a little more convenient,” the other hitman announced in response to the questioning glance he was given.

“I mean, sure, it will,” Caliban agreed, “but you don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“Who the hell said I didn’t want to? It wasn’t me, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him,” Murdock replied, gesturing to the gunman—or, more accurately, to what was left of the gunman’s tongue in his bloody, gaping, sobbing mouth. “I’m available all night. I don’t have anything scheduled this week. As a matter of fact, none of us did,” he added, momentarily narrowing his eyes as he snatched a handful of the gunman’s hair and gave it a harsh tug.

Caliban raised his eyebrows as something else besides schadenfreude wormed its way into his expression. It was good to be reminded that Murdock was just as angry about what had happened to Azalea. Sure, he didn’t have the same bond with her as Caliban did, but he was still a strong friend.

“Alright, then. Nice of you to keep me company.” Caliban made his way to the other side of the block-island. He knelt down before the gunman, unfastening some of the restraints around his left leg. “Y’know this means you’ll be handing the tools to me.”

Murdock clicked his tongue, rolled his visible eye at the sight of Caliban’s smirk. “Ffffffine,” he eventually relented with a sigh. “But if you try calling me a nurse, I swear to God—”

“Hey, under the right circumstances, I think you’d make a great nurse,” Caliban protested, snickering. “Repo! would have nothing on you.”

“. . .I mean, of course it wouldn’t,” Murdock snidely agreed as he leaned forward, resting his arms on The Throne’s top back, the perfect combination of casual lounging and looming.

After tossing the gunman’s shoe away, Caliban used a pair of Metz scissors to cut through the top half of the gunman’s pant leg. He then wrapped his hands around the gunman’s calf, digging his nails into bruised, goosebump-covered skin.

In response, the gunman writhed, attempting to kick Caliban in the chest. It wasn’t like all this movement would stop Caliban from doing what he was about to do, but it was still incredibly annoying.

Murdock seemed to have read Caliban’s mind, because he reached over to pluck up his accomplice’s Satterlee saw. He shifted it in his hand so that it was upside-down, then hauled off and slammed the blunt end against the gunman’s temple.

The gunman’s head snapped back. His eyes practically rolled in their sockets, pupils dilating. His mouth gaped like that of a fish. His leg fell limp, still shaking. Blood didn’t start trickling from the side of his head. His breathing didn’t grow quieter.

“. . .That’s not what the saw is meant for,” Caliban mentioned. And he was correct: blunt force trauma was a hell of a thing, but it would still take several more blows for the saw’s metal handle to kill.

Murdock offered a snarky hum. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Caliban couldn’t really deny that. He half-shrugged-half-nodded, then held out one expectant hand. “Scalpel, please.”

“That’s what I thought,” Murdock murmured as he set the saw back down and exchanged it for the requested tool.

Caliban took the thin blade and held it similarly to a pencil. It glided along as though the gunman’s skin was warm butter. The gunman whimpered and convulsed, but he couldn’t be aggressive about it. The pain now thrumming through his skull was probably too overpowering to allow that.

In less than a minute, the middle of the gunman’s thigh was fully encircled by a deep red line. “Boning knife,” Caliban called as he let his bloody scalpel clatter. He was just barely in time to add, “No, that’s not permission to joke about it for the twentieth time.”

“Wha—no, c’mon, I haven’t made nineteen jokes about it,” Murdock scoffed, though he still handed the blade over.

“Yes,” Caliban argued, pausing to look the other mobster dead in the eyes. “Yes, you have.”

Murdock glanced away for a second or two, probably recounting all the times he’d sprinkled innuendos into torture sessions. He then remembered the task at hand and simply shook his head. “Oh, whatever.”

Caliban made sure to hold the blade equal to the diameter of the first incision, then slid it underneath the first layer of flesh.

He coaxed the knife back and forth, back and forth.

Blood came gushing out. It coated his hands in a matter of seconds—though it didn’t seep through his gloves, he could still feel the heat oozing off of it. The scent of iron drifted into the air, almost as warm as dryer exhaust.

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

Although Caliban didn’t put an excessive amount of force behind the knife, droplets of blood were still sent flying to splatter against his apron

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

Even if the gunman hadn’t been screaming in agony, it still would’ve been difficult to hear the soft, slick noises his flesh made as Caliban’s knife moved farther and deeper.

Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik

Caliban turned his wrist as he carved, guiding the knife toward skin that hadn’t been massacred yet. At the same time, he leaned to the side and craned his neck as he lifted the gunman’s leg a bit higher, giving himself easier access to the other side. It shuddered violently, but that wasn’t too disruptive. Caliban could tell that the act was more instinctual than intentional. It was hard for one to move their limb when something was actively slicing into it. And when the natural desire to survive clashed against that. . .well, the psychology of it all was probably better off not being looked into.

Sooner or later, flesh was hanging in thick tatters. Blood had now formed a small pool, which didn’t wait to start trickling down The Throne's seat and legs. Caliban moved back and released his grip on the gunman’s popliteal fossa. As the mangled leg limply collapsed against the chair, he reached over to pinch the top half of his handiwork, pulling it up and over.

Muscles and tissues shone in a horrible way.

Red and raw and oh-so appetizing.

For a normal amputation, the semi-attached wedges of skin would’ve been stitched up to convince the amputee’s skin to knit itself back together, scarring over and healing into a relatively smooth stump.

However, this was anything but a normal amputation.

Caliban was efficient, severing those chunks of meat and setting them on the block-island’s counter. They would’ve just gotten in the way otherwise. He stabbed the boning knife into one of them and left it there, like some strange amateur recreation of Excalibur and The Stone.

A thick, glistening white shape was finally on display in the center of the gore.

The gunman’s femur.

Caliban smirked as he prodded the bone with his index finger, eliciting a dull, porcelain tap-tap-tap.

“I bet that’s what most people think a bone-deep needle feels like,” Murdock proclaimed. “Not that I’ve felt one myself, but still.”

“Maybe,” Caliban mused. “Now’s the time for the saw.”

“Right, right.” Murdock grabbed the saw once again, presenting it with a bit more of a flourish this time.

Caliban could see his reflection in the wide blade; he knew from experience that he’d still be able to see himself when it was soaked in red. The first few strokes were a bit tricky, but it still took little time for Caliban to ease the saw into a grating rhythm.

Ssshhh-Rrrr-shhhrrrr-shrrr-shrrrrr

(Technically speaking, Caliban could’ve used it for this entire process, but that would’ve led to strands of flesh getting pulled up and tangled on the tool’s teeth, and he already had a big enough mess to clean up soon.)

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

A chorus of miserable, wretched cries crawled along the mutilated remains of the gunman’s tongue and up into the air. They were very much unintelligible, but Caliban could still guess at what his victim was trying to say.

Still working the saw, he looked up just in time to discover how Murdock was grasping either side of the gunman’s head, forcing him to watch everything that was happening to him. Caliban tilted his head a bit, nodding at his accomplice, then bared his teeth in a snarl, letting his narrowed eyes drill into the gunman’s horrified, watery ones.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought twice,” Caliban growled, “before you tried to take…pot-shots…at…my…SISTER!”

Ssrrrruuuuh-CaRrA-A-ACk!

Finally, the femur gave way under the tool’s weight, snapping in two—not cleanly, but well and truly. Either of the severed ends boasted jagged splinters, sort of like a broken stick. (Then again, broken sticks weren’t typically slathered with blood or dripping with marrow. They also weren’t known for making awful, organic popping sounds when they snapped.)

Caliban dropped the saw, then reluctantly grabbed a few rolls of cloth bandages. He wrapped them in tight layers around the gunman’s new stump; he wouldn’t be surviving long enough to properly heal, but just letting him bleed to death would have defeated the whole purpose of this venture.

Red spots were already spreading underneath the fresh gauze, but Caliban’s focus had already shifted to the eight-to-twelve pounds of fresh meat he’d just cut. Unlike those of the frog legs in many a middle-school science lab, the toes failed to twitch. The severed end wasn’t actively bleeding, just leaking. Not enough to be a problem in the face of a few sheets of butcher paper.

Caliban shrouded the leg before giving the stray chunks the same treatment. He then gathered them all up to carry across the den. He pried open the chest freezer in the corner, which was already stocked with similar, unassuming bundles. To the eye of an untrained outsider, this would look like something you’d see at the butchery section of the local grocery store.

Murdock snapped his fingers for a long few seconds. “Hell of a show.”

“I try my best.” Caliban couldn’t help but give a slight bow as he turned away from the chest freezer. “And that might as well be it for tonight.”

“Sure thing. We need to get a move-on anyway.” Murdock took hold of The Throne’s back post, hauling it and the freshly-made amputee back over to that one corner of the den. He harshly boxed the gunman's ear, then wiped his hands and glanced at his accomplice. “I need to go get my car from The WormRoll’s lot; I can pick you and Aza up from Aftertaste? So we can head to the base together?”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” Caliban answered as he carried his blood-soaked tools over to the utility sink. There, he shed his apron and gloves before turning the water on. “I just need to clean up and grab Snare.”

“Alright, see you then.” Murdock’s words seemed to linger in the air for a few more seconds after he disappeared through the den’s door.

___

Two days later. . .

Somehow, the art fair had resumed its activity, and the detours that’d been set up at the ends of certain streets made Caliban’s typical route take a bit longer. He soon came upon a thin two-story structure that boasted narrow windows and a yellow paint job. A garage filled out the dwelling’s bottom right half, next to a steep set of concrete steps that led to the front door.

It was on the front corner of the neighborhood, slightly distanced from the other houses and right across the street from downtown’s entryway.

Caliban pushed a button to open the garage, then reached over to detach a leash from the harness that had been fastened around Snare’s neck and belly. A pinstripe pattern made said harness as distinguished as it was adorable; that wasn’t really a surprise, considering Azalea had sewn it herself.

Yes, there was plenty of space in the hare’s hutch (Caliban had constructed it himself, so he’d made damn sure of that), along with a comically large hamster-wheel. But all pets required enrichment to be healthy. So what if he got a few weird looks when he took Snare out for walks?

Speaking of Snare: he’d been riding shotgun because he deserved it, but he quickly abandoned his curled-up position in favor of bracing his paws against the passenger dashboard. And for good reason. As Caliban pulled into the garage, it would’ve been impossible not to notice another car waiting inside, leaving just enough room for him to park. . .

Caliban’s eyes widened. His mouth stretched into an excited smile as his vehicle’s engine stopped rumbling. As he unbuckled his seatbelt, Snare bolted over the center console and across his lap to scratch at the door further inside the garage.

Caliban raced to open that door, just barely remembering to close it behind him as he and his pet all but burst into the kitchen. (The main kitchen, mind you.)

He made his way through the living room, into his bedroom, and there she was: the brilliant, sarcastic, gorgeous woman with the softest head of brown hair who had helped his sister find her footing in underground business. The same woman who’d chosen to be with Caliban in spite of how obvious it was that he’d never have a chance at deserving someone like her.

R.D. took her focus off of the half-emptied suitcase on the bed and approached, laughing as Caliban met her halfway, wrapped his arms around her, pressed a kiss to her cheek. Snare, meanwhile, ran in circles around both of their ankles.

“You’re home!” Caliban proclaimed.

“I’m home!” R.D. agreed, playfully ruffling her partner’s hair before leading him to sit down with her. Snare hopped onto the mattress and sidled up to her, prompting her to gently chuck him under the chin.

“What happened to your latest plan?” Caliban inquired. “Didn’t you say it would probably take weeks?”

R.D. clicked her tongue, her excitement briefly shifting to annoyance. “Ah, the deal just didn’t work out. The people who’d contacted my team in the first place tried to short-change us. It took a good while for us to gather the right chemical samples, and we’d assumed that they’d gotten everything else together on their end.”

Caliban hummed with sympathy. “The joys of group projects, huh?”

“You have no idea,” R.D. groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s not even the worst part.”

While his joy was strong, Caliban felt his face fall at that statement. R.D. was one of the smartest, most capable people he knew, but it still wasn’t promising to hear someone in the illegal experimentation business gripe about their work.

“What was the worst part, then?”

“Apparently, the other group decided that a test subject was the only thing they needed to provide.” A mixture of sadness and anger seeped into R.D.’s eyes. “And they had the gall to try convincing me to conduct the experiment on a bunch of kittens they’d gotten from a shelter in their area.”

“Oh. . ! R.D., I’m so sorry!” Caliban took one of her hands in his. R.D. obviously wasn’t much better than him or any of his peers in The Pentas Family, but she still knew to be compassionate about certain things (read: things that were actually important). “Do you want me to help take care of those guys? I’m sure I could convince The Boss to send a hunting party—”

R.D. shook her head. “No, you don’t have to worry about that.” A shrewd smile slithered onto her features, chasing away her distress. “The team and I used our samples to cause a little reaction at their hideout. Cop cars were swarming by the time we left. Plus, my assistant managed to steal all those kittens before we took action; he said he knows some people who’ve been looking for new pets.”

Caliban gave pause, but it didn’t take long for him to start snickering, proud and impressed. “God, it’s good to have you back.”

R.D. hummed as her partner pulled her into yet another hug.

For whatever reason, Caliban felt the need to close his eyes as the two of them leaned against the bed’s headboard. Snare clambered around them, holding one of R.D.’s wrists between his paws in order to groom her free hand—kind of like a puppy, but eerily quieter.

Moments like this just seemed impossibly idyllic. . .

“Besides,” R.D. mentioned, “you and your family already have a manhunt on your plate.”

Aaaaannd Caliban’s eyes snapped right back open. He gave his partner a quizzical glance, to which she casually raised her eyebrows.

“What, you think Aza and I don’t talk anymore? If my assumptions are correct, she sent me a few messages about what happened a couple hours after it happened.”

A few seconds of silence passed them by.

“How’s she doing?” R.D. softly asked. “I mean, she was joking about the scar possibilities, but still.”

“Pretty good, all things considered,” Caliban replied, sighing.

Azalea was, indeed, recovering. She had to change out the bandages on her arm and wash the bullet graze once a day. According to K.O., it would take a little over a week for the wounded tissue to repair itself. Azalea wasn’t even close to death.

Things could’ve been much, much worse.

“So, there’s no way you haven’t made a new job out of this,” R.D. declared.

A dry, hollow laugh escaped Caliban’s lips. “Damn right.”

“. . .Well, don’t just leave me hanging like that! I want at least some details,” R.D. admonished in a joking tone. “What’re your plans? Have you tracked the guy down yet?”

Caliban was about to reply, but he was interrupted. Though the underbelly of his home was almost completely soundproof, he and R.D. had learned to pick up on specific noises.

Such as a muffled chorus of thumps shuffling from somewhere beneath them.

R.D. glanced at the floor, then back at Caliban, tilting her head to the side, her face a perfect combination of surprised and unphased.

Caliban shrugged in response, giving her a grin that was an odd mixture of sheepish and menacing.

“Should I take that as a yes?” R.D. wondered aloud.

“Maybe,” Caliban answered. His sinister smirk died a quick death as he groaned, reaching up to knead at his forehead. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

R.D. seemed a bit taken aback. “What’s the matter? You’re already halfway done with this job. Isn’t that something to be happy about?”

“Yeah, but you just got back!” Caliban pouted. “You’re probably gonna have to leave again in a month! I need to spend some time with you while I still can!”

R.D. had been squinting at him, but her soft smile soon returned.

“And you will,” she assured. She gestured to her suitcase, “Look, I’ve still got some unpacking to do. After that, I have to get online,” she then pointed to the ceiling, impling the upstairs room that served as an office, “and organize some stuff with the team; you’ve seen how long that can take. I’m willing to bet I’ll still be busy by the time you’re finished.”

The sourness in Caliban’s expression softened. He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side in that classic You’ve got me there fashion.

R.D. half-shrugged as if to say I know I do. “Do you have any more jobs lined up?”

Caliban shook his head. “Not yet. The Boss said I could focus on this,” he nodded to the floor, “just so long as I’ll be ready to get back to the regular stuff in a few weeks.”

“Alright, then. We can both take tomorrow off and go from there,” R.D. concluded, lightly squeezing one of Caliban’s shoulders.

“. . .That sounds nice,” he responded, carefully leaning against her with a tiny, genuine smile (which may or may not have been dangerously close to flustered).

Another ensemble of dull banging and thudding called up from the floor, as though some amateur percussionist had broken and entered into Caliban’s den.

“Guess that’s my cue.” Caliban announced. He was still a bit annoyed at his and R.D.’s reunion being interrupted like this, but there was no denying the scary sense of excitement that started churning in his stomach. Snare stayed on the bed, still invested in his latest case of zoomies, taking a break every few seconds to demand pets from R.D., who had now resumed unpacking.

“You know the drill: if you do any eating, just brush and floss your teeth when you come back up,” R.D. called over her shoulder.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Caliban promised as he crossed the bedroom and stepped into his and R.D.’s walk-in closet, not bothering to turn the light on.

Even if the entrance to his den hadn’t been so well-camouflaged with the wallpaper in here, he still would’ve been able to find it. . .

@sammys-magical-au