"Bang!"
A heavy steel pipe, swung with chilling precision, slammed onto Mr. Henry Lemieux's forehead. The impact was sickeningly dull, a bone-deep thud that reverberated through the quiet study. He crumpled instantly, his legs giving out beneath him, and he hit the polished floorboards with a jarring thump, his head spinning wildly, a sudden, blinding agony exploding behind his eyes.
Mr. Pierce Hattie and Jessica Wicklow, still frozen in their armchairs, their faces slack with shock, hadn't even fully processed Mr. Henry's sudden collapse when a wave of menacing figures surged into the study. Seven or eight burly men, uniformed in dark, practical attire, flooded the room one after another, their heavy boots thudding on the rug, filling the space with their formidable presence.
"Don't move!!!" A guttural roar ripped through the sudden silence, echoing off the walls and making the very air vibrate. Both Jessica and Mr. Pierce flinched violently, startled, their bodies jerking as they recoiled against the sofa cushions, their eyes wide and disbelieving.
"Sh*t! Who are you people?!" Pierce spluttered, his voice a panicked croak, pushing himself back deeper into the sofa, his hands splayed as if to ward off an unseen blow.
"Oh, f*ck, you actually dared to trespass into an official's mansion! Damn it, come… you'll regret this!" Jessica snarled, attempting to rise, his face contorted in a mixture of outrage and burgeoning fear, his words trailing off into a defiant, shaky accusation.
Before either Mr. Pierce or Jessica could finish their angry, trembling shouts, the burliest man among the intruders, positioned menacingly at the very front, lunged forward. With a swift, brutal movement, he swung the heavy butt of his rifle in a wide, vicious arc directly across Mr. Pierce's already pale face.
"Shut up!" the burly man barked, his voice devoid of mercy.
"Ow!!" Pierce shrieked, a high-pitched, raw cry of agony. Along with his scream, a sickening crunch was heard as three of his already weak, old teeth, loosened by years and poor care, were brutally knocked out by the rifle butt's impact. He was sent sprawling from the sofa, tumbling heavily to the ground, his face contorted in pain, his mouth gushing blood onto the expensive Persian rug.
"Mmph mmph…" This heavy, shattering blow seemed to have driven Mr. Pierce clean out of his mind. He lay on the ground, a grotesque heap, his mouth bubbling with dark blood, his eyes wide, vacant, and dazed, staring blankly at the ceiling. A fresh, acrid smell filled the room as his pants, already soiled with excrement and urine from terror, became even more saturated. He lay there, utterly broken, unable even to articulate a scream, only soft, incoherent mumbles escaping his lips.
However, he wasn't miserable enough. Jessica, a man whose corpulence belied a surprising agility, a man who had famously dodged conscription in his youth through cunning, saw the burly men now fully occupying the room. A primal, desperate will to survive surged through him. With a sudden, clumsy burst of adrenaline, he lumbered up from the sofa, wanting to use his immense, heavy weight to tackle one of them, to overwhelm him, to snatch the rifle from his hand, a futile, last-ditch effort.
But as soon as his bulk lifted from the cushions, before he could even take a single, purposeful step, he was met by a swift, powerful kick from a burly man behind him. The boot slammed into his lower back with a resounding thud.
"Damn it, you dare to resist? Beat him!!!" a voice roared, the command sharp and immediate.
Jessica, who had just been forcefully kicked to the ground, hadn't even managed to begin the arduous task of turning his obese body around, when another steel pipe, wielded with merciless intent, slammed heavily onto his broad back, eliciting a choked gasp of pain.
Almost simultaneously, five more burly men entered the room, their expressions grim and determined. They paired up, each man methodically drawing out the heavy steel pipes they carried, their movements synchronized and chillingly efficient. They then descended upon the already subdued Mr. Pierce and Mr. Henry on the ground, delivering blow after fierce, relentless blow, the metallic thuds echoing like a dark, relentless drumbeat.
Jessica, due to his enormous, obese physique and his desperate, foolish attempt to resist, found himself the unfortunate target of a collective, brutal assault. He was ganged up on by seven men, a swirling vortex of steel and fury.
The seven burly men who had first stormed into the study, each holding a heavy steel pipe, formed a tight, menacing circle around the sprawling Mr. Jessica. They swung their pipes with methodical cruelty, blow after calculated blow landing squarely onto his thighs, his massive buttocks, and his broad back.
This group of burly men, who had seemingly materialized out of nowhere like wraiths in the night, were remarkably measured in their savage beating. They never once struck the head or the stomach, areas that could prove instantly fatal. Instead, they specifically aimed at the fleshy, resilient areas: the buttocks and thighs, ensuring immense, incapacitating pain without actually endangering life. It was a calculated form of torture, designed to break the spirit without breaking the body beyond repair.
"Damn it, you dare to offend Mr. Van der Linde! You are simply heinous criminals!" one gunman snarled, his face twisted in a snarl, as he brought his pipe down.
"How dare you offend Mr. Van der Linde? Damn beasts, look at how fat and bloated he is," another spat, his voice dripping with contempt, gesturing with his pipe at Jessica's sprawling form. "I wonder how many people he has oppressed to get this way!"
"Damn things, Mr. Van der Linde was right," a third growled, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed in disdain. "These beasts only exploit us, while they themselves are like pigs, contributing nothing to productivity!"
Roars of contempt and condemnation accompanied the incessant, crashing thuds of steel pipes, creating a cacophony of pain and ideological fury. The relentless assault made Mr. Henry wail piteously, his cries mingling with the thudding blows, filling the hearts of all three men with a paralyzing fear, a terror so profound it pushed them to the brink of collapse.
Damn it, how dare Dutch Van der Linde do this? A desperate, incredulous thought flickered through Henry's shattered mind.
How dare he raid the residences of Saint Denis's powerful elite at night? How could he be so incredibly bold? This is illegal, a brazen act of defiance! He will be forever wanted by Lemoyne! He will become an outlaw again, a common criminal pursued by every lawman in the land!
Damn it, how dare these…these thugs lay their hands on them? On them, the untouchable elite of Saint Denis?
Damn it, damn it, damn it!!! The silent screams of outrage and disbelief echoed in their minds, even as their bodies screamed in pain.
Whether it was Mr. Henry, Mr. Pierce, or Mr. Jessica, their fate was brutally different from what they might have expected. If they had been arrested like Signor Bronte in the game, perhaps merely for a tense conversation without this merciless beating with heavy iron rods, then they would certainly have acted with the defiant, unwavering pride depicted in the game. They would have maintained their Saint Denis aristocratic dignity and glory even in their last moments, their chins held high. And at the same time, they would have disdainfully insulted and provoked Van der Linde, spitting venom with their last breath.
But unfortunately, today was devastatingly different. Today was not just about being arrested for a civil discussion; today they were being treated to the full, unadulterated brutality of heavy iron rods, at least two per person, swung with unyielding, bone-shattering force.
As the saying goes, "three blows shatter the Eastern soul." Well, these were Westerners, sir, but the principle remained. Under this relentless, methodical beating with heavy iron rods, even men forged from iron would be left in tears, broken and sobbing. What chance, then, did these pampered Saint Denis elites, who had long been accustomed to a life of unparalleled luxury and effortless superiority, have?
Under the relentless, agonizing pounding of the heavy iron rods, Mr. Henry and the two others showed no trace of their former arrogance, no flicker of their unwavering loyalty to their class or ideals. Their defiance crumbled, replaced by raw, animalistic terror.
"Ow, ow! Stop, stop! I was wrong, I was wrong!" Mr. Henry wailed, his voice hoarse, desperate. He pressed his hands against the floor, trying to push himself away, his body squirming like a desperate maggot, trying to crawl under the imposing desk to avoid the relentless iron rod attacks. "I shouldn't have disrespected Mr. Van der Linde, I shouldn't have thought about opposing Mr. Van der Linde, I was wrong, I was wrong! Please stop hitting me, ow ow ow!!!" His pleas were choked by sobs, his face a mask of utter humiliation.
But he was relentlessly kicked out from behind the desk. Then, two iron rods, swung in tandem, continuously lashed at his buttocks and thighs, tearing his expensive pants to shreds and exposing a pair of rapidly bruising, purplish thighs, already swelling grotesquely.
Mr. Pierce, on the other hand, hadn't been able to scream since that first shattering blow to his face. His eyes were wide open, glazed with shock, and he wildly swung his hands, flailing uselessly in a desperate, pathetic attempt to try and block the incoming iron rods, but he couldn't defend himself at all. He lay on the ground, completely broken, his bladder and bowels having long since given way, defecating and urinating in abject terror. His face was a horrifying mess, covered in sticky tears, blood, and snot, a picture of complete degradation.
And Mr. Jessica was arguably even more miserable. He was enormous, a mountain of flesh, a typical example of a greasy capitalist whose excesses were literally visible. His large size meant a larger contact area for the blows; seven iron rods could simultaneously strike different parts of his body, which made his torment even more excruciating. He wailed piteously, a guttural, uncontrollable sound, like a New Year's pig being led to slaughter, every fiber of his being screaming for mercy.
"Ow ow ow!!! Wrong, wrong! Mr. Van der Linde, I was wrong! Ow!! Forgive me, gentlemen, I was wrong, I don't want anything, it's all yours, I don't want it, stop hitting, ow!!!" His pleas were a desperate, incoherent torrent, begging for the violence to cease.
The three gentlemen, Mr. Henry, Mr. Pierce, and Mr. Jessica, were pressed to the ground, utterly helpless, and brutally beaten. The feeling of an iron rod swinging onto one's body is far from pleasant; at best, the skin bruises and aches, at worst, it swells grotesquely and turns a sickening purplish-red.
Mr. Henry's pants were literally beaten off his body, reduced to tattered rags, revealing his legs and buttocks, which were a mottled landscape of bruised and purplish flesh, already swelling horribly. All trace of his former arrogance, his distinguished demeanor, and his carefully cultivated dignity had been mercilessly beaten out of him.
Just two days ago, he had been confidently chatting and laughing with Mr. Cornwall, his words smooth and authoritative. In a few casual sentences, they had believed they were dividing the interests of Saint Denis and the Van der Linde Gang, carving up their world as they saw fit. He had seen himself as one of those elevated, untouchable upper-class figures who could make powerful enemies turn to ashes with a mere flick of his tongue, a Saint Denis dignitary for whom countless lesser people would gladly die with a mere word. Yet now, in this grim study, he was beaten so badly he couldn't even summon the strength to stand, his buttocks a grotesque, purplish-blue swelling, a testament to his shattered power.
Even half an hour ago, they had been discussing matters of life and death for others, casually charting their destruction. And now, in a terrifying blink of an eye, they themselves were beaten to a state worse than death, their bodies screaming, their spirits broken. One could only wonder how immense the sense of crushing disparity in his heart must have been, the abrupt, brutal fall from such a height.
Of course, at this precise moment, his heart certainly wouldn't be focused on this so-called sense of disparity or abstract philosophy. It was consumed by the searing, relentless physical pain, the immediate, overwhelming need for the beating to stop.
The iron rods wielded with such practiced brutality in the hands of the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen were certainly not to be trifled with. If Signor Bronte in the game had received such a comprehensive beating before his confrontation by the river, he surely wouldn't have been able to maintain his arrogant, defiant composure.
So, in the end, the gunmen reasoned, why were these people in Saint Denis so arrogant, so full of themselves? It must be because they simply hadn't received enough beatings with iron rods, not yet.
And now, with a final, echoing thud, the iron rods wielded by the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen finally ceased their relentless assault, dropping to their sides as the piteous wails of the three gentlemen subsided into ragged gasps and whimpers, their voices broken.
"That's enough," a gunman, who had been constantly watching the three gentlemen with a clinical eye, assessing their reactions, stated calmly. He promptly extended an arm, a silent command, stopping the others from swinging their iron rods. "Mr. Van der Linde said that when they stop screaming so much, you can stop. This way, not only will they recover, but they will also be exceptionally obedient!" His voice was cold, pragmatic, devoid of any emotion beyond duty.
Hearing his teammate's chilling reminder, the few gunmen who hadn't quite fully enjoyed the beating, perhaps wanting to deliver a few more blows, immediately ceased their actions. They snapped to attention, standing perfectly straight, their faces impassive.
"Alright! We'll do whatever Mr. Van der Linde says!" one confirmed, his voice firm with unwavering loyalty.
Subsequently, the three Saint Denis dignitaries – Mr. Henry, Mr. Pierce, and Mr. Jessica – whose buttocks and legs were now a mottled, purplish landscape of bruises and swelling from the iron rods, were unceremoniously dragged out of the study. They hung limply between their captors like sacks of potatoes, their dignity utterly stripped away, resembling nothing so much as dead dogs, an arm held by someone on each side, their feet dragging uselessly on the floor.
Mr. Van der Linde, the orchestrator of this brutal tableau, was sitting patiently downstairs in the mansion, calm and collected, waiting for them.