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saint-luigi-of-fiji · 3 days ago

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Sacrificial Lamb (Luigi Fanfic)

Luigi Mangione. Most wanted man in the nation for a time. Not by the public, but by the wealthy elite who were just about to rise to power in a fascist oligarchy. The seed of corruption had been planted, and they're was virtually no stopping the storm that was already brewing in the clouds. One CEO. One lowsy CEO. A no name, unimportant man. He'd been killing thousands of Americans unchecked. He had used an algorithm to more efficiently minimize the care that sick and dying patients across America could access.

The algorithm didn't feel. It had no compassion. It didn't have to listen to the cries of the people as they drowned to death with fluid filling their lungs. It didn't have to listen to the rage incoming from doctors who were watching their patients die and could do nothing to help. This pathetic little man, Brian Thompson, a name no one would ever be uttering had he dropped dead in any other manner, he was killed. He was killed by an unknown assailant on a cold December morning. With hundreds of thousands of victims, there was no way of knowing who did it. They left no finger prints. No DNA.

The people of the nation, before they even knew what horrors were to come, they celebrated. This was a hero come to answer their prayers. An angel manifested before them. This wicked man had been killed and overnight, his policies were reversed, medical debt was forgiven, people danced, they sang, they made art of this mysterious figure. But the US was in the midst of a full fascist takeover. They were turning the country into one where laws did not exist for the billionaire class, where CEOs did whatever they pleased without consequence. They did not like that before they even set their cloven hooves in the White House, a man hailed a saint had struck a CEO down. Moreover, they hated how the public cheered. They hated the unbridled joy that people felt knowing their loved ones had been finally avenged. They were building a world without consequences for their kind. They wouldn't stand for the possibility that anyone, anyone at all, would be celebrated, much less get away with, what they deemed a crime against the oligarchy. They would find someone to pin this on. They would find their sacrificial lamb.

Luigi was that sacrificial lamb. Was he even the one they were looking for? It didn't matter. They had all the money and corruption in the world at their disposal to make the evidence fit. And if there was no evidence, they'd make evidence. They had deepfakes, body doubles, anything they needed. They'd run back to back smear campaigns on him all day, every day. They would make illegal the very act of supporting this man's innocence. In the oligarchy, laws did not apply to the rich. The poor would comply. That was the state of things now. The state of things that lead to the terrible predicament Luigi found himself in now. He was a perfect sacrifice even if he wasn't the shooter. He was a class traitor. He was a rich kid who hated the rich. He had spent his entire life wanting nothing more than to be different from the elites that raised him to be one of their own. Luigi, unlike the rest of them, didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't want to exploit people. He didn't want to live among the monsters and watch them commit terrible acts of violence. He chose a regular job. He chose a regular apartment. He changed his name to start his life anew in a regular town. He was arrested eating regular food. This wasn't acceptable. This wasn't how the wealthy behaved in this new society. He didn't have to be the right guy. As far as they were concerned, he was traitor enough.

Luigi was, all in all, a genuinely good person. There wasn't even so much as a crumb on his reputation. Everyone he'd ever met had glowing praise to give him. They'd never met a rich person with a heart like someone poor. And they'd never meet another. People like Luigi weren't meant to be rich. They weren't meant to stand on the backs of others. It was utterly world shattering to find himself being taunted and mistreated by police. He could only look at them in defeat as they carried him off to his cell. They'd stripped him of everything. His winter clothing, his shoes, his jacket, his hat. They made him walk in wet socks in the cold. They didn't care about if he got frostbite or not. He was relieved to free be seated at least sheltered from the wind.

The police were handed a piece of paper by the higher ups. It was informing them to halt all regular procedures due to Luigi Mangione's status as a "designated Hate entity" and terrorism charge. They were given new instructions instead. No trial, no interrogation, no reading of his rights. Skip right to torture and here were the list of actions to be carried out. Each paper was in a sealed envelope and every part of the process was to be carried out by someone different higher up the chain of command so that no single person knew the extent of what they were to put him through. He sat eyeing the man reading the paper from his place in the cell. Totally unaware of what was in store for him. The very first order of business saw him yanked right back out of his cell. Alarmed and a bit spooked to be suddenly and so surprisingly manhandled again he struggled to keep his footing and began to shout. He hollered about his back injury, and all manner of other quick responses he very hurriedly regretted. They were manhandling him hard, pulling him every which way, and what he assumed was some attempt at punishing him for that very outburst took place. They pushed him into a larger holding area with a sink and pressed his face down into it. They immediately began to wash his mouth out with soap and water, something that briefly alarmed him, but was then very quickly confusing to experience because they held his arms behind his back, bent over the sink with his legs spread as if they were going to pat him down. Only for officers to bring in a tooth brush, tooth paste and floss. They began very meticulously cleaning his teeth. It seemed to register to him, especially with the way their hands were on his back, that their boots were locked between his legs to either side, that this was some kind of bizarre attempt at humiliating him. But he became very fixated on how they repeatedly poured water and mouthwash into his mouth, and the amount of blood running down the sink drain from how harshly and thoroughly they flossed up close to his gums. He felt at times they were going to drown him, and he had to take big gasps between having his mouth totally and utterly cleaned. They scrubbed his tongue so far back he gagged, and bucked a little. Something that wasn't very great feeling on his spine. He had a history of spinal issues, but thankfully they weren't particularly aggravated.

They pulled his hair when he tried to turn his head, not allowing him any range of movement until they were done, and then they sprayed off his face where blood, soap, mouthwash and drool had trickled down. They gave his face a quick wipe down with a damp rag and then made sure his hands were still firmly secured behind him with cuffs before locking him alone again, sat on a steel table, in the middle of a cell. All the officers had to be replaced. None could witness each round of what he was subjected to. None were to discuss what he would be subjected to. Not after the events took place, not with one another. Not a word. Luigi was quite shaken and confused, but happy to at least be left alone for a moment while he tried to gather his bearings. What are they doing now? He had a vague idea of how this was all supposed to go down. He had a vague idea of how this was not something any amount of true crime had ever prepared him for. He wondered if this was for some kind of DNA test? The cotton swab in the mouth sort of thing? But he got the notion by now that he wasn't being answered should he attempt to ask questions. He sat there for only about fifteen to twenty minutes waiting on the full staff change out to occur. But it felt like forever to be left alone, still cold, and now on this cold metal table. His face was red from a combination of the temperature, bouts of fury, and embarrassment alike.

He wasn't going to be cold for long. The people who came in next reminded him of a pit crew. How teams came in synchronized to change tires at record speeds during races. They all rushed into the cell with a number of attachments for the sink. They had buckets, he saw rubber gloves snapping into place. They wore some light surgical masks. What now?

They attached a sprayer hose to the sink faucet and turned the water to hot. They first filled the bucket with soap and water and all dipped sponges in. They then began to grab and pin Lu in place so they could begin to come at his clothing with fabric scissors like emergency responders used to cut away clothes from someone's wounds. They snipped away his shirt, his pants, and even up along the seam of his underwear. He tried his best to hold still as panic welled within him seeing how close the scissor blades were to his skin. Then they began to turn the hose on him. The water was near scalding. He made a yelp as they began to methodically hose and sponge his naked body down with soap and water. There were no less than eight people over him and they turned and rolled him in any, and every which way so that sixteen different gloved hands could scrub down every inch of his body.

Head to toe, they left no part of him unwashed. The water stung his skin and he was flush red like a boiled lobster by the time they were done. He was infuriated by how harshly they grabbed at and sank their fingers into his flesh, especially along his privates, into and separating the cleave of his ass cheeks. He couldn't already feel he'd be left with bruises by the time this was over. The coarseness of what at first felt like soft soapy sponges quickly felt more like sand paper as they exfoliated away any of the dead skincells they found. He once again felt like he was being drowned, but was able to keep water from going up his nose for the most part. Then, just like that, they sprayed away the rest of the soap and left him sitting on the wet metal table, totally nude, soaked from head to toe, with water draining slowly down a drain in the corner of the room. They unscrewed the sink attachment house, took away the buckets and sponges, took away the sopping wet strings of what once had been his clothes. They all left, locking the cell up again behind them. It was time for yet another staff change.

Luigi was stinging and in pain all over, chest rising and falling, every muscle in his body vascularized and bulging, his veins visible under the skin from how hard his heart was pumping. He slipped and slid a little. All the traction of callouses and dead skin were gone. He felt smooth and shiny all over. He was sure his eyes got scalded at one point, so he was blinking over and over again hoping the contrast would fully return to his vision. His eyelashes were thoroughly soaked. They stuck together in ways that was hard to unstick through blinking alone. He didn't understand, but he figured this yet again was some means of degrading him. He was just glad it was over.

This time the person who came in was alone. It was a woman. She was kind to him. Really, that upset him worse. Because it made it that much harder to anticipate what he was going to be put through. He didn't understand what was happening, but he appreciated that she spoke to him. She asked him how he was doing. He didn't have an answer, his eyes just bloodshot from the soap and hot water irritating them. His neck visibly moving with every nervous gulp.

But she sat him up gently and she informed him of everything she was doing. He said thank you, but his voice was barely audible. She brought in cotton swabs to clean his ears, and then a little ear pick and some solution to make sure his ears were totally spotless. Then checked in them with a little scope to be sure. She seemed like a doctor of some kind. She gently unstuck his eyelashes, and then moved on to cleaning up his nostrils, checking that they too were clean. She then moved to looking over every other inch of his body for anywhere that could still use cleaning or some kind of attention. She checked his privates as well, commenting that he's very clean—gee, he couldn't imagine why—and that he's doing very good. This was the point he seemed to become aware that none of these people were being informed of what was happening to him or even of what previous groups had already done to him. He had asked very sheepishly what was going on, what next, why this? But she didn't know. She didn't think anyone knew. They're just doing what they're being told to do. They only know what they know. She was amazed by how clean his mouth was. Then she took a warm towel and very gently dried him off. He wanted to cry, really. The warmth of the towel comforted him in the way a warm hug would. He needed a hug. He desperately needed one. He coughed a little, trying really hard to hold back tears as she kept talking to him. She seemed like an angel compared to everyone else.

"Thank you" he said again, his voice just above a whisper. "Any time." she said, and dried off his hair with a thorough ruffling of the towel through his curls. Before he knew it, she was gone and took all her things with her. Staff change yet again. They brought in a chair to put against the sink, the kind one experienced at a hair salon and they moved Luigi from the table, careful that he didn't slip on the still soapy floor, and sat him down, still naked, in the chair. He tried to stay distracted from the fact he was totally nude by just staring up at the ceiling. They had more attachments for the sink, a number of hair care products and scalp cleaning products, and laid his head back into the sink so they could begin washing his hair and scalp.

This part calmed nerves just a little. Thoroughly, they ran their hands through his hair and loosened all the oil, dead skin build up and little scabs away from his scalp. They gently washed and rinsed his hair over and over, shampooed and then rewashed. They even left a little oil treatment in his hair for a moment, staying silent the entire time. Once enough time had elapsed, they removed the excess oil and then began working to shape his curls. They seemed to be professionals at what they were doing, or at least more experienced with hair than he was. They meticulously combed and separated all of his hair, then left little Bantu knots all over so that once his hair dried fully they could be removed to reveal his curls at their most beautiful and orderly. A very gentle fluffing then took place to make sure they looked more natural. He, now with tired eyes, quietly thanked them as well as he noticed them gathering their things to leave. They did not reply.

Luigi sat in the chair they left behind by the sink, waiting to see what would happen next. He felt very strangely taken care of. That they were not torturing him. They were pampering him? He had been not treated so gently, no, but he had been bathed, his teeth brushed, his hair done, even his ears and nose had been cleaned. This was all very odd and he just wanted to crawl under a blanket and try to sleep now. His arms still behind his back, he couldn't really cover his crotch in any way. It was humiliating, but he had started to get used to the temperature of the room and even to being completely naked in it.

Then came more footsteps. One person again. That was less threatening. He was relieved, especially because this time it was another woman. He hasn't been mistreated by most of the women that were sent in so far. The one officer with her boot against his foot while he had been bent over the sink might have been a bitch but -.. He tried not to make any expressions. He didn't want to make enemies with anyone. Just get through this as quietly and compliant as possible. Luigi attempted to ask what was going on but all he got in response from the woman was an order to sit down on the table. He was stood up from the chair and sat on that cold metal table again. He hated it. This time he was made to lie down, and then to roll over so that he was face down on the table. Not enjoyable in the least. He turned his head to one side, trying to see what was happening, but all he could see was the woman put on gloves and began doing something with a popsicle stick.

It was technically a wooden tongue depressor. It occurred to him only in the very last few seconds before she grabbed his ass cheek that this was probably some type of cavity search.

Great.

She spread his moderately hairy ass, gripping one cheek firmly, still sensitive as it was from the way they had manhandled him earlier, and pulled it to expose his anus. There was a thick cream on the stick which was cold and uncomfortable to have spread directly on his anus. It was placed all around and up and down his ass crack. Then a heavy coating of the cold off white goop was spread all over her hands. He began to be afraid of was lubricant so she could reach inside him. It was not. The thick paste was instead spread and spread all over his balls. His entire scrotum was taken between her gloved hands and massaged vigorously between them, until every inch was covered in the goop.

This was the point he began to panic because he realized that whatever had been applied to him burned and what began as a gentle tingling and sensation of warmth had become the feeling of his entire ass crack on fire. It radiated heat and now his balls began to burn as well. He made a noise and tensed up, bending at the waist with his butt in the air like an inch worm. Then he began to make the funniest little uneasy yells. He wriggled and slid and shimmied in little dances in any attempt to relieve the burning sensation.

She only leaned in when she noticed she missed a spot and added more.

He could feel his heart beat in his asshole from how much blood began rushing to the irritated areas. He was once again on the verge of tears by the time it had sat long enough and was allowed to be wiped away. The area was cleansed then, gently washed off with soap and water and toweled dry. Then she inspected her work. He could only speculate on what was happening behind him by what she said. "Still too dark." and to his horror, she decided to do a second round of this torture. By the time both rounds were done, he could finally be rolled over and sat up. He looked down to see that his balls, mostly only stubbly because it had been a while since he shaved, were... Bleached. His asshole as well, he presumed. The natural dark color of them had been artificially stripped with chemical compounds leaving the skin flush and light pink instead of their normal rosy brown. It had been such an aggressive bleaching that it stripped the color from his pubic hair as well. It was now a very out of place ginger only below the dick and along his ass crack.

Now he knew they were fucking with him. Why would they ever bleach an inmate's god damn butthole? He started to get agitated and mad. They were making sure he was pretty so he wouldn't last long in prison weren't they?

The same woman left and returned. She wasn't done. He was surprised to see the same person return twice in a row. This time she arrived with many more wooden popsicle sticks, a bunch of other supplies he didn't recognize, and a ton more little plastic cups of unknown goop. His adrenaline spiked a bit. His teeth already preemptively clenched. She needed a tray to carry it all.

Fighting the urge to cause any kind of chaos over this, to yell, to argue, to accuse. He just closed his eyes and decided to bear it. This time the goop that was applied to his body was incredibly hot. It burned not a chemical burn, but a genuine warmth as it had been heated over a bunsen burner in the break room.

It was wax. They were waxing him.

His chest needed only the most minimal of strips as he had that gene that made him grow so, so little chest hair. A fucking godsend as an Italian man, and especially given what was happening to him now. The wax strips across his chest just felt like band-aids being torn off. Nothing major. But other areas of his body weren't so lucky. His arms were a little hairy, but took the waxing treatment with minimal redness. His face was different. He stifled screams repeatedly, muffling and grunting through gritted teeth as his entire neck and jawline were waxed. It was fine. Tearing away hair from the root agitated the skin and depending on how deeply rooted the hairs were, he couldn't help but make noise. His head began to feel light and swimmy, perhaps he had been holding his breath? But having the wax placed up his nose began to genuinely terrify him. His eyes began streaming tears as his nose hairs were, all hundred of them on each nostril, were ripped out in unison, left then right, in rapid succession. The tear ducts and nostrils shared a nerve and his eyes were unable to hold back tears. His nose immediately began to run and he struggled not to sniffle too much as it made him sound pathetic.

But before waxing moved down lower, he was already crying. His chest rising and falling with hyperventilation as the wax was applied down his happy trail and onto his pubes. It didn't matter that they were mismatch in color anymore huh? They were taking all of it anyway. The sounds he made as his pubic area and groin were waxed actually made the officers the next room over grow concerned. They had no idea what was going on in there, but they could hear him scream from down the hall and behind two locked, steel plated doors. It was especially difficult to have his balls waxed because the skin there was still so sensitive from having been bleached and scalded with hot water already. The skin was also so much more delicate and had to be held taut so that the waxing was even successful. Otherwise it just tore at the skin, and he was beginning to bleed. Blood was running down between his thighs as he hollered, hissed, panted and moaned. He curled his toes and bit his lips. More wiggling ensued, and he felt his nose was now quite watery, he hoped it wasn't also bleeding. It was. More wibbles and sniffles as he was laid down on his back his legs were spread and alcohol wipes so painfully wiped away the blood. His thighs were probably one of the hairiest parts of his body. That, and his armpits were also quite unpleasant to have waxed. He audibly coughed and choked on his tears and saliva the whole time. Really, he was just not having a great time with it all.

By the time he was turned around and rolled over, he was already desensitized to it. His ass cheeks, parts of the back of his neck, every part of the backs of his legs. He was anticipating the waxing of his entire ass crack to be worse. He was just glad it was over. The wibbly little praise he gave for the fact it was over was so incomprehensible even he wasn't sure what he said.

He got wiped down one last time with alcohol wipes and was left for a moment or two, able to sniffle away and let his tears dry in little salt trails while he recuperated. While he caught his breath. While he flashed between tears and smiles. He felt really stupid. He knew he could never begin to explain to someone how or why this was torture, or a bad thing. He'd be laughed at. He he knew as much. He tried to laugh it off now, he tried to look down at his clean, smooth, still bleeding a little body and remind himself people paid money to do this to themselves willingly. It's okay! He convinced himself. He's fine. He'll be alright. What more could they possibly do? He regretted asking himself that question internally, because someone came in a few moments later to wipe his face and nose down with a cleansing cloth and then climbed on top of the table to sit on him.

It was a relatively lightweight guy, but it wasn't ideal to be outright sat on. They came prepared with tweezers and magnifying glass, and a number of other tools. They proceeded to go over every last inch of his body looking for ingrown hairs, any hair missed by the waxing process, any pimple, any blotch or blemish, and just took care of each of them one by one. Another officer held him still during this process. It took hours. They spent the most effort tweezing, threading, and perfecting his eyebrows. But the majority of the work was spent going over the length of his legs and arms in absolute meticulous detail.

During this time, somehow in spite of the constant pinching and plucking, he found himself drifting in and out of sleep. Mostly it was emotional, mental, and physical exhaustion paired with being held in place for long periods of time. And the body heat of the officers subduing him was actually a welcome change from the cold jailhouse air and steel table. He was so, so sleepy that he kind of got annoyed when they stopped and got off of him.

Off they went, taking all their tools. He felt like a living sculpture. He was being detailed by hand like a living piece of art.

Of course, he didn't have time to sleep before they brought in another person. This one sat him back in the chair, and-

He was out like a light, even snoring within ten minutes. Now he was being given a pedicure. They soaked his feet to make sure they were soft and supple in a warm foot bath. They made sure his cuticles were clean, cut back and tidy. They cleaned under and trimmed his nails, and oiled them. His hands got all the same treatment. He could not stay awake for it, especially with how soothing the process was compared to everything else. After his nail treatment, he was wrapped up in a warm blanket and finally left to sleep. He didn't move from his spot on the slightly cushy chair for several hours. Gone to the world as his exhausted and dry eyes took the moment to restore themselves. At some point he heard movement outside his cell but they didn't barge in. He seemed vaguely aware that whatever onslaught of grooming behavior he had been exposed to the night prior was over. It seemed the morning crew came and went, but no one checked on him. Good. He was determined to keep sleeping as long as he was allowed to.

At some point though, he was forced to stir awake. He had to pee and he knew he couldn't risk agitating his back at any point with a full bladder or accidents might happen. So he preemptively got up, very begrudgingly from his seat. He was surprised by the feeling of his body sticking to the chair. He had no hair anywhere on his body anymore. No dead skin, no oils except for fresh ones. It he was so, so smooth. And soft. Like nothing he'd ever felt. He felt like his body was made of satin. He, hopefully without anyone seeing or noticing, spent an embarrassingly long time playing with himself over the steel cell toilet. He had pissed already, and had no reason to keep standing here, but he was fascinated with his balls. They felt so soft and cushy. Pink and fun to play with. He had already had the body and proportions, just not the grooming of a porn star. But now he did.

He was admiring the total lack of bristly feeling that stubble usually gave him. The coloration of his body you only ever saw in photo-shopped model pics. He didn't have any hair around his nipples! His armpits had been shaved before but never this well. He felt like a doll. Absolutely without flaw. Even his hair felt nice, and he made sure to wash his hands before touching even that. He worried he would get another full car wash treatment if he dared touch his hair with dirty hands. His body… didn't feel like it belonged to him? Both literally and figuratively. He felt refreshed thoroughly. But he also didn't recognize himself when he looked down. He didn't even recognize the feeling of his ass cheeks, hairless and smooth, gliding against each other in a way that felt... lewd? Any time he walked. Any movement he made. He felt his own body move and slide against itself in such a sexual way that he just felt thoroughly objectified. It was hard to not think about. And his cock rested on such a soft little pouch of skin like a gem on a satin cushion. It was humiliating. It was also kind of hot.

He also just felt as if he wasn't… allowed his own body? His hair was so nice and he felt as if he'd be punished for messing it up. He wasn't really sure what this kind of punishment was trying to achieve. But it had thoroughly bewildered him, whatever the goal had been. Maybe that was the point. They wanted to mess with him. And in that, they had succeeded. Luigi wouldn't enjoy his solitude for long however. The list of festivities had not been depleted. As soon as enough officers were back in the building, somewhere around eight in the morning, they once again began to mobilize. This time they sent someone to Luigi with a large plastic cup of what looked like grape juice and a clear glass bottle. He felt like royalty being delivered something to drink.

… He wouldn't for long.

He didn't know ass about shit when it came to what they were about to give him. He could clearly read the label said ipecac. Had he known what that was, he'd have known what was about to happen. He was surprised to taste the supposed grape juice and realize it was Gatorade. He was gonna need it.

The officers didn't stay after giving him a hefty dose of medicine. They got the hell out of dodge and locked the cell behind them. They left the room completely. No one wanted to be around for what was about to happen.

Luigi Mangione didn't notice anything was amiss for a remarkable several minutes. Then he began to sweat.

His throat felt funny and he began to feel as though he was going to pass out. Then he felt it. Waves of pain as his stomach began to contract. He felt as if it was tying itself in knots. As if he had swallowed an enormous fish and it was flopping around in there. He stumbled around the cell in confusion, not totally lucid for a few moments. Trying to figure out if he should lay down or something in case he does fall over. He felt like he did when he used to wake up hung over at UPenn. He was sweating bad. Before he could even begin to lower himself to the floor, he suddenly realized he wasn't going to keep any of that Gatorade down. He clambered to that metal toilet bowl faster than he even could register his own body moving. It felt like he teleported. He then vomited first a little. Then a lot. He felt his entire torso tense up with each retch. He was vocalizing with each retch. Almost like he was screaming through vomiting. Over and over and over. He didn't have anything in his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything since he was arrested eating that stupid hash brown. He didn't even get to finish that. But he was absolutely finding fluids to loose. His whole entire face went the deepest shade of burgundy because he vomited so many times he hadn't had time to breathe. He was caught with nothing coming out but strings of saliva pouring from his mouth. Every muscle in his torso locked up in an immense contraction. He vision doubled, tripled. He took little tiny breaths in through his nostrils trying to keep from outright fainting.

His eyes were watering, and then he would just sit there making a funny whining noise through his pain as his hands shook. He tried to spit to stop the constant drooling but he couldn't. What came up first was if course all purple and clear because that's what he had drunk. It was frothy with saliva and then mucous. Then just pure orange stomach acid. Any amount he was able to produce came up. Then everything was green. Pure bile from his upper intestinal tract. He gasped and wretched and gasped some more. He was lucky to have peed before hand because urine was dribbling out of him now. Somehow the muscle contractions were so intense they compressed his already empty bladder of anything it had left. With a few more futile attempts to catch his breath, he ended up collapsed on the floor of his cell. He felt immediately relieved by the feeling of the cold floor. He felt like he was overheating, despite simultaneously feeling cold and clammy all the same.

He was perhaps grateful to be only semi conscious, quaking with his eyes half open on the floor as the second wave of officers arrived. They were not pleased with the mess they had arrived to attend to.

But a couple of officers, in rubber boots and plastic gloves up to their elbows, with paramedics on standby in case the guy went into cardiac arrest from vomiting too hard, picked his rigid body up off of the floor and sat him on the toilet. His muscles were locked so tight it looked like he was in rigor mortis.

Once again an attachment hose was screwed into place over the sink nozzle and, fed across the cell, the end of it was lubed up and the officers held his hips and legs, making sure he was seated at least over the toilet before the shoved the hose up there. The running hose was gradually snaked up the half conscious man's ass as he was forced to completely void any part of his bowels that still had any modicum of anything inside. His head rolled back and occasionally fell against the officers shoulders.

Paramedics snapped their fingers and kept pulling his eyelids open, telling him to "wake up, buddy"

He was in so much pain and so barely aware of what was happening. He could just feel ice cold water running out of him. In reality the water wasn't even that cold, but his core body temperature being pumped full of so much not body temperature water had dropped dangerously fast. His breathing and heart rate were slow enough that paramedics decided to administer a shot of adrenaline just to wake him back up. He became very slightly more alert and looked this way and that. Trying to figure out what was happening. They turned the hose off once there was nothing coming out of him but blood, water and clear mucous. He was in and out of consciousness as they moved him briefly to the metal table again to give him another full body scrub down with soap water and disinfectant. Then they managed to get him an anti nausea medication and some antibiotics to keep his body "clean" now that he had been, quite thoroughly, cleaned inside and out. It was a miracle he kept anything down. The only thing he remembered was being carried by about six different people on a tarp-like stretcher into a new, cleaner cell and placed on an actual mattress this time. He awoke 13 hours later thoroughly cocooned in a blanket he'd tightly wound himself up in.

He had absolutely no idea what the fuck happened. He barely even remembered the previous day. He was extremely dehydrated and groggy. His stomach was a tad concave. Any sort of mass it ever had, which wasn't much given he was a pretty fit and skinny guy, had been completely lost. He was so thin. The dehydration only made it worse. His head was throbbing and his eyes hurt. Moving his eyes left to right or up and down felt like he was rolling them against sand paper. His cheeks felt more sunken. He'd lost every bit of water in his body, but still desperately had to get up again to pee. This time he sat up, shaking and unorganized in his movements. He realized he was in a different holding cell. The metal table was gone. He had a bed now that he didn't remember laying down on. He didn't know what day it was anymore. He felt like his bladder was going to explode so he had to get out of bed. He walked in pain to the toilet to relieve himself. He had no handcuffs on. Not today or yesterday. Did he notice that before? He felt like he was losing his mind. The urine came out so dark he did a double take to make sure it wasn't bloody. He smelled a smell he couldn't describe. It was the smell of blood and mucous. He recognized it from his family's hospice buildings. He smelled like when people are dying of something horrible. He didn't like that. Someone did seem to be at a desk outside his cell. It was late at night and this man was working out here at a desk in dim lighting conditions. He stirred to bring Luigi more Gatorade to keep his electrolytes and hydration up so he wouldn't fucking die. The moment Luigi saw he was being brought a cup, and of all things, more purple Gatorade, he reeled and began to panic.

The cop had to actually calm him down and inform him it's just Gatorade and not more ipecac. He'd be fine. It was okay. Luigi didn't trust a god damn thing they said or did, but he was so thirsty he didn't have a choice. He accepted the cup as it was held up to the bars and drank so thirstily that it dribbled down his chin and chest. He only stopped to breathe when it was gone.

In disbelief, the office worker seemed kind of sympathetic for Luigi's situation, and mumbled some comment about when the last time he had something to drink even was. He went to go get him a soda from the vending native, and some little cheese crackers next. Luigi downed that too, and then devoured the crackers like he hadn't eaten in the days. He hadn't.

Finally, the still naked except for his coddled blanket Luigi, sat back down on his little jail bed and could feel his energy slowly start to return. His eyes began to lubricate again. His mouth then too. His throat then too. His nose then, last. "... Are you alright there?" the man asked, refusing to go back to his desk until he was sure the inmate was gonna be fine. It was then that Luigi Mangione's nose began gushing blood from the severity of his dehydration. He had enough fluid back in him that he could bleed again, so his cracked and dehydrated sinuses just opened the flood gates. "I'm okay." Luigi said, pouring blood down his upper lip. The office worker stared, increasingly concerned.

The man reluctantly went to go get Luigi a tissue for his nose, then sat at his desk keeping an occasional eye on Luigi to just make sure the dude didn't drop dead or something. Truthfully, Luigi felt great. He had a little bit of food, water, had pissed, this entire digestive tract had been completely cleaned from both god damn ends, and his entire body had been given the maximum level of glow up. He was doing just fine, and on medication too? He was probably completely losing his mind, but his body was doing great!

He was actually in pretty high spirits, albeit scornfully hungry, when the day shift workers finally got in to come and pick him up from his cell. They cuffed his hands in front of him this time and walked him out down a hallway around 8. He looked all around, curious to see more of this place from angles that weren't confined to any of the holding cells he'd been moved to or from. He was so incredibly bored having sat there quietly all night that even the patterns of bricks on the wall were intriguing at this point. They lead him to a large room with multiple showers and he no longer minded the fact they began washing him under those showers. At least this time the water wasn't scalding. At least they were being gentle with him now. And, well he had somehow gotten used to being naked and having strangers touch all over his junk and his ass cheeks.

Really, he was excited to be getting a quasi normal shower for once instead of hosed down like an old car. He also was so thankful to stop smelling like blood and death. He was thoroughly enjoying having his hair gently washed, his body gently scrubbed, and even being toweled dry. He felt like royalty being served by peasants. Something he normally would've hated as a class traitor. You know: the reason he's here at all. But these officers? He didn't respect most of them. He would rather they scrub him. He'd piss a little and make them clean that up too. They're probably still scrubbing that previous cell. Good. It was small comfort in the form of revenge for what they had put him through.

He walked out of that shower to have his luscious curls blow dried and pampered, teased and re-styled. They were not just thoroughly pampering him, they were upkeeping it as well.

He felt absolutely amazing. He felt light as a feather. He felt his skin and nails healthy and could see how they shined. He looked amazing. He was so skinny from how underfed and under-hydrated he was. He looked and felt like a supermodel being dolled up for the red carpet. He couldn't imagine how much nicer he could feasibly feel. He felt younger and more alive than he ever remembered feeling. He probably had several new undiagnosed psychiatric conditions but that was fine, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. Really, the only thing he could use besides a little entertainment and some more guarantee of continued warmth was something to eat. And he was in luck. They brought him back to his new, nice cell with the desk across from it and sat him down on his bed. Then they brought in a table. He didn't know what the table was for at first, especially because the fold out table was very large. It was the type with three sections that one brought out for a big outdoor event. Like the kind of over-the-top backyard barbecues they used to have in his neighborhood growing up.

Then he smelled it. Food. Good food. Fresh, hot food. He hadn't eaten more than a small handful of crackers and a nibble on some of the most subpar McDonalds hash browns in days. He was positively starving, so perhaps his perception was off. He'd also only just stopped smelling that awful smell of blood that lingered from the nose bleed and his cleaning session the day before, so he really couldn't be sure. But as far as he was concerned, it was the most heavenly thing he'd ever smelled. They brought in fresh thanksgiving stuffing in a huge bowl, they brought in carrots and corn and a big bottle of some type of cider. He watched them sit out a bowl of oats, a plate of collared greens, all the types of things you'd expect to see at a banquet or holiday dinner. They had a whole grinder of peppercorns and whole mustard seed. He remembered some of these things as having been at his sister's wedding two years prior. They sat down a whole dish of seasoning, another with some type of oil or sauce he couldn't quite identify. There were lots of flecks of seasoning in it. They laid out a big plate of roasted cauliflower and artichoke and spears of asparagus.

His mouth was watering as he looked at it all, but he started to feel a pang of fear flicker in his chest. Oh god, what now? Was this some sort of last meal kind of thing? He was supposed to choose his last meal, right? Fuck, they were gonna kill him after all, weren't they? He gave a sheepish little smile to the people bringing in all the food, especially as they kept rounding the corner with more. Was this going to be some kind of trick so he couldn't tell the courts he was mistreated? He certainly had been, but…

He started to watch the food with growing concern. Is it poisoned? Is it full of more of that stuff that made him vomit? It's full of spiders, isn't it? His mind raced for where the catch was. Then the longer people went without telling him to eat, he started to think he might have figured it out. He was going to be made to stare at it, wasn't he? He wasn't going to actually be allowed to eat it, was he? "Bon Appétit." One officer said, almost with malice in his voice. As if he was jealous? The officers brought in a bunch of chairs so they could sit around and watch. They all had forks and knives and spoons. Were they going to eat the food with him? Was this the last supper? His eyes kept darting around to all the food and all the officers, trying desperately to understand what game they were playing now.

He raised his hands to reach for.. anything? But he was not given a fork, a spoon, anything of the sort. That would be too weapon-like. And of course, his hands were still cuffed. That's exactly it, isn't it? He can't eat. No. The officers weren't allowed to eat. They began cutting into everything and digging out servings of everything, and one by one they would hold the forkfuls and spoonfuls out to Luigi so that they could feed him the food. His face went flush with embarrassment. He's sitting, still naked save for the towel from the shower and his blanket he'd hastily moved over his lap, being spoon fed by a team of people. He had no idea what mind game they were playing with him, but he was incredibly grateful at least that he was allowed to taste the food. And it tasted good! No spiders. No poison that he could tell so far. He was spoon fed mashed potatoes, stuffing, whole cranberries- he took a moment to eat some of the asparagus. He also began to notice something. There was no meat in any of it. Maybe some gravy or something contained chicken stock, he was sure.

Or, maybe it contained people or puppy dogs, who knew at this point. But had he even told anyone he was vegetarian?

His heart and mind were so torn and he was so incredibly confused. He mumbled here and there a couple thank yous, he mentioned he was confused but they told him to shut up and not make it weirder than it already was. He could tell the cops were uncomfortable following these orders, really.

He ate a bit of stuffing mostly because that was the largest bowl on the table and of course he had no ability to choose what he was being fed. The spoons were being filled for him. He was being offered so many bites of different things in between however, that he would get stuck trying to decide what to eat first or who to pay attention to. He felt like a little baby bird.

He got full pretty quickly, likely because his stomach had shrunk a bit over the last few days. He was struggling to make himself eat very much at all, but pushed through a few more bites just because the food was lovely and he felt bad he couldn't eat it all. There was just so much of it. After swallowing another bite, he made a little gesture with his hands that he was full. No more. His chains connecting his cuffs rattling a bit as he did so. He even apologized, and explained that the food was lovely.

One officer laughed. "You're not done."

???

"You're finishing your plate, bud. This food ain't goin' to waste."

The confusion stayed with him for a few moments more, when it started to occur to him from the looks the officers gave each other, and the fact they were still getting more spoon and fork fulls of food to offer him; he had figured out what the catch was. A nervous grin on his face quickly faded and he said yes sir, thank you sir, before he even understood why he would agree to such a thing. Which plate? All of the plates? The were going to make him eat all of this weren't they? Motherfucker..

He now begrudgingly ate. One bite after another, and simply tried to ignore the fact he was full. He fucking hated this. His parents always made him finish his plate and he never had the room for it. He was always aware of the fact his name meant 'big eat' or 'eater of a lot' and he always, always feared being made fun of were he to ever gain any amount of weight. The jokes would write themselves. He'd never survive school if he were even a bit chubby. He'd never survive prison if he were even a bit chubby. He had always had a bit of an eating disorder because his sisters picked on him relentlessly enough because of his name already. And as a boy he always ate more than they did. They thought because he was a boy that he couldn't get eating disorders and / or that he didn't need to watch what he ate.

They felt like they did, as rich daughters of a well-to-do family whose figures had to fit the hoity-toity rich people store sizes. And yet his dumb stupid parents always made him clean his plate and wouldn't accept him going to bed on an empty stomach. Italian people bullshit. Part of why he became vegetarian was to keep in shape. He loves animals, sure, but it gave him an excuse to stop eating the bullshit his family forced him to eat. His brows furrowed and furrowed, growing angrier and angrier the more he was subjected to what they probably didn't even realize was a particularly bad trigger for him. And then he began to wonder if they were only doing this because they figured out what his name meant.

The people charged with tormenting him didn't seem to care, if they noticed at all, that he was very quickly losing his patience. They just wanted to finish their task, and that meant making sure he ate everything they cooked him. They went from spoon feeding to force feeding the moment he started to have trouble taking anymore food. He was alright with being uncomfortable with the amount of food he was being forced to consume, but then it began to physically hurt. His stomach still had not recovered from whatever in gods name they had done to cleanse it the day before. He felt that quivering, flopping fish feeling in his stomach again and thought that he might throw up. But they would simply put another spoonful in his mouth and he knew he couldn't fight them on it. His hands kept reaching up involuntarily, like he was trying pitifully to push the offerings of food away but he could do little with his hands bound the way that they were. Then he started to, involuntarily, move away when he was offered more food. This wasn't acceptable to the officers. They began to climb onto the bed with him and, more and more, were beginning to close in on him and hold him still so that he couldn't pull away. His face flashed from red to pale and back again as he thought at times he was going to throw up, but desperately didn't want to choke on anything. He had so much in his mouth already that he had trouble swallowing some of it. Stuffing fell down his face, bits of roast vegetable char raining down on his chest and the table. He was forced to swallow a particularly large amount at once just to feel like he could breathe again, only for it to hurt the whole way down. He began to feel his chest brim with fear at the possibility he could choke or suffocate in such a way.

To make matters worse, a lot of what he ate was particularly meant to be filling, that often expanded in the stomach after being consumed. He started to feel his stomach throb and his chest felt tight. He found himself involuntarily trying to push one of the officers away from him as an instinct to fight back was becoming overwhelming. There was nothing to drink on the table, he also had noticed. These ciders were of the vinegar variety. Cooking oils and seasoning. He was fed those outright by themselves possibly to further overwhelm him. They put the nozzle of the bottle of oil right into his overstuffed mouth and tipped it back so that the oil washed down the stuffing in the most sickening way. He wobbled, pulled, and fought against the officers despite his best efforts to remain calm and still. He wanted to ensure that they didn't become violent with him or more forceful. At times the forks and spoons hit his teeth or poked at the inside of his mouth in ways that were incredibly unpleasant and he didn't want any of them to get any more violent than they already were.

After the bottle of apple cider vinegar was used to help wash some of his food down, he became incredibly pale in the face, and he didn't even try, but food came billowing back up his throat in a big wet mess of vinegar and oats, stuffing and greens. Once he spit it up, his body retched again and he felt an intense, sharp pain in his stomach as it was now being stretched to the point that retching at all was painful. He'd had far more than his fair share of puking already this week and he never wanted to do it again, least of all now, but the relief of even a little less food in his stomach was tantalizing.

Most unfortunately for him, police just scooped it right back up off of his chest and made him eat it again. There was no getting out of this.

Piece by piece, spoon by spoon, he was pinned up against the wall where he sat on that bed with his head back as far against the wall as he could get it, and he was made to eat every last bite of what had been prepared for him. His stomach was bloated and puffy now where it had been concave that morning. He was made to eat all the seasonings, the oil, the cider, the mustard seed, it all. And as he sat there breathing heavy and slow with his heart pattering against his ribs like a pigeon in a cage, he slowly laid out on the bed with his cuffed hands clutching his stomach. His head lulled back as he whimpered and groaned in pain. He felt like any wrong move and he'd split open. He was absolutely enveloped in a daze of sleepiness as his body struggled to figure out what to do with the influx of food. He was miserable. He did everything in his power to swallow back down anything that tried to come up because he didnt want to be force-fed it again. His heart felt strained. His throat felt strained. He just wanted to sleep now and hopefully his stomach wouldn't hurt anymore when he woke up. He could hear the officers congratulating him for having finished his food and taunting him about how it wasn't so bad. Like they had any idea.

But he couldn't even bring himself to speak. He just rolled and attempted to self soothe in any way that he could, his fingertips digging tightly against his skin in a desperate attempt to distract from the pain. He was certain half the food was in his esophagus still. He hadn't even fully swallowed everything and he wasn't even sure he was able to. He whined and whimpered and just hoped to drift off soon. It did not, at all, occur to him that this was only the first round of people to visit him today. And that no sooner than they had picked up all their plates and bowls and folded up the chairs and tables and left, did a new set of officers arrive to bug him all over again.

He mouthed something along the lines of 'please no' but was quickly pulled back upright out of his bed.

He was brought to the edge of his bed, still blinded by the amount of stomach pain he was already in, and rolled his head back in distress, eyes squeezed shut. He didn't care what ever it was they were here to do to him. He just wanted it over with so he could go to bed. The desire to drift off into a food coma was overwhelming at this point.

But of course, they had more. He opened his eyes only briefly to see that they had, in their hands, yet more food and he felt his entire body lurch with distress at the thought of being made to eat any more. He felt like he was suffocating. He felt like he was trapped. He felt like he was lost in the ocean and the sea was overtaking him. He felt like he was drowning, and he just started to reach out, up, anywhere, to try to escape, grab onto anything, anything at all to get away from this situation. But as the officers yelled at him to stop squirming and sit still, he felt a hand grab up under his ass in a way he did not anticipate. Their hand was gloved, and they had a bottle of olive oil. They were using it as a lubricant. Because this time the carrots and potatoes they had brought into his cell weren't to be eaten.

They locked his legs in place using their full body weight and began to stuff the uncooked vegetables one by one up his ass.

Standing him up, he squeezed his legs together as tight as he could to prevent the well lubricated vegetables from falling back out. Knowing completely well by now that if they did, they'd just be shoved back up there again. And he'd rather not have that happened. He now was stuffed from both ends and felt like he was going to black out. He felt so incredibly heavy. He felt like he was full of bricks and he just wanted to lay down, but police kept leading him. Where, he didn't even know. It was back to his old cell, of course. Down the hall, to that one with the metal table. He tried not to lose any of the food out either end of his body as he shuffled along, his eyes rolling back with his head again as he teetered to and fro. Thankfully the officers took their time walking him, seemingly aware of the amount of discomfort he must be in.

They laid him back down on the metal table and he immediately turned his head, breathing heavy, wishing like a cat at the vet to be anywhere but where he was now. They watched him for a moment to make sure he didn't throw up and then they changed shifts again. This time there was no wait whatsoever as the new team entered. They quickly began to tie Luigi's body up with rope. He opened his eyes briefly as he realized he was being tied to the table. That's fine. He didn't care to get off of the table anyway. He wanted to sleep.

They unbound his wrists from his handcuffs and began to bind his arms instead across his chest. They began to bind his legs in a folded position as well. He didn't care. He wanted to sleep..

In sheer defiance, he tried his best to sleep despite whatever they did to him. They bound his arms tight up against his torso, his arms crossed over his chest. They wrapped a rope up between his legs in such a way that it held the vegetables in place by holding pressure up against his rectum. That was fine too, he didn't care. They then began to very, almost artfully, create crisscrossing patterns over his body using the rope. It was reminiscent of Shibari, a Japanese type of bondage he had seen many times before. No comment on why. He had a type, okay?

He could feel how much pressure was pushed up inside him and he could feel how taut his stomach was, and he just didn't want to move an inch anyway. He prayed it would be over soon. He prayed whatever torment they had fun putting him through day in and day out wouldn't last forever. He had to live, right? They couldn't have their fun if he was dead, right?

He just wanted to sleep..

As he lay there feeling like any given part of his swollen stomach was going to explode, he cringed at the tightening of the ropes over every inch of his body. They only brought out the last of the ropes when it came to his head. They brought out what looked at first like a ball gag, and he opened his eyes to give a harsh look at the officers who were bringing it over to him. Especially as they then forced the rather large object into his mouth. It was an apple. They pushed it so far into his mouth that he felt his jaw pop, and he began to panic as he felt a sharp, agonizing crack ring out. The pressure on his teeth as they were sunken into the apple was horrendous. It was secured through the middle with more rope, which was tied at the back of his head. He was almost certain they had dislocated his jaw in some way, and he tried to move or say anything, in any way to alert them of this but it began to set in that he was fully, completely tied up. He peered down at himself in the incredible state of bondage he now lay in, spread out across the table, unable to move anything except for the back and forth swing of his head.

Hyperventilating, he closed his eyes again and tried, once more, to will himself to sleep. It was the only escape from this nightmare he could think of. But once again, as always, it seemed, he was left on the table to wait for the police to change shifts.

He got the memo now. He got it before they even came in with a bowl and a basting brush. He was being done up like a roast of some type. They'd bound him, they'd stuffed him, they'd plugged his mouth with an apple. Now they came in to paint his entire body in sauce. He was sick of being played with and humiliated. He was sick of being teased and mocked in this way. He was sick of being a toy to them. He wondered if all of this was how everyone else was treated when they were charged with such crimes. He'd heard of the torture they put people through, but he hadn't heard of it going quite like this. He knew it was often sexual. He knew it was often painful. He knew it was often degrading. But he now knew first hand exactly how..

Then, as if an absolute mercy he felt someone come in and lift his head. They had four little needles in their hand. These were, as he muffled into the apple gag in his mouth a terribly pitiful whimper, inserted one by one into his spine. They each were very strategically placed so as to pinch off his nerves. Very suddenly, he felt nothing at all but a wave of pins and needles wash over him. Then nothing. His stomach didn't hurt anymore. The mass of vegetables that had been inserted into his body no longer hurt anymore. The immense cramping in his limbs from how tightly he had been bound by the rope and into a wholly unnatural position no longer hurt anymore. He actually, for a moment, thought he might be dead.

But his jaw still hurt tremendously from where the apple had been forced into his mouth. He was still able to feel everything from the neck up. He just didn't from the neck down anymore. Was that temporary? Was that permanent? He had no way if knowing, nor asking. He just knew that his body was still, so incredibly sleepy. He was comfortable enough now to sleep. He looked around at the people painting him to look like food and he shut his eyes. They could do whatever he wanted, he said didn't care.

He was going to sleep...

Sometime into shutting himself away in some barely lucid dream state, he was momentarily awoken by a number of things being placed around his head. Cold towels and being gently lowered into some kind of ice bath. He didn't care. He couldn't feel anything anymore anyway. He just hated that his scalp could feel it. That he could feel the icy chill of the water on the back of his neck.

Back to sleep...

Luigi woke at some point again, now feeling quite the opposite of cold. The water had become warm and he was sweating. He didn't recognize it what room he was in anymore. He didn't really know where he was at, but he saw them adding buckets of ice and more cold wet towels. He was sweating in spite of it. There was something over his body. He was somewhere wholly unfamiliar. He knew they had picked him up again but hadn't paid much attention to where on earth they had placed him. He tried not to move his neck and held his head as still as he could because he was certain those needles were still in there..

But he was so incredibly sleepy. Back to sleep...

When he did finally awake, it was to discover he looked to be floating in some sort of sensory deprivation chamber. There were metal walls all around him. More ice. More towels. he still had the apple in his mouth, but beyond that, he couldn't tell very much of what was happening. He felt aches and pains in his body now and then but he thought they might be phantom sensations. He really, truly couldn't feel his body anymore. The ice probably wasn't helping. He heard distant, mumbled music and talking. Some kind of television performance playing in another room. He wasn't really sure what was going on.

But he knew he didn't just feel exhausted, or over full, or emotionally depleted. He felt weak. He felt like he was dying. In some way, he knew he was. He felt like he just had no strength at all left. He looked around the inside of his little ice tomb and he wondered if he was going to survive for much longer. But as hard as it was to admit to himself, he didn't know that he cared at this moment. Slowly, he heard the sounds of the television grow louder and louder. And he felt that he was being wheeled on some sort of stretcher or table that he couldn't see. He was aware of the water sloshing around his head and was certainly feeling the effects of the ice water splashing against his beautiful face. Wet curls sticking to his skin.

He didn't know it, but he wasn't hearing the television at all. The music was performed live. There was a stage. There was a live audience. There was a huge banquet with all the world's wealthiest in attendance. He was surrounded on all sides by CEOs of some of the most influential corporations on the planet. Every one of these people had been responsible for the deaths of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. They were the people who funded all the wars. They were the people who purchased and traded human slaves. They were politicians, they were business moguls, they were all, truly, retched, evil people. And tonight was a celebration of the United States having finally been bought. They had a special banquet prepared for all the people in their emeralds and sapphires. Their teeth glinting that uncanny toilet bowl white as they stood and applauded themselves before making their way to be served. Their souls as black as tar as they discussed their aimless, worthless lives at the top of the food chain. Then they saw the main course. His body was bound with rope, painted all over with a hickory smoked flavoring. All up and down his thighs were potatoes and greens. His body had been cleaned thoroughly in preparation to be on display. He had been plucked of every hair like a chicken of its feathering, and he had seasoning massaged into his skin all over. His nipples had been singed a bit, but other than that he had been cooked to perfection. The rope sank into his skin leaving beautiful patterns in the meat that pleased the dinner guests. "Is this really him?" "Of course." The dinner guests were delighted to see him served so beautifully for them all. His abs were sparkling, even as the skin had sloughed away from the heat of the oven. He was a very lean meal, but as they began to carve into his stomach to reveal, they had more than made up for it with the amount of stuffing and fresh vegetables and vinegar they had filled him with. He hadn't known it at the time, but they filled him purely with vegetables and no meat because, well... he was the meat of this dish.

But to the surprise and applause of all, the silver platter cover was lifted from Luigi's head and upper torso to show that, despite all the damage that had been done to his body, his vital organs and his head were kept cool from the heat of the oven with the help of this protective ice bath. It was all so he could also attend the banquet as well. They cheered with delight at being able to make eye contact with the man himself as his own flesh was dutifully served. He was briefly surprised by the flurry of stage lights, the faces, the people in their best attire lined up and all around. The flashing of cameras as they wished to take photos of such a momentous occasion. Photos the rich would trade amongst themselves privately like sick keepsakes the public would never know about. He could do nothing but watch as, bit by bit, his bones were picked clean to fill every one of their plates. His and nerves by now long scorched beyond the ability to bleed, beyond the ability to feel, however merciful that was.

This time, as he drifted to sleep, there would be no waking up. He wouldn't survive the end of the night. But he couldn't feel it either. Small blessings… He watched their distorted faces and smiles blur in his bleary vision before his eyes closed one final time. They all looked for once like the monsters they always had been.

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priestbitmoved · 5 months ago

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[ ˑ ˑ ˑ ] 𝑫𝑶𝑵𝑵𝑰𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑺 & 𝑭𝑨𝑴𝑰𝑳𝒀 , a comprehensive study.

This meta will discuss Donnie's relationship with his actual family members and his relationship with family as a concept. Here I'll be exploring how his attitude towards it has shifted and changed throughout his life. I will be touching on some fairly triggering topics in this meta, all of which have been tagged and listed below. For that reason, this meta is under a read more. Please take care when reading, and don't worry if you aren't in the headspace to read this, there's no hard feelings.

Please be aware that the following topics will be discussed, some in greater detail than others: addiction, child neglect/abuse, allusions to csa, religious trauma, homophobia, pregnancy, addiction, drug use, alcoholism, family death, suicide, trauma, and discussions of war.

Donnie, despite all the misconceptions one may have of him, is motivated by family and legacy. It haunts him in a way that nobody talks about. Every man in the Watts family tree, as far back as they can trace being in the States, has served the military in one way or the other. Every man in the Watts family, since the end of the Civil War, has owned and trained horses for one purpose or the other. They may not have been in that profession their entire lives, but they all started there. Donnie did. His father did. His brother did. You get the idea. This is part of the reason why Donnie always felt so conflicted about what he'd do once he'd graduated high school. Would he continue the family legacy and enlist like his father had? Would he follow in his brother's footsteps and look to make a name for himself as a rancher? Or would he follow his heart and become a rockstar?

Ultimately, Donnie decided to follow his heart. He's always had something to prove, his mother made sure of that. He was going to make his family (and to him, at the age of nineteen, his family consisted of his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece, and his nephew) proud. He was going to do something that would, in his eyes, make him worthy of their love. Achieving his dreams would also show them how good of a job they did in taking him in, as he always feels as though he owes them for that (even though they volunteered to do it, and were happy to help out their little brother. Brody especially, as he carries so much guilt for leaving Donnie alone with their mother in the first place.)

I think that, as a child, Donnie based his notion of family off of what his mother told him. His idea of what a family should be was very much in line with the nuclear family, a mother, a father, the white picket fence, and two children. The idea of it was hammered into his head so often-and so brutally-that he felt othered by the fact that he was being raised by a single mother. This othering led to him resenting the very idea of the family home. He hated it whenever his mother would try to engage in things like family dinner at the dining table. Or dragging him to church every Sunday because that's what families were supposed to do.

When he was taken away from his mother at the age of twelve, he was introduced to what an actual, healthy family unit looked like. Brody Watts had gotten away from Texas and made a damn good life for himself. He had two beautiful kids, a wife who adored him, and Dogwood Ranch in his care. Spending his teen years with Brody and Cassidy helped heal a lot of childhood wounds, so much so that by the time his eighteenth birthday rolls around and his mother contacts him for the final guilt trip he'll ever receive from her all he can do is feel hatred for her. Hatred for her and love for the brother who'd taken him in, love for the sister-in-law who had become the older sister he'd always wanted, and love for the kids who called him 'Uncle D!' whenever they saw him. He wanted that. He wanted a home like theirs, warm and welcoming and the total opposite of the crucifix-infested battlefield that his mother had raised him in.

His early twenties were rough. Addled by fame he was not prepared for, and an addiction to anything that takes him skywards for a couple of hours. Heroin was the real killer. He overdosed twice, and was saved twice by a family he didn't share a single drop of blood with. Rancid Creature wasn't just a successful metal band, Rancid Creature was Donnie's entire world, and a love letter to the dear friend he'd lost in Lee Bennett (who had conceptualised the band when they were thirteen and still fumbling their way through learning how to play their instruments. Lee played bass, Donnie was the drummer. The dream rhythm section.) Izzy, Sammy and Clara were, and still are, like siblings to Donnie. He would drop anything to help them... he knew it wasn't the conventional family, but it was his. It was the only one he could have around all the touring and the TV interviews anyway.

Family wasn't just a loving partner and a couple of kids running around to Donnie anymore. But it's the prospect of a family that ultimately pushed him into getting clean. Anita Huerta, a long-term on and off girlfriend, revealed that she was pregnant, and that she wanted to keep the baby. She wanted to get clean for the baby, and so did Donnie. He'd swore years before that he'd never abandon his children, he'd never subject them to his bullshit the same way his mother had. Donnie, wanting nothing more than to cultivate a warm, safe, family environment for his and Anita's child, got clean.

Now that he's in his early thirties, he knows that he doesn't need to have the conventional nuclear family to be happy. A happy family home doesn't look the same for everyone, and despite the fact that he's always stressing over being as good a dad to Emma as possible, he knows this. Family is whoever you feel safe with, family is whoever helps when you're at your worst, family isn't just blood. Donnie took a long time coming to this conclusion, and he still struggles with undoing the mess his mother made of his brain, but he's there. And he doesn't intend on backing away from it anytime soon.

For some quick-fire headcanons about Donnie's family members and his relationships with those family members, look no further!

𝑅𝐸: 𝑀𝐸𝐿𝐼𝑆𝑆𝐴 𝑊𝐴𝑇𝑇𝑆 ( fc : Willa Fitzgerald & Mary Mcdonnell. )

Melissa Rose was the youngest of five daughters. Her father detested the fact that his wife would only ever give him daughters when what he really wanted was sons. This made him angry, abusive, unfaithful, and a drunkard. Her father, Adam, was a Baptist pastor. His sermons were the very definition of 'Brimstone and Hellfire.' He was a stern but charming man, with an agreeable face and the picture-perfect family. He was all about image, and this attitude would stick with Melissa all her life.

She actually wanted to run away from Texas her whole life, she had dreams of becoming a Hollywood star. She was always told that she was pretty enough to be in the movies.

Melissa married Colton Watts on a total whim, their romance was an intense whirlwind of emotions and intimacy. She'd never been treated so kindly by a man before Colton came along. He promised her the world. And then he went to war.

When Colton returned home, he was a totally different man. He was emptier than she remembered him, and she was resentful. He would have weeks, even months, of being the happy-go-lucky sweetheart she'd married. Then he'd retreat into himself and would prefer to speak to the horses he cared for than he would to her.

Eleven years of unsteady marriage later, Brody Watts was born. The euphoria of being a new parent didn't last long, Colton would soon retreat back into the stables. The same would happen ten years later when Donovan was born.

After Colton's death, and after Brody ran away from his mother's venomous tongue, Melissa was left alone to raise her youngest son. She never called him Donnie, she would only ever call him Donovan.

Donnie, as a toddler, would actually prefer the company of his mother. He enjoyed being bounced on her hip while she went about the household chores. He enjoyed listening to her read. He found his father to be something of a ghost. However, he did run and hide under Brody's bed whenever she'd get into one of her bad moods. She was vicious, a caged animal unleashed on her family.

When Colton died, Donnie was seven. And Melissa fell hard into heavy drinking. Her fuse grew shorter, and even the smallest of mistakes made by Donnie would set her off. If he cried? She'd shout. If he spilt or dropped something? She'd shout. Without even realising it, Melissa had become her father.

Donnie grew older, more vocal, and pushed back against Melissa's temper. He was rewarded with violence, with unwarranted sermons. She would punish him by making him copy entire verses from the Bible by hand. She would take scissors to his hair whenever he refused to go and get it cut. Donnie's defensive, and often explosive temper, was born here. As was his desire to solve everything with his fists.

Melissa didn't hide what she thought of her son from him. She thought he was gay, and would tell him so. She would often fling slurs at him. She thought he was a sinful child, a demon given to her as punishment for running away from her family with his father. She would tell him this too.

She would also blame him routinely for his father's death. Something that Donnie still hasn't been able to shake.

Donnie was sent to a "summer camp" that the local church ran by his mother to "fix" his behaviour. The children would learn to camp, would learn to work, and would learn to be "more Christian" in their attitudes. It was essentially a behaviour retreat for delinquent kids. It was here that one of the pastors would assault Donnie.

The second he returned home, Donnie bypassed telling his mother anything and took himself straight to the local sheriff's station. He told them everything about the pastor, and about his mother. The sheriff was an old army friend of Colton's and had suspected that something was amiss for years. He was the one who saw to it that the social services took Donnie away from Melissa.

Donnie hasn't seen his mother since, and he hasn't heard from her since his eighteenth birthday. He doesn't even know if she's still alive or not, he hasn't thought to check. He's glad to have cut her out of his life, even if there has always been a longing in him to try and get through to her. Sometimes he misses her reading to him as a child, sometimes he misses her embrace. Sometimes he just wants his mom.

He only ever refers to her as 'mother' or 'Melissa.' Only in really vulnerable moments does he ever slip up and call her 'mom.'

A lot of Donnie's self-loathing stems from the way his mother treated him. A lot of Donnie's internal homophobia stems from his mother. A lot of Donnie's issues with his own masculinity stem from his mother. All of his issues with religion and the idea of a benevolent god stem from his mother's attitudes and the fact that she sent him away to that "summer camp." He's slowly coming to terms with this and feels so much resentment towards her for it that whenever she's mentioned he tends to get stiff and oddly quiet. It takes him a long time to learn to talk about her without feeling angry, and he does so for Emma's sake.

Donnie looks most like his mother, with her soft features, curly hair, and pretty green eyes. It's why he'd always take great offence to anybody ever calling him a girl when he was a teenager.

𝑅𝐸: 𝐶𝑂𝐿𝑇𝑂𝑁 𝑊𝐴𝑇𝑇𝑆 ( fc : Robert Redford. )

Colton was the middle child out of three. His older brother, Tristan, died in France, and his youngest brother, Michael, moved to Europe in the summer of forty-seven. His parents owned Dogwood Ranch, as many Watts had before them. It was the ancestral home of the Watts family.

He was raised Catholic, as many are in Longing.

He moved to Texas with his older brother to pursue a Rodeo career. Colton was a promising young Bronc rider and adored working with horses more than anything else. He also enjoyed playing guitar and singing. Music was always going to be a huge part of Donnie's life.

It was there he met Melissa Rose, who looked as though she'd just wandered off of a movie set. Colton was smitten with her, and she was smitten with him. They were young and reckless and felt invincible, and Colton wanted to give Melissa the world. They were married within six months, and, with Tristain's help, living on a plot of land in Copeville within the year.

Then he enlisted and went to war. Colton took his guitar with him to France and would sing for his fellow soldiers whenever he was able. He kept them entertained and happy despite the horrors they saw. He burned his candle at both ends and returned with bullet holes in his guitar, and holes in his heart.

He tried to fight the numbness with all his might. He tried to be present for his sons, but he'd often find himself feeling the chill of The Bulge even in the height of a Texan summer and would slip into his own mind for hours at a time.

To cope, Colton hid himself away in the shed or the stables, fearing what he might do if he was around his family for any longer than a few hours at a time. He could not trust his own body or mind.

As a result, his sons often saw him as a stranger. He tried to make up for it by teaching them guitar chords, showing them how to handle horses, or singing with them. He felt especially close to Donnie, who seemed to take better to his musical inclinations than Brody did. Brody seemed more interested in horses.

Donnie recalls several key moments with his father. Being taught to play the guitar, how to handle a gun, how to ride, how to be a Bronc rider, and being taken to Dallas when his father was due to meet with old war buddies.

Whenever talking about his father, Donnie often calls him his 'old man.' He seems to talk about him with far more respect than he ever does with his mother, despite feeling like he hardly knew him. Donnie also feels an affinity with his father now that he's an adult, especially since he's been through trauma and had to deal with the aftermath.

Donnie still owns his father's guitar, it's easily his most prized possession. He owned a silver signet ring with a cursive 'W' on it that his dad took with him to France and gave to Donnie for good luck. The ring had been in the Watts family for as long as anybody can remember. Donnie gives it to James Gallowes for good luck and as a symbol of his love for him.

In terms of appearance, Donnie takes after Colton's physical build. Looking at photographs of the two of them where their faces aren't visible, you could be forgiven for thinking it's the same person. Donnie also has his father's toothy smile and, according to Brody, Donnie's voice is freakishly similar to their dad's.

Donnie used to resent the fact that Colton put a bullet in his own mouth. It sent Brody away because it made Melissa worse.

𝑅𝐸: 𝐵𝑅𝑂𝐷𝑌 𝑊𝐴𝑇𝑇𝑆 ( fc : Charlie Hunnam. )

Brody is ten years older than Donnie. Has their mother's softer face shape like Donnie does, but the rest of his face is all Colton. Right down to the scruffy blond beard and pin-straight hair. Brody's whole demeanour is gruff, but kind. He's quick to smile and far more optimistic than his younger brother.

When they were kids, Brody would jokingly refer to Donnie as Yosemite Sam from Looney Tunes whenever Donnie lost his temper. It's why Donnie has a Yosemite Sam tattoo on his arm.

Brody always stepped in and took Donnie away from their mother whenever her temper would flare, and would play with him or read to him to keep him occupied. Sometimes he'd take Donnie up to the stables to look after the horses with him. In that way, Brody was more a parent to Donnie than their actual parents were.

At first, Donnie was confused when Brody took off after Colton's death. Then his mother got worse, and then he got angry at him for abandoning him with their mother. He was so angry that a month into being put into Brody and Cassidy's care, the two had a fight that almost came to blows. It didn't, because Brody outright refused to hurt Donnie anymore than he'd already been hurt. This made Donnie break down and cry. Brody held him and the two spoke about things more calmly.

This blowout didn't diffuse Donnie's resentment entirely, but it helped Donnie understand his brother's reasons for leaving.

The ten-year gap between the two meant that talking as brothers was often difficult for them. But Brody always did his best to be patient with Donnie, to be careful around his trauma and what might set him off. He would also cut through Donnie's moping and ensure that he wasn't self-sabotaging.

Brody also gives full embarrassing dad energy whenever Donnie's got friends over. He endearingly refers to Donnie, Lee and James as 'The Three Stooges.' James would also often find himself staying over at Dogwood Ranch after Donnie discovers that his uncle is mistreating him. Brody allows it because he really wants to encourage Donnie to be more emotionally vulnerable and have more friends.

Donnie and Brody love each other fiercely and will jump to one another's defence without question, even if they find it hard to have deep discussions without the help of a few beers.

Donnie hates disappointing Brody (and by extension, Cassidy), and so doesn't reach out to him for help when he should. He often needs pushing into contacting Brody by his bandmates whenever something's going wrong or he's struggling with Emma on his own.

Donnie's object permeance (yay ADHD!) extends to people. This means, that if things aren't in his immediate everyday life, he tends to neglect them. This makes him terrible at calling Brody and keeping in touch, thankfully, both Brody and Cassidy understand this and will often check in with him of their own volition.

𝑅𝐸: 𝐶𝐴𝑆𝑆𝐼𝐷𝑌 𝑊𝐴𝑇𝑇𝑆 ( fc : Freema Agyeman. )

Cassidy Jonas met Brody Watts and immediately fell in love. They bonded over a love of horses, rock music, and spicy food. They just clicked. Their friendship turned into love and ended with them married at the age of twenty-one. It was the most natural thing in the world.

Cassidy Watts was pregnant with twins when Donnie Watts crossed the threshold of Dogwood for the first time. He reminded her of her grandmother's three-legged cat, Nelson, who used to swipe at newcomers whenever they entered whichever room he happened to be sleeping in. He was jittery and jumped at every little noise. It broke her heart to learn what had happened to him, it made her angry too. Brody had to talk her out of driving to Copeville and giving Melissa Watts a piece of her mind. She couldn't conceive of ever hurting her children.

At first, Cassidy attempted to approach Donnie with kid gloves. That seemed to send him further into his shell. What seemed to appeal to him was being spoken to like an adult. A person in his own right. So she did. Because of the honesty between them, Donnie and Cassidy grew close.

Donnie had the messiest, most unhealthy head of curls when he came to Longing, and not a few months later, Cassidy had them styled and healthier than ever. Being a black woman with tight, coiled hair, she was perfectly qualified to help Donnie treat his curls properly. It was a long, careful routine that Donnie keeps to even now in his early thirties.

After the twins were born, Donnie took to being an uncle like a duck to water. He helped Cassidy with feeding them whenever Brody was out working, and would often keep them entertained when he wasn't out causing mischief with his new friends.

When Donnie's fifteen, Cassidy started to attend classes in hopes of becoming a Doctor or a Nurse, as she'd always dreamed of becoming one as a child.

If asked, Donnie would name Cassidy as the woman who raised him. She was the one who helped him out of panic attacks and soothed him whenever he couldn't sleep, she was the one who talked to him about his romantic feelings for James, she was the one who encouraged him to follow his heart after he graduated. She was also the person who put him in his place whenever he was letting his anger get the better of him.

Donnie almost exclusively calls Cassidy 'Cass', and it's always with the utmost affection. He adores her with his entire being.

Cassidy is also the first person Donnie comes out to, officially. She's the person he turns to whenever he finds himself stuck. He knows she won't judge him or think less of him for messing up. Neither would Brody, but Donnie isn't so confident with that knowledge. He's getting there.

𝑅𝐸: 𝐺𝐼𝑁𝐴 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐽𝑂𝑁𝐴𝐻 𝑊𝐴𝑇𝑇𝑆 ( fcs : undecided. )

Georgina and Jonah Watts are fraternal twins and are the only two children of Brody and Cassidy Watts. Donnie views the pair of them as his younger siblings.

The twins refer to Donnie as 'Don' or 'Uncle D' pretty much exclusively.

Gina falls in love with rock music because of her parents and falls deeper in love with metal and alternative music because of Donnie. Donnie often catches her rifling through his tapes when he's not keeping an eye on her. When he leaves Longing, he actually leaves the vast majority of his tapes and vinyl at Dogwood, so that Gina can listen to them. Gina also gifts Donnie with an Iron Maiden poster on his fourteenth birthday, Cassidy informs him that she wanted to give her uncle a present that meant a lot to him. He still has the poster now, it's in a frame on the wall of his office.

Jonah and Donnie bond over horses. Brody held no interest in actually participating in any kind of Rodeo events, and neither did Donnie, but Donnie knew a couple of tricks to help Jonah get started. He showed him how to ride and how to tend to the horses alongside Brody. Jonah also shares Donnie's love of Star Wars and sci-fi. He even starts to copy Donnie when Donnie starts keeping journals and writing things like song lyrics down. Jonah's got a big imagination and an even bigger heart. Donnie encourages him to feel things unapologetically and to talk to his parents when things are bothering him. When he leaves Dogwood, Donnie leaves a good chunk of his books with Jonah, knowing he'll take care of them.

Donnie misses a good chunk of the twins' milestones while he's touring with Rancid Creature, but that doesn't stop them from sending him letters and getting excited whenever he calls. He feels guilty for not being there more for them during this time, and he's always trying to make up for it, even though they hold no hard feelings over it.

Donnie also misses these milestones because he's too high, which he feels deeply ashamed of, despite the understanding he gets from Brody, Cass and the twins.

He might be terrible at calling, but Donnie has an uncanny ability to remember dates, even when he's deep in the throes of addiction and depression. He always sends thoughtful gifts and birthday cards/letters to his niece and nephew. He dedicates more than a couple of songs and awards for his music to them and their parents.

He's their favourite uncle, despite being their only uncle. And they will die defending him. They even show up to one of Rancid Creature's shows in Santa Fe to surprise him one year, and Donnie almost cries with happiness at seeing them. That's his little sister and his little brother! And he will die for them!

#& * a terribly real thing in a terribly false world . [ metas ]#& * a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort . [ study ]#csa ment //#abuse //#child abuse //#addiction //#discussions of mental health //#religious trauma //#homophobia //#alcoholism //#war ment //#suicide ment //#ask to tag //#long post //#( please please please read the trigger warnings on this one babes! )#( i don't want anybody getting upset or uncomfy )#( pls take care )#( BUT whew this one got long )#( i hope everyone that does read it enjoys learning more about donnie )#( there's stuff i've mentioned here that he himself will never talk about )#( primarily the stuff re: his childhood and his parents and the dreaded 'summer camp' )#( donnie is such a family oriented character... and he both loves the idea of a family and hates it )#( i'll probably touch back on this again when i do the rancid creature & the james & the lee metas )#( because his band / his friends are also his family )#( he learns as he's accepting his queerness that family isn't just blood )#( it's who you choose y'know? )#( i know i've missed emma anita and anita's parents off of this meta but that's because i wanna tackle them in the meta i do about )#( donnie and being a dad )#( which is a seperate thing )

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