Parts Are Parts
Once you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.
Cryogenic freezer units with body parts of some of Hollywood’s finest entertainers, the infamous Jet Pack Eight, are being shipped to federal buildings throughout the United States. A group, called the Code of Colors, are stealing weapons from the Department of Defense, and taking aim at grammar schools, churches and social events. It’s the stuff that destroys confidence and the nation’s top investigative agency is feeling the burn. It’s the Bureau’s job to control the chaos and connect the dots of both investigations.
Hollywood’s top executive has requested Special Agent Kenny “KC” Carson to be assigned as the lead agent on the case of missing and dead thespians. The assignment every lead agent would love to have, is the one job KC doesn’t want. The Code of Colors attacked his son’s school, and the case of the Jet Pack Eight requires him to investigate old acquaintances and possibly working with the one woman who almost ruined his life. Can he set aside differences to focus on his case?
In the tumultuous idiocy of these two high profile cases, KC will unearth the shocking truths of untold lies and shattered dreams—and try to stay centered as he discovers that good and evil often have similar faces and walk the same paths. In this race against the clock, can KC and his fellow agents save Hollywood’s elite and prevent a murderous group from turning nightmares into reality?
The cot he was tied down on was more than a cot. With the push of a button, the small bed transformed into a casket-type apparatus, encasing him in a captive tomb. His own private purgatory. The so-called doctor and his four pseudo medical staff looked on as the casket attacked him. He finally understood the cliché, ‘feels like I was hit by a sledgehammer’. Whatever electrical gadgets that were hooked up to the contraption hammered away at him worse than any five people.
The first electrical punch shot a pain so excruciating through his back he thought he would die on the spot. He heard himself scream. A horrifying cry he had never heard escape anyone’s lips before.
This punch was followed by electrical surges and charges throughout his torso and down his legs. Every blow was followed by an unimaginative squeal, yelp or scream that redefined his manhood. The stampede of currents gravely pulsated him both physically and mentally. His body was simultaneously invaded from every angle. The sledgehammer effect persisted repeatedly.
He wasn’t one hundred percent positive, but he thought he had soiled himself twice over. In his short life span, he had never envisioned his death. And even if he did, he knew he wouldn’t have thought about this form of death—not in a million years.
He couldn’t calculate how long he was technologically and electronically beaten up. He was sure it had to be at least thirty minutes to an hour. There was no way he could move his body. He was sure bones were broken, but he had no idea which ones. His manhood was tested. Unfortunately, his manhood had lost.
“Look at this pathetic asshole,” he heard someone say. He didn’t know if it was a man or woman’s voice. Hell, he didn’t even know if he heard what he thought he heard.
“Amazing! The great Jimmie Claymore could only take two fucking minutes of pain.”
Jimmie didn’t completely hear this comment. He was fading in and out. He felt the hot tears flow down his face.
He was defeated and something told him this was just the first phase.
Whatever that something was, he was right.