Page 50 of Ruthless Riches
I sighed and slumped forward, resting my head in my hands. “You can’t permanently wipe people’s memories,” I muttered. “It’s not possible, no matter how many drugs you pump into them.”
“Actually, you’d be surprised by the number of drugs that can cause amnesia. Benzodiazepines, statins, certain types of painkillers, beta-blockers, and some antidepressant drugs. I just need to figure out the right amount to give you to cause memory loss without overdosing you.”
“I’m pretty sure those drugs only cause amnesia in rare cases.”
The Butcher fell silent again, fingers furiously tapping away at the phone screen. “With the right combination of drugs and other treatments, I think we can make it work,” he finally said.
My eyes widened. “What do you mean by other treatments?”
He didn’t reply to that. He simply turned and walked away.
I thought he was leaving me alone again, but he returned a few seconds later, wheeling a large black suitcase behind him. He put it near the bars, reached into a side pocket, and pulled out a familiar pair of handcuffs.
“Cuff yourself to the bars like you did yesterday,” the robotic voice commanded me. “Don’t make me force you.”
I swallowed thickly and did it as fast as I could, knowing I would only cause myself more pain and suffering if I refused.
When I was locked into place, the Butcher unzipped the main section of the suitcase and carefully pulled out a strange-looking machine. It looked a bit like the TENS unit my mother used a few years ago to treat a problem she had with the muscles in one of her arms. There was a large screen on one side with multiple buttons and silver dials below it, and white electrode pads were attached to it with little detachable cords that fed into the back.
“What is that?” I asked.
The computerized voice spoke from the phone again. “It’s an ECT unit.”
“ECT?” My brows dipped in a bewildered frown. Then they shot up. “Wait… you mean electroconvulsive therapy?”
The Butcher nodded.
I scoffed. “You can’t be serious,” I said. “There’s no way that’s real. Where the hell would you even get one of those things?”
“You’d be surprised to see what you can buy on the deep web markets,” came the reply. “As long as you have a Tor browser and enough money, you can find anything. Drugs, guns, stolen credit card data, exotic pets… it’s all there.”
I gulped. This wasn’t just a scare tactic after all. The machine was real.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked, eyes fearfully flitting over to it.
“No.”
“So you have no idea how to use it.”
“I’m not stupid. I’ve done my research.”
I frantically shook my head. “That’s not enough. You can’t use it on me!” I said, voice dripping with panic and fear. “You could seriously mess up my brain!”
“Yes. That’s the plan.”
“Please,” I begged, jerking the cuff attached to the bar until it jangled wildly. “Please don’t do this!”
The Butcher didn’t listen to me. He crouched down by the suitcase and pulled out a small plastic bag which contained a mouthguard. He held it through the bars, gesturing for me to open my mouth with his free hand.
“No!” I screamed, turning my head away.
I heard a short sigh from behind the mask. Then the Butcher opened my cell and stepped inside. He forced my mouth open and put the plastic guard in.
“It’s for your own good,” he said a moment later via the phone. “Without it, you could damage your teeth and tongue from clamping down during the seizures.”
“You can’t do this,” I said, vehemently shaking my head. My words sounded garbled because of the mouthguard.
As expected, the Butcher completely ignored my protests. He stooped next to the suitcase again and pulled out a bottle and some pieces of gauze. He moistened the gauze with whatever was in the bottle and then wiped my forehead with it. It smelled like rubbing alcohol.
