The Die-Fi Experiment Read online

  The

  Die-Fi

  Experiment

  By M.R. Tapia

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not construed to be real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 M.R. Tapia

  ASIN: B0737QZT2D

  All rights reserved.

  Hinderedsoulspress.com

  Book design © 2017 M.R. Tapia

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For Micaela Marie

  Thank you for being my biggest supporter and putting up with my idiocy on a daily basis. You are my world; I would gladly die for you

  “I believe that the abominable deterioration of ethical standards stems primarily from the mechanization and depersonalization of our lives, a disastrous byproduct of science and technology. Nostra culpa!” – Albert Einstein

  #chapterone

  Never in my most horrific nightmare would I have dreamt I’d be cheering on my own executioner. Never thought I’d have one, either. But, I do, and it hurts.

  My head’s in enough pain to make me, a grown man, shed tears. They streak from my eyes, crawling underneath the leather face-strap and past the oxygen hose before tickling the edges of my nose. Those which don't dry and crust from the oxygen blowing at full pressure follow the edges of my lips, my mouth propped open with a metal dental mouth gag as if this were a root canal procedure. It’s not.

  It’s hot and damp in here, in my cell. The leather strap running across my face is the width of a weight-lifting belt. My cheeks itch from my sweaty beard irritating my eczema. The strap pressed against my eyebrows and down to the crease under my lower lip. The oxygen hose underneath my nose like an air conditioner with the pressure it shoots out. Two holes in the strap expose my eyes. My nose juts out like a greasy mountain through a triangular hole. My lips, dry and chapped over the mouth gag which juts out over the leather strap, leaving my oral cavity to dry. What's left of my tongue is limp and useless as erectile dysfunction. What’s left of my tongue has crusted over with blood clots. My entire oral orifice excruciatingly numb. My jaw nearing the point of dislocation due to the battle with the mouth gag.

  Cramps overrun my jaw as I attempt to suck in any moisture I can get from the tears. The attempt futile, backfiring as I parch my mouth ever farther, if that's even possible. A drought has conquered my mouth as if stuffed with cotton balls.

  The leather strap secures my head to a vertical, metal pole behind me, rendering my head motionless. Another leather-feeling strap the width of a regular belt wraps around my neck, dancing back and forth over my Adam's apple with every attempt at a dry swallow. There’s no reaching for it as my hands are bound to the armrests of the rusty, metal chair I sit upon with zip-ties strapped around my wrists. My elbows, also bound in zip-ties making any movement in my arms impossible. Another belt-like strap runs across my waist. I don't mind this one as I can still manage deep breaths. Both legs individually zip-tied strangling tight to the chair’s legs by my thighs and ankles. All my limbs and joints rendered immobile as if I were sitting in an electric chair, this is worse.

  Any movement worth mentioning comes from my anxious heart and my scanning eyes. Everything comes in and out of focus. Every nerve ending in my fingers and toes quiver painfully. Sweat all over my body, leaving my clothes damp and sticky.

  My clothes are the best American tourist outfit the internet can offer: short-sleeved polo t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. My golf sandals gone, leaving my feet bare and sweaty. The stench of my feet and armpits potent enough to pass the fresh leather aroma surrounding my nose.

  My wife, she’s dressed as an average American female tourist: a tan sundress, and thin-strapped gladiator sandals which make a maze of her lower legs, from calves to toes. Her skin, tanned as a honeymooner’s should be, now tinged with red blotches. Petite, yet every curve of her body, from her breasts to her waist, sensual. Mascara and cabernet-lipstick smeared across her face to the degree of a horror movie. Her tears have dried to black crusts along her face.

  I watch her on the television in front of me off to my left side. She steps back against a wall and pulls a black nylon stocking over the top half of her head, stopping it before crossing over the bridge of her nose. Dangling in front of her a few feet away is a marshmallow painted to resemble an eyeball.

  This means pain. Excruciating pain for either myself of her. I hope it’s me who suffers, for the beginning is gone, but the end, I hope, is nearing.

  #chaptertwo

  Before being strapped to a chair inside of a Plexiglas torture chamber, my wife and I were meeting in college. Marie, that’s her name. We had never attended the same classes. Hell, I don't think I had ever seen her around campus before working together. She studied nursing, like lots of lower/middle class women nowadays. Well placed advertisements on bus stops and social media luring them in, portraying nursing as quick and affordable.

  During my two senior years, I had bartended at Mike’s Grease and Brews, a local pub and eatery. I still had no idea what I truly wanted to do with my life. What I do know is I wanted to live, experience life, none of that nine-to-five American Dream bullshit. At the time, I studied construction management—six-to-six bullshit.

  Marie was hired on as a server in her only senior year.

  Thank you, management.

  From the moment she started training, I wanted her. Shoulder length, wavy black hair. Glossy, round, hazel eyes. Curves made for a beachside party, I needed to be with her. My stomach somersaulted with the idea of saying a simple, Hello.

  Talking to women was usually easy for me. It didn’t guarantee getting laid, or even a phone number exchange, but conversation was simple. With Marie, it was a Rubik’s cube.

  Jay, Marie’s gay friend who had helped her get hired on was her trainer. When he introduced her to me, I garbled some nervous nonsense without realizing. I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with me. I felt like a teenage boy with an erection at the swimming pool all over again.

  After a week, I realized how close she and Jay were; I chose him as my pawn. Even before she was hired, he was the one to go to for any gossip. I gave him my own juicy gossip—my crush on the new hire—knowing he would spill over like a prom night bottle of vodka.

  Jay smirked and sashayed over to her. Sweat coated my palms as I watched him standing next to her across the dining area, whispering something in her ear. She grinned and glanced over at the bar.

  The teenage boy within me blushed, erection and all. Luckily, I didn’t resort to pulling her hair or calling her names. No, communication was easier once Jay broke the ice for me.

  As kids, we had crayons and sent notes through friends. In my bartending days, smart phones were just gaining popularity. I connected with Marie on a different level to start with: the POS, and, no, that does not mean ‘Piece Of Shit’. It stands for ‘Point Of Sale’, the computer systems used to place orders. It was my modern-day crayon note of Do you like me? Circle Yes or No.

  We were given team member numbers to access the sales system from any of the computers throughout the pub. I had Jay figure out her team member number to log into her POS system account. I’d log into hers, open a nonexistent table, and order a water. Under said water order, I’d leave a message. Special characters weren’t featured in the POS; no punctuation or smiley-faces. In essence, knockoff text messaging.

  My first message: WHY HAVENT YOU TEXTED ME

  Marie:
CUZ YOUVE NEVER TEXTED ME

  Me: WHY IS THAT

  Marie: YOU DONT HAVE MY NUMBER

  Me: THATS RIGHT

  Me: CAN I HAVE YOUR NUMBER

  Marie: WHY DO YOU WANT IT

  Me: I WANT TO GET TO KNOW U

  Marie: WHY DO YOU LIKE ME

  Me: YOU HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFU

  By this point, the dinner rush had peaked. I tapped away and closed the screen, saving the message.

  Later, Marie came to the bar for her table’s drinks and asked, “I have the most beautiful what?”

  Dumbfounded, I laughed. “What?”

  I hadn’t looked at her screen since I sent my last message.

  She laughed and explained the POS had cut my message short.

  A smile on my face and a knot in my throat, I said, “Eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she smiled and told me I was cute. Then she giggled and walked away with her tray full of bar drinks.

  That night we went out for drinks of our own. I gave her a lift home afterward, then I stalked her on Facebook once I made it home, scanning her photos for signs at what type of girl she was and other unimportant details we pride ourselves on. Stalking her, albeit a form of stalking accepted by society.

  She later admitted searching my profile and accidentally hitting the Add Friend button.

  That mistake helped lead to another date two nights later. We went to see unrealistic portrayals of men in another superhero movie.

  And so it went. We hung out every other night, our off-nights dedicated to homework and studying.

  I liked her.

  She liked me.

  One night we went bowling and all this feelings crap finally made sense. She attempted to introduce me to one of her girlfriends, whose boyfriend screamed at Marie to, Fuck off!

  On their table was a bucket full of melting ice and empty beer bottles, explaining why his Fuck off! sounded more like Fergerff!

  Red flashed across my vision and I swung my fist at the guy. The moment my fist crumpled into the guy’s face, the moment I felt the bones in his nose and in my wrist crack, I realized I loved her. I knew I would do anything for her.

  The feeling remains now more than ever, here strapped to this chair, half my tongue missing. I would gladly die for her.

  #chapterthree

  This was all a game, the pain Marie and I found ourselves in. Newlyweds experiencing what society enjoys in viral videos on a daily basis. We have become a viral live-streamed video.

  Zip-ties held me tight as I jerked my body in all directions, only shifting, but no real movements. I had no idea where I was. My memory was a blank canvas. Blood pounded throughout my body in panic. My jaw fought to move, to scream, call for help, but it couldn’t because of the mouth gag. My mouth propped open like a miniature wind tunnel for me to breathe through, but no talking. Only single voweled shouts.

  Everything was blurry, my body, my surroundings. Everything. A dim, rectangular light came in and out of view as I blinked repeatedly, attempting to bring reality into focus. Each time my eyes opened, the object was clearer. In front of me, a television screen with a small camera perched on top, watching my tight, panicked jerks. Watching my eyes dart from left to right, top to bottom, scouring my surroundings. I’m in a glass cell, Plexiglas would be my guess. Cheap and sealable.

  On the other side of the screen, outside of my cell, another Plexiglas box, with another screen, another camera, and another person. This person also strapped down, facing me. I stared and blinked until my vision cleared and the person came into focus.

  A woman. Her long, brown hair, and her large breasts pushing out at her tank top. Her face also covered with a wide, leather strap. An oxygen hose ran underneath her nose. Her neck and limbs strapped down like mine.

  Seeing her made it easy to imagine what I looked like.

  On my television screen were more people. Five men dressed as Geishas. The set looked like a gameshow’s. The ceiling overran with exposed iron rafters. In the rear of the stage stood a large television screen. To its left was a smaller stage setup. A drywall ceiling hung from the rafters, painted a sky-blue and had Anime characters painted amongst the clouds: some painted as surgeons, others as samurais, and others as babies with big eyes sparkling under the sun painted in the upper right corner.

  Propped in the center of the stage, a large, blacksmith’s iron anvil sat on the floor. On either side of the anvil kneeled two contestants. The woman dressed in an outfit similar to Marie’s the last time we were together. The camera angle showed only the back of her head, black curls spiraling down to her shoulders. The curls waved from side to side as she shook her head violently. The palm of her left hand laid flat against the anvil. On her ring finger, a dull sparkle from her wedding ring looked like a star burning out.

  Two of the geisha men stood beside either contestant. The fifth acted as grand host. One of the geisha men standing next to the woman lifted their hand high, a two-pound sledgehammer gripped in his fist. He brought it down with great force, landing it directly onto the back of the woman’s hand.

  The woman fell to the floor, writhing in tearful pain.

  The other contestant was an overweight man, Italian, maybe. His face pale, his clean shaven cheeks sagged sadly. A cul-de-sac shaped his hairline, the hair on the sides slicked back. He wore a button-down shirt that shined of cheap silk, black slacks ran over his legs down to square-tipped dress shoes. His large eyes bloodshot and glossy while witnessing the mayhem before him.

  The woman on the floor raised her head, shedding fearful tears of pain. Her hand in the palm of the other hand, her fingers sprawled out in different directions like a swastika. Her ring finger was pinched at the base by her wedding ring. The swelling happened as I watched on with the rest of the world. Her tears dragged mascara and eyeliner and foundation down her cheeks in streaks. Her wedding ring had lost its luster completely.

  My breathing raced as I saw her face clearly: Marie.

  The screen in front of me rioted with excitement. Laughing-faces floating across the screen. Wow-faces chasing the laughing ones, all of them above a live-ticker displaying the viewers’ count rising one thumbs-up at a time.

  The camera panned out to show the reaction of the audience. The live feed filled with the backs of phones held up to record and stream my wife’s torment. The phones shown either upright or horizontal, covered the faces of the audience. A congregation of faceless hairdos. Mohawks and bowl cuts. Tapers and sumo buns. Bald heads and sweeping comb-overs. Lots of them nodding in approval. Receiving their own acceptance by sharing this live on their own Facebook and Instagram and Twitter accounts.

  We were streaming live on lots of social media platforms. Live killings had become cliché. Torture was the new fad, starting now.

  Another camera angle with an alternate view claimed the upper left corner of the television screen. It turned to the woman across from me in the other Plexiglas box. It showed one of the male geishas enter. His white, blotchy hands gripped a pair of hedge-shears. A sinister smirk claimed his lips.

  The woman shouted incoherently through her mouth gag, her eyes pouring out tears. The straps and zip-ties banged and tore against her wrists, elbows, waist, and legs as she fought to free herself.

  The geisha’s smile stretched further, revealing yellow spotted teeth like he’d been eating hardboiled egg yolks. With the shear's handles in both hands, they stretched wide. The geisha brought his hands together, closing the blades over the woman’s thumb, slowly applying pressure.

  The woman shook uncontrollably. Fighting futilely against the straps.

  The blades had begun to break through the skin. Blood squirting into the geishas meticulously white painted face, his hands finally jerked together, the blades followed suit.

  The woman’s thumb shot onto her lap.

  The screen went crazy with its own blue hands holding their still attached thumbs up, floating across the screen like balloons.


  The geisha held the shears up victoriously for the viewers to either love or hate.

  Still, they watched.

  The woman’s body went still.

  My screams went unheard in my own cell.

  The geisha host smiled and shouted from the television screen in Japanese. Below him, English subtitles translated his shouts into, “Well, she won’t be sending out a text message anytime soon!”

  The camera panned over to the Italian man, kneeled on the floor, his hands pulling at a geisha’s robe. His lips shaped the words, “Stop! Please!”

  The host laughed uncontrollably as another geisha stung the Italian’s neck with a taser gun.

  The man dropped to the floor, motionless.

  The geisha host faced the camera and rattled off in Japanese.

  The subtitles translated into, “You see? The winner of the challenge creates pain for others. The loser, well, the loser shall also feel as much pain. Bones will be broken and blood will be shed as these two fight to live. The ultimate winner shall fight their own companion in pain to the death for survival. Please like and share with your friends across the world.”

  Two lines shot across the screen, separating it into four camera angles. A tormented Brady Bunch intro. The top left square had my leather strapped face next to my wife’s makeup smeared face, her hand being clutched next to her grimacing face. Her fingers pointed everywhere.

  The lower squares showed the Italian’s motionless body on the floor next to a shot of the woman’s thumb-less hand spewing blood.

  The live-ticker’s numbers doubling rapidly, going from 240 to 533 to 1k viewers and rising.

  Our torture was their amusement, and we had no idea how bad it would get.

  #chapterfour

  After punishing the guy at the bowling alley with my broken fist, declaring my love to Marie, our dates steamrolled into daily hangouts and sleepovers. That is, until she decided to study abroad for her final semester.