Together Until We Die...

Patrick Kane blinked awake. He felt a sharp, stinging pain in his head and realized that he must be bleeding from a cut on his forehead. He slowly lifted his head up. He attempted to bring his hand up to see if he was correct, but he found that he could not move.

He could feel his wrists bound tightly behind his back. He was sitting in some kind of wooden kitchen chair, that he could feel he was tied down to. Patrick’s eyes flew open and he gazed around the room, as he took in the surroundings.

The room was small and the walls were worn. The wallpaper was peeling away and the place looked like it was being torn down or in the process of being renovated. The door was wide open and Patrick could hear furious cries coming from the other side.

He was curious to know what was happening. Where was he? Why would someone kidnap Chicago’s star forward in Patrick Kane? Where was Jonathan Toews, his beloved roommate, linemate, captain and more-so best friend?

He could pick out some of the argument that was occurring. And someone named “Riny.”

“So what are we going to do with them?”

“God only knows if half of Chicago saw our charade! Who knows who could barge into this place! I trusted you all to bring me the two Chicago Blackhawk forwards!”

“And we did!”

“But you don’t alert the entire city!”

“We did pull off the abduction heist successfully, didn’t we?”

“You’re a dumbass, Riny! You were always a dumbass!”

“So what are you going to do to the two superstars?”

“Oh, we’ll see. I’m going to go check up on them now. See how they are? See if they’ve awaken yet?”

Thunderous footsteps sounded, as the lead man stomped into the room. Patrick faked like he hadn’t woken up yet. It didn’t work, as the man stormed up to him and slapped him hard across the face. Patrick screamed, but found that his scream sounded muffled and faint. He realized that he had been gagged with tape like he had seen Jonathan in the van.

“Time to awaken, sweet, drunken Kanerboo!” the taunting voice sneered into his ear.

Patrick groaned and moved his head up straight. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the eyes of his least favorite hockey player.

Chris Pronger.

The tall goon-ish man was an ex-Flyer. He was no longer a hockey player in the NHL, due to sustaining an injury that forced him to remain out. Not to mention he wasn't exactly young anymore, like he used to be. And he had serious anger management issues!

“So glad you could join us, I hoped you were strong enough not to die from the knockout!” Pronger growled, the corners of his mouth twisting upward, slyly. “I wanted to have a little fun!”

The ex-Flyer ripped off the black tape from Patrick’s mouth, roughly. Patrick screamed and Pronger quickly flew his arm up and cupped his hand over the Blackhawk’s mouth, muffling the noise.

“If you want to be able to take in air normally and survive a bit longer, I suggest that you don’t make a noise. You may carry on a conversation however. But no screaming. Otherwise, I’ll cut right to the chase and damage that pretty little trap of yours, got it?”

Patrick nodded. He was frightened. Sure, he had nerves before games, but nothing like this. He was going to die. He wasn’t sure when or how, but he didn’t want it to be sooner than initially planned and twice as antagonizing. He would listen to Pronger, obediently. No matter how much he despised doing so.

“Good boy,” he cooed, as he removed his hand from the forward’s mouth and dropped it back down to his side.

Patrick licked his lips, quickly, to wet them from the drying nervous feeling he had.

“Where’s Johnny?” Patrick demanded, immediately, as Pronger’s hand met his side once more.

Pronger grinned devilishly. How did he get so Sidney Crosby-like? Oh right, 2010. Pronger was a member of the Flyers, who were beat by the Chicago Blackhawks on their home-ice. Chicago won the Stanley Cup, while Pronger and his Flyers stood horrified, watching in shock and awe, as the Western Conference team skated around their rink with the ultimate prize. Oh, and Pronger helped himself to the winning puck, stealing it for his own collection. All signs and hints pointed toward him as the thief of Patrick Kane’s winning puck.

“Where’s Tazer?” Patrick repeated his question, with more emphasis.

Pronger seemed to enjoy the foreplay. He took his time in responding. Patrick watched him, as the big goon paced back and forth. He finally replied with, “He’s here. He’s actually right behind you!”

Patrick struggled to look behind him. He wanted to know his captain was alright. He could only crane his neck around so much though. “Tazer, buddy! Speak to me! Are you alright? Tazer?”

Pronger snickered, softly under his breath. He really enjoyed this.

“Your beloved Captain is alright, but we had to use some extra force to knock him out. You should know that he put up a valiant effort. But ultimately, Riny told me that he lost!”

Patrick was petrified.

“Riny also let me know that he tried his best to beg and plead to leave you alone. But how could they, when they had orders from me, to bring you both alive?”

“Who’s Riny?”

“You should know. He’s my favorite Flyer, my partner-in-crime. The next me. I’ve trained him quite well, actually.”

“Who?”

“Zac Rinaldo.”

Patrick couldn’t believe his ears. Pronger was a villain. A real life villain. He was once the captain of the Anaheim Ducks….ONCE. But that was luck, wasn’t it? (Ryan Getzlaf is ten times the leader Pronger EVER was anyway!)

Since he was traded to the Flyers, he’d lost his edge. He’d lost his good name. He was the dirtiest player in the league, mentioned alongside names like: Sean Avery, Matt Cooke, Patrick Kaleta, and John Scott. And because of that, he got serious injured. He was concussed by three separate hits and his career came to an end.

Sure, he had once been a smart player, with edge. Sure, he had once been a member of the triple Gold Club. But now he was nothing. Now he was laughed at and labeled as dirty. (Kinda like Sidney, after his concussion happened...)

Now he was training another Flyer to follow in his same footsteps. Patrick was beginning to piece together what had happened. The big man who had kidnapped him was Zac Rinaldo, who was following the orders of the leader, Chris Pronger. And the other two, had to be helpers. Possibly Flyers as well.

“Don’t worry, Lil Kanerboo,” Pronger mused, as he stepped forward and ruffled Patrick’s blonde locks in his fingers, rather roughly. “I’ll let you both converse and have a few bonding moments, before we get to work.”

Work? Pronger turned and walked back out of the room. This time he slammed the door shut on them both. What was this “work?”

Patrick threw his head backward and gazed at the ceiling. It was made of a popcorn-like substance and looked unstable. This place was not a house fit to be living in. Maybe it wasn’t even a house. He wasn’t really sure. Were they even in Chicago anymore? They had to be. But where?

“Kaner, I’m so sorry. I tried to reason with Riny and his friends. But they insisted on capturing you too,” Jonathan’s unnaturally shaky voice sounded behind him.

“Tazer, it’s not your fault.” Patrick dropped his head back down. He tried to move his hands to get free again, but he still couldn’t move much. “So, what do you think those two have planned?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

“No luck?”

“None.”

“What are we going to do about this?”

“What can we do, Peeks? We’re bound to chairs! Have you tried to break free from the ropes? I have. It’s useless.” Jonathan sounded devastated, destroyed, unmotivated.

“Prongs has the knotwork of an advanced Boy Scout. Damn!”

“I’ll say. He’s got the mind of a supervillain,” Jonathan grunted in distress. Patrick was sure that his captain was pulling at the ropes again. One last grunt of exhaustion greeted Patrick’s ears, telling him that his captain had failed again to get free and was ultimately giving up.

“We’ve got to do something, Johnny. We can’t let the city of Chicago down! They’ve invested their heart and souls into us!”

“I’m afraid this is the last time that Chicago is going to hear about their precious Dynamic Duo of “Kaner and Tazer” or “Patrick Kane and Jonathan Toews” or “Kane and Toews”!” the sarcastic timbre of the one known as Chris Pronger scoffed.

Patrick snapped his head to the side and gazed at the door, which was ajar. In the middle of the frame, Pronger stood. He had a sinister expression on his face. In his hand, he gripped a carving knife, much like the Joker’s folding weapon from Batman. Patrick’s mouth fell open and a small squeak escaped his lips. His heart rate accelerated.

Pronger was going to stab them to death!

“I told you to relax, Lil Kanerboo!” Pronger derided, his lips curling upward, distastefully.

“You can’t call me that!” Patrick snapped, not thinking about the consequences. He gave one powerful jerk against the ropes, almost tipping himself over. The chair tottered slightly, back and forth, but eventually came to a stop, resisting Patrick’s attempt.

“Peeks, don’t taunt him!” Jonathan’s sagely voice scolded. “Please!”

“Listen to your beloved captain, Kanerboo!” Pronger jeered.

“I hate that nickname! It sounds corny!” Patrick wailed.

Pronger stepped into the room. He hovered over the frantic goal scorer. “Settle down, Kanerboo, you’re only hurting yourself.”

Pronger lifted his hand, holding the knife in it, up. He flicked the blade out of it’s protection and pressed the sharp blade against Patrick’s neck in one sickly, sweet motion.

“Tazer, help!” Patrick pleaded.

“Let’s see here, Toews, how should I rearrange your partner’s face? Should I,” he slid the knife, seductively up Patrick’s face to his mouth. “Slit his mouth at the corners?”

Patrick forced himself to hold his head still. His heart raced in his chest.

“Prongs, stop!” Jonathan’s petrified voice croaked from behind. That wasn’t a good sign, that Jonathan Toews, the wise leader of Chicago was panicking and not calm. It didn’t make him sound so leaderly and smart. “Pronger, leave him alone!” This time he sounded a bit more in control, but the fear resonated behind his words. He was struggling not to collapse altogether.

Pronger dropped the knife, looking past Patrick. Patrick gradually took in anxious breaths, as he watched the Flyer round him and disappear from view.

“No, no, you’re right, Toews. I shouldn’t go after him first. I shouldn’t slit his mouth at the corners. No.”

Patrick didn’t like the sly pitch in Pronger’s comments.

“I should slit your mouth at the corners!”

Patrick bit his lip and closed his eyes. He thought about his poor captain, bravely trying to divert any attempt on Patrick’s life. Jonathan was a good friend and Patrick was always grateful to have known him. He loved Jonathan, like a brother. Even if they bickered and joked to the media about their “hatred” for one another.

“That’s not what I meant!” Jonathan’s terrified answer came.

“Oh, I know what you meant, Tazer. I think I like this idea, though. Let’s put a smile on that face! After all, why so serious, Captain Serious?” Pronger snarled. The evil Flyer lunged forward and attacked Jonathan with the knife.

The shaggy blonde haired winger clamped his eyes shut, trying his best to block out the sounds of his friend, as his captain’s painful shrieks punctured his ears. His blood ran ice cold.

“This is what I like to call the Glasgow Smile. It’s permanent and it makes you look “seriously enthusiastic” all the time! You’ll never be unhappy again, Tazer!” Pronger explained, as he forced Jonathan’s mouth open to a rictus, with the knife, and cut the smile into his face, violently.

The Glasgow Smile was generally an act that was performed with a utility knife or a piece of broken glass. It originated in Glasgow, Scotland, becoming popular in English street gangs (especially among the Chelsea Headhunters, a London-based hooligan firm), as a form of torture. It was also known as the: “Chelsea Smile/Grin”, “Glasgow Grin”, “Glasgow”, “Chelsea”, “Cheshire”, or “Cheshire Smile/Grin”.

A scar was left on the victim’s faces, causing him or her to appear to be smiling broadly (often slit from ear to ear). Sometimes the act even led to death by exsanguination, or blood-loss, if it was left untreated. Depending on how serious the blade work was, would depend on how fast the victim would bleed out and at long last, meet their end.

Patrick felt like Pronger’s dagger was sticking him in the skin, as each agonized yowl from Jonathan penetrated his eardrums.

Finally, after what felt like a millenium of terrifying moments, there was the sound of heavy breathing and snickering. Patrick knew that the act was over. It had been done. There was no going back. He heard Jonathan’s pain-filled whimpers.

“You look gorgeous, Captain Serious. Well, we can’t call you that anymore, obviously!” Pronger jeered, folding the knife back up. “What do you think, should I let your little partner see my masterpiece? Should I bring Kanerboo into this?”

Patrick kept his eyes glued shut. He didn’t want to see.

“Yeah, I think I should. I think Lil Kanerboo would get a kick out of seeing this!” Pronger sneered. The man pushed Patrick’s chair around, forcing him to face his friend. Twenty minutes ago, this would have been great, but now, not so much.

“I’m not going to look! You can’t make me!”

“Oh, I think I can!” Pronger growled. He kicked his foot hard into Patrick’s shin. The Blackhawk’s eyes flew open at once, instinctively. He yelped in shock.

His baby blue eyes landed on his friend’s bloody, scarred face. Jonathan was sweating profusely and looked weak. His eyes were glazed and clouded over. But Patrick found that he could not take his eyes off of the stomach-turning scars at the corners of the Blackhawk captain’s mouth. Blood swelled from the wound, dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, lap and the floor.

Pronger cackled, as he enjoyed watching Patrick gape in horror at the sight of his beloved captain, who looked like the kinder, gentler version of the Joker from The Dark Knight.

“J-Johnny…”

Jonathan turned his head to the side. He couldn’t face Patrick. Patrick felt his heart tear into two pieces.

“While you’re fascinated by the Glasgow, let me tell you both a story,” Pronger began, pulling up another chair, that had been resting against the wall. “When I played with the Flyers, I slammed somebody named Ryan Getzlaf into the boards. The glass shattered and rained down on him. One of the shards actually cut him at the corner of his mouth. He had to get stitches for it, but since that moment I felt something. I wanted to know how I could destroy opponents, by slitting the corners of their mouths.”

“And you considered doing this over playing hockey?” Patrick questioned, still unbelieving.

Pronger laughed. “No, Kanerboo, not at first. As much as I did enjoy my role on the Flyers...I wanted to do more!”

“So you considered going down the torture road, eh?”

“Well, yes. I did. I got dirtier on the ice and soon got suspended and kicked out of the league.”

“Like Kaleta and Avery!” Jonathan shakily stated, grimacing in pain.

“Exactly! So, when I left the league, I took up a villain gig. I’ve slayed four people already!” Pronger seemed proud of the fact that he’d killed people. It was sick. “I figured I should do something spectacular with my skills and new profession. So, I came up with this plan to kidnap Chicago’s grand Duo!”

“Cause stealing my game winning puck wasn’t enough for you, Prongs, was it?”

“Indeed, young one. Remember the accident that you all heard, about Dallas Star player Valeri Nichushkin?”

“What?” Patrick questioned.

“You were behind that?” Jonathan growled, flinching with pain afterward.

“That’s right. First, I hit him in the parking lot with my car. Then I took a sharp blade and caused the wound, by making small cuts on the corners of his mouth. And then I beat him, until his facial muscles contracted. When I was done, he had cuts extending up his cheeks to his ears! Sure, he recovered in the hospital and has since returned to the ice to play once more, but he has a permanent little scar in the shape of a smile, thanks to me!”

“You’re a twisted dickhead, Prongs! How has no one caught up to you yet?” Patrick spat.

“Because I’m too good. And now, it’s your turn, my Hawkies. However this time, you two aren’t going to make it. I’m going to beat you both to death.”

“Despicable bastard!” Jonathan spat, spitting out a wad of crimson blood and then convulsed in a rather violent coughing fit.

Patrick choked back the oncoming vile. He was used to the blood on the ice from fights and accidental puck cheap shots, but this was ten times different and worse. Jonathan looked sick. At least when a player got hit on the ice in a weird way with a puck or fist, the blood was cleaned and the wound was tended to instantly. He stared at the villain, who looked sickeningly calm and composed. He was like a professional assassin-torturer-villain person.

Pronger finally stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. He lifted Jonathan’s head up, by his chin, with his two fingers. “Don’t bleed out too much, Tazer. I can’t have you leaving the party yet. Try to keep the talking down to a minimal. When I return, Kanerboo is going to get it next.”

Pronger released Jonathan’s head, which dropped downward, like a heavy anchor weight. He made no attempt to stop the stop the movement. Blood continued to pool down his face, like drool. Patrick felt sympathy for Jonathan like never before. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his captain and embrace him in comfort.

****

Notes

Not really sure if one could actually talk or speak after having the Glasgow torture happen, but if the Joker could speak in Batman, than why couldn't the warrior in Jonathan Toews? Right?