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Compos Mentis	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1200 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Max Payne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Third
act – climax.

Although,
in actuality, Gognitti and ‘climax’ just don’t mix
well in my head.

“Strip.”

“Strip
what?” his voice is bordering on hysteria, which is apparently
blocking the passage of blood to his brain.

“Isn’t
English your first language? Strip off your clothes.”

Gathering
his leftover nerve, Gognitti challenges me with his bravest
expression. It’s about as genuine as that cartoon. “No.”

“It’s
not a request.”

“Fuck
you!”

I
fold my arms, producing a brief snort. It’s as if he’s
trying to make this easy for me. “Whatever you say, Vinnie.
Though I think you’re missing the point a bit.” Taking a
suggestive step forward, I declare, “Either you do it or I
will.”

The
brave expression drowns under one on the verge of tears as he lets
out a feeble, “Okay, okay!”

He
hesitantly pulls the shirt off first, revealing a very white –
for a so called Italian, he’s practically bleached-, very
skinny torso. He stops after that, his lower lip quivering as he
looks my way. “Can – can you not, can you please just
look away?”

“What?”
is the only response my mind is able to come up with. If this was
a cartoon, I imagine here’s where my jaw would perform a drop.
Modesty is what he’s worried about now? His priorities
are a little oddly set. “Is that a joke, Vinnie?”

“No,
no joke, just – please, I don’t – “ he’s
having trouble expressing himself, “ I won’t run. I won’t
try anything. Please.”

I
shake my head in abundant disbelief, but decide to humor him and turn
away. Not all the way, so I could still catch any irregular movements
on his behalf. I keep my fingers pressed against the handle of my
Eagle. A few moments later, I ask, “Are you done? Can I look
now?”

His
reply comes back, shaky in the extreme, “Yeah – okay.”

I
turn back to him. His boxers feature Captain Baseball Bat Boy. Not
exactly an unexpected development, but I barely restrain myself from
laughing – halting on a grin, which I surgically remove a
moment later. My jacket is next on the removal list - I hang it on a
chair by the bed, also unbuttoning a second button on my shirt and
pulling the sleeves up above the elbows; it might get a little
stifling. Unfastening my belt buckle, I make an overview of Gognitti.
Built like a particularly twiggy scarecrow. Skin and bones and the
occasional wiry muscle. But mostly skin and bones. I then place my
gun on the chair, too.

Gognitti’s
staring at the floor, the one place where he isn’t likely to
encounter my gaze. His scrawny arms are wrapped around his chest as
he unsuccessfully tries to contain his shivering.

I
begin to feel a little chilly, too.

Maybe
it’s the belated realization that there are at least a million
places I’d rather stick my cock in, than Vinnie Gognitti’s
ass.

A
toaster, for instance.

His
whiny voice, much quieter and somehow darker than usual, drags me out
of my contemplation, “What are you gonna do?”

“Nothing
breathtakingly original,” I reply distantly, feeling like I’m
reciting dried out, vacant lines. Even my mouth is becoming dry in an
attempt to fit in. But I go on, no point in backing out now. I’m
doing this for a reason. Why do I even have to convince
myself? “I’m sure you’ll be right at home.”

“But
- why? I don’t,” he stumbles over his words, frenziedly
searching for a way out, “I didn’t - You don't have to -”

“Vinnie…”
I drag his name out, more drained than annoyed, really. I slowly rub
the aching area on the back of my neck as I mutter, “Do the
both of us,” and humanity in general, “a favor and shut
up.” I have no space to left to think straight amidst his
blubbering.

He
doesn’t listen.

“Please!
Please don’t hurt me! Look, I’m sorry, okay?” he
offers, as if he’s just discovered this wonderful new prospect,
“I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, ever. I promise!”

My
hands involuntary clench into tight fists, fingernails digging into
skin as I sense the comforting, ardent heat of rage returning, now
stronger than ever. All uncertainty is instantly vaporized, fading
into crystallized intent. And I’ve got only Gognitti to thank
for that.

There
are very few things in the world that piss me off worse than these
words.

“Sorry,
Vinnie?” I come close to hissing, or maybe growling. I adjust
my tone, stabilizing it against my fury; shaping it into something I
can work with, “Sorry is more than a word. It’s more than
a pathetic plea. Sorry is something you feel. And you will
feel it. You have my word on that.”

Whatever
he was about to say, it becomes trapped in his throat as he violently
shakes his head from side to side, maybe trying to convince himself
this isn’t happening. Denial. Never good for you.

“Lie
down on your stomach. Don’t struggle, it’ll be over
quicker.”

Of
course, he doesn’t follow my instructions. Showcasing a truly
impressive hearing disability, he tries jump up and bolt for the
door. His panic causes him to miscalculate, ending up too close to
me. I intercept him easily, using only one hand to shove him back
onto the bed, face down. I don’t bestow him with any reaction
time, immediately climbing on top of him. With my body weight pressed
against him, he isn’t left with much space to maneuver, except
for a fit of frantic shivering he enters.

“I
don’t need to lecture you about the hard way and the easy way,
do I?” I grip his hair and pull his head back as far as physics
allow me, ignoring his sharp cry, “Because I’d hate to be
that obvious. Now,” I push his head back into the bed, “Are
you going to behave from now on, or should I tie you down to make
sure?”

For
some time, there’s nothing but erratic, hysterical breathing on
his end. Then comes a scarcely audible, “No…”

“Then
stay still.”

Remarkably,
he actually manages to do what he’s told for once - keeps
shaking like a leaf, but doesn’t actively attempt anything
stupid. I raise myself to a crouching position on the bed, keeping
one hand pressed against his back for insurance. The other I use to
drag his ridiculous boxers off – he remains passive throughout
this, which somewhat surprises me. His breathing rate begins to race,
though.

I
relocate myself in between his scrawny legs, pushing his knees
farther apart while lowering my pants to my thighs, which is as far
as they need to go. Grabbing the spare pillow, I shove it under his
pelvis, creating a better angle.

This
is it, then.

The
moment we’ve all been waiting for.

The
grand finale.

I
doubt these are butterflies making my stomach turn, though.

It’s
just last moment anxiety. I’m overcomplicating matters. It’s
all about the first plunge.

Don’t
think - just do.

I
take a deep breath, and shove myself into him.

Nothing
can really prepare me for that shriek he lets out – like a
fucking slaughtered pig.

A
shudder echoes through my body, almost electrical in intensity, but I
keep going.

And
he keeps screaming.

I’m
not sure how long this goes on. I’m not sure whether I’m
supposed to block out his screams, or employ them in my advantage. At
the moment, neither seems to work. In fact, I’m getting murky
on how this is supposed to work at all. Any of this.

It’s
impossible to maintain the rage in the midst of his wails. It’s
hard to even preserve a steady motion, or pace.

“Shut,”
I thrust hard, “The fuck,” again, so he’ll
understand, “Up.”

Disturbingly
obedient, he slowly settles into quieter sobbing, until I can barely
even hear him. His skinny body keeps heaving uncontrollably under me.

It’s
not a huge improvement.

“What
the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you at least try to
take it like a man?”

What
am I thinking? This is Vinnie fucking Gognitti. Wonder boy. He
doesn’t even know what ‘like a man’ means.

Like
on cue, the opening theme of that damn cartoon begins to play for
what feels like the thousandth time, the noise transmitting all too
clearly from the nearby room. “The Adventures of Captain
Baseball Bat Boy! Episode one hundred and twenty three!” the
television pronounces triumphantly, as if it’s something to be
proud of, “Maxwell's Demon returns, bent on taking his revenge!
What diabolical plan does he have in store this time?”

Fascinating.
Fucking fascinating.

Gognitti
makes a pitiful sound, like some dying animal, and I begin to feel
physically ill.

“Just…”
breath in, breath out, “Try to relax,” I mutter, not
quite certain which of us this advice is meant for. “It won’t
hurt as much.”

The
pattern of his sobbing doesn’t change in any way I can
perceive, and I wonder if he even heard what I said.

It
doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter.

I
try to regain a rhythm, but the television is relentless - now a
thunderous laughter escapes it, booming straight into my ears.

Who
the fuck laughs like that?

Probably
that Maxwell's Demon character.

Maxwell's
demon. Huh. It sounds familiar. Something to do with the laws of
thermodynamics. Some contradiction, but – god fucking damn it,
that laughter is driving me crazy.

Then
again, I’m musing about the laws of thermodynamics while
fucking Vinnie Gognitti. Does it really get much crazier than this?

Let’s
hope not.

I
raise my head, so I wouldn’t have to look at Gognitti –
hearing him is bad enough - and instead catch the gaze of a
mid-flight Captain Baseball Bat Boy trapped in a framed poster above
the bed. His eyes are so round. Two huge ‘O’s glaring
into me in silent accusation.

Cartoon
flavored paranoia.

Perfect.

To
top that, my neck begins to burn dimly.

My
last resort is to shut my eyes, distance myself from all this. I have
islands in my head, too.

But
I can’t seem to reach any of them. Stuck in a limbo of flashing
images. A slideshow of blood, death and destruction. The stuff that
dreams are made of. The slides shift with each thrust, each one
somehow worse than the one that came before.

Myself
after my ‘Welcome to America’ beating.

My
father in a pool of his own vomit and blood.

The
first guy I killed - barely any blood, just a hollow stare.

Dimka
– he died with a whole ocean between us, so each time I imagine
it differently. This time half of his head is blown off, probably
with a shotgun.

I
hear a pained grunt. It doesn’t sound like Gognitti. Only
moments later it registers with me that I’m the one who made
it.

Something’s
wrong with me.

But
there’s absolutely nothing wrong about this.

It’s
business. It’s revenge. It’s Justice.

Fuck.

I
see Max’s face, all grim and judgmental.

In
other words, wearing his usual expression.

Probably
the worst thought I could possibly have at the moment.

His
obviously nonexistent yet still persistent presence hovers over my
shoulder, refusing to let go.

Breathing
is becoming difficult.

Who
the fuck are you to pass judgment, Max? You’re not my
mother.

Great.

And
that the absolutely worst thought.

I
stop.

Gognitti
has probably been punished enough, anyway.

God
knows I have.

I
push myself out and away from him, though nowhere near as away as
I want to be.

Positioning
myself on the edge of the bed, I swiftly pull my pants up and work on
steadying my breathing rhythm. When did it become so damn unsteady,
anyway? I click my belt shut, and look over my shoulder, at Gognitti.

What’s
left of him.
- 2
- 3
- 4
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