The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel by Claude Bouchard Read Free Book Online Page B

liked to train at home,
which I had learned during a recent visit to his dingy, one bedroom basement
apartment, where the small living room had been furnished with a workout bench,
hundreds of pounds of free weights and bars and a stationary bike.
    Though Castonguay was a mugger and small time pot/hash
peddler, he wasn’t very big-time at either profession so he worked part time as
a stock boy in a local grocery store. I knew he stocked shelves until nine or
so Monday nights then generally went home for a late dinner, likely consisting
of pilfered goods, so I was waiting for him in his apartment when he arrived.
    As
I mentioned, he was a big, strong guy so I knew I’d have to subdue him quickly
once he came in or the situation might turn ugly for the wrong party. When he entered
through the front door, I was waiting off to one side in the living room. In my
martial arts training over the years, I had learned a thing or two about
joints, how they bend normally and how they can bend otherwise though not
specifically as designed to do.
    Castonguay walked by me to
my left and as he moved forward, I did as well, half a step behind him. I
kicked at his right leg with my left foot, below the calf, just enough to
extend his step a foot or so then spun to my right, dropping my butt and full
weight onto his right knee while swinging my right elbow into his jaw.
    A
gut-wrenching crack and snap was heard as his knee took the impact and he
shrieked. Instinctively, his left fist smashed into the back of my head – it
hurt – but I delivered another solid elbow into his right temple and rolled off
as he tumbled to his left, dazed and moaning. I went back at him, pummelling
his face, his stomach, his ribs. His arms came up
defensively for a few seconds then fell limp to his sides. He had passed out.
Excellent, he was subdued… but I would need to refine my techniques.

 
    When Castonguay regained consciousness, not too long
later, he was saddled up on his stationary bike, so to speak. I had laid the
bike sideways and positioned him appropriately then duct-taped his feet and
ankles to the bottom, horizontal base. I had then solidly taped both his
forearms to the handlebars before raising the bike back to a vertical position.
Once I’d had him in balance, it had been no major feat to secure his trunk to
the seat and support post beneath it. It should be noted that this field of
endeavour can require a lot of duct tape on occasion.
    As
he came to, he was a bit wobbly but the forward leaning position encouraged by
his forearms taped to the handlebars helped him stay up.
    “ Tabarnaque ,” Castonguay cursed, shaking his head and wincing for his
efforts.
    “Don’t
hurt yourself, my friend,” I replied in French. “We have some things to discuss.”
    “ Té qui toé ?” he demanded .
    I
shrugged. “You wouldn’t know me even if I told you.”
    “You
broke my leg, you bastard,” he said. “It hurts like hell.”
    “Actually,
I kind of destroyed your knee,” I corrected, “But I doubt any bones are broken.
It’s more a question of torn ligaments. Sorry but you’re bigger than me so I
had to immobilize you as quickly as possible.”
    “Huh,”
he grunted, unimpressed. “What’s this shit with taping me onto this bike? Are
you some weird faggot or what?”
    “I
don’t see how you come up with faggot,” I replied, “But let me reassure you I
have no intention of taking advantage of you sexually. You just aren’t my type.”
    “So
what’s this all about?” he insisted. “What the hell are you up to, breaking in
here, busting my leg, knocking me out and taping me up to a goddamned bike?”
    “Gaston Verville is dead,” I replied in explanation. “He
committed suicide a few days ago.”
    “Who
the hell are you talking about?” he asked, actually demonstrating annoyance. “Some
shithead I don’t know kills himself and you come in here and attack me?”
    “The
name doesn’t mean anything to you?” I asked,