Boredom

Salvete, students!

Welcome back to class. I trust you didn't get into too much trouble during our brief hiatus. Some of you are very imaginative, and well, we've all seen the kinds of… ultraviolence that simultaneous imagination and boredom have brought this world, haven't we?

Sure, it hasn't all been bad. The humanities contain very impressive examples of the good that can be made manifest with sufficient imagination and boredom.

But we simply must admit, there is another side to that coin. After all, the very imagination that led to Da Vinci's Mona Lisa also led to the first designs of an armored tank.

I believe the best illustrations of this other side of the coin are torture devices. Consider the imagination of Parillos of Athens, inventor of the brazen bull – a hollow, brass statue in which one roasts their enemies alive.

In fact, from the pragmatic and efficient pear of anguish, to the long-winded torture rack, to scaphism – the Persian art of covering an enemy in milk and honey and letting the bugs feast on them – the dangers of the destructive side of the imagination are illustrated both brutally and plain.

The truth is that when the human mind is bored, the imagination has two directions it may go: Creation or destruction.

And when the soul is sufficiently malformed, it fails to distinguish between the two.

Let's open our textbooks to Chapter Four.

📖

The Iron Maiden

A few years back, rather than issue the students in my Ancient and Roman History class a midterm exam to test their knowledge, I assigned a paper that was 40% of the entire grade. Three pages, no more, no less. It was designed to be an easy A.

Naturally, the day that the assignment was due, I simply asked them to show up to the classroom sometime during the period to hand in their midterm essay.

Yet, when I unlocked the classroom door that cold Friday morning, what did I find?

An Iron Maiden.

Welded to the floor.

It was the damndest thing I'd ever seen. There was a taxidermied and tuxedoed deer inside. When I opened it? The Blue Danube by Strauss began to play.

Though I immediately suspected that only Daniel Green and Hugo Vale would do something so utterly weird, I wanted to judge all of the students' reactions to seeing it. So as the students came with their papers, I pretended it didn't exist.

Most just found it hilarious, or thought I had installed it myself, but moments before the class was over?

They appeared.

My prime suspects.

“Here you are, Dr. Whitmore,” Hugo said, handing me his paper. “I hope you enjoy reading it more than I enjoyed writing it.”

“I’m positive I will,” I replied.

Daniel handed me his and, with a wink, said, “There’s magic in these pages.”

“I have no doubt, Daniel,” I said.

As they turned and began walking off, I dropped the act, hoping to catch the boys off guard. “Quite a clever prank you boys pulled.”

Hugo Vale turned, lifting a sly eyebrow, “What's he talking about, Danny Boy?”

Daniel feigned confusion. “No idea. Are you feeling alright, Dr. Whitmore?”

“How did you get the classroom door unlocked?” I said, hiding my amusement.

“You should see a doctor, Doctor,” Hugo said, with a smile that could make you question reality itself.

That was the last I saw of my suspects, which brings us to Dr. Bixley's office.

She was the Headmistress of St. George's School for many decades, a staunch disciplinarian in the most agonizing way. She was pasty and liver-spotted, her hair was tall and white-blue, and most of all, she was old, as old as the money the school was built on, it seemed to me. For over two decades she had a cane to help her walk, but limped around instead out of sheer spite.

And there I was, covering for the crimes of my two favorite students.

“Rodriguez said that he heard two male voices speaking Latin from inside your classroom around six this morning,” she said.

Hugo Vale had taught himself Latin in 9th grade, and Daniel Green was a hyperpolyglot who spoke at least four languages, besides his native.

“Latin?” I feigned surprise. “Are you sure?”

“What about Vale and… that scholarship student he walks around with? Green?” By 'scholarship student,' she meant African American, a known slur on campus that was unoffensive in any other setting.

“I… I doubt it was them,” I lied. “They're… lazy boys who get by on charms and their natural intellect. Hardly the type to commit to a prank so…”

“Unabashed?” She asked. “Unruly? Unrepentant?”

I shrugged. “I was going to say ‘work intensive.’”

“Here's the deal, Whitmore,” she said. “We all know it was them. The rest of your class have perfect records. Those boys just don't give a damn about anything. Between their casual truancy and blatant middle fingers at every security camera they've ever walked by, I finally have something where I could argue for expulsion.”

“Hudson Vale would never let you do that,” I said, being honest for the first time since entering her office. “Neither would the many, many department heads here who have benefited greatly from his charity.”

“He wouldn't let me do it to his,” she replied. “But the other one?”

“To either of them,” I answered, hiding my offense at her calloused notion.

“I doubt that,” she said, adjusting her horned rim glasses. “He's just a scholarship student.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And wherever that scholarship student goes? Vale will be right there with him.”

“Am I going to have to waterboard you to get you to name some names?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

As for me, I felt like I'd been getting waterboarded the entire time.

That night, after dinner with my wife, I sat down to grade the papers. They were standard, run-of-the-mill prep school pieces for the most part. Pieces on Julius Caesar, Plato, one did a very interesting paper on stoicism being a convenient narrative in Ancient times for those who owned slaves.

But two of the essays really stood out among the rest, both in terms of quality and intrigue.

They were titled, “Torture Devices of Ancient Rome and their Applications” and “Evidence the Iron Maiden was Invented by Nabis of Sparta.”

Written by Daniel Green and Hugo Vale, respectively.

I took off my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose.

📖

Primary Source - Daniel Green

Half A Million

I don’t care how rich you are, imagine scrubbing your ass with a bar of soap that costs thirty fucking grand.

My eyes were closed. Head a bit fuzzy, pulsing dull and slow from deep within. I’d drank everything but water earlier than night and, I guess, morning. Wine, whiskey, innumerable cocktails. Stomach sour, too much steak tartare that tasted like dog food for billionaires and, also… rather delicious, if I’m being honest. Went back for seconds (and thirds).

Right away, I realized: something was breathing near me; over me.

“Danny Boy,” I heard Hugo whisper.

I turned my face into the pillow. “No.”

“Get up,” he whisper-pleaded, jostling my chest.

I opened one eye. He was crouched by the bed in his robe, grinning like a kid about to light a frog on fire. Wild-eyed and manic, like he’d dreamt something truly extraordinary — had a dead-asleep revelation — and woken up already halfway through the plan. He could barely contain himself, not that he was trying very hard…

“Now.”

“I’m sleeping, bro.”

“We’re going to teach dear Cousin Phillip a long-overdue lesson in respect.”

I stared back at him.

He concluded his pitch: “Full Metal Justice.”

Cousin Phillip, who you may remember from the last stately dinner I attended, had a nasty secret. It was a sore spot on the Vale name, one that hands worked tirelessly in the shadows to hide.

I sat up, checked the AP Royal Oak on my wrist, confirmed it was far too early in the morning for this conversation. I prefer a strong cup of black coffee or two before committing grievous bodily harm to others, call me an old soul. I looked at Hugo, shook my head, and let out a dry laugh. He knew: I’d already agreed the moment I cracked an eye. I didn’t say yes because I didn’t have to.

Such is our relationship.

He held up a satin pillowcase. “Soap’s from Omar Al Abdawood and Sons. $28,000 a bar. Infused with rare diamond dust – rumored there's hammerhead shark secretions baked in. Hudson cleaned out their Dubai shop when he was there last fall. Found a store of ‘em in a cabinet near where the help congregates.”

He handed me one of the soap bars. I examined it, but my eyes were still adjusting — probably still drunk — so perhaps that’s why it looked no different than pharmacy-grade Dove.

He continued: “Load the sack. Hold down his blankets. We beat him until he’s ready to offer up the contents of his laptop’s hard drive just to make it mercifully stop. But of course, you and I both know this isn’t about justice or morality or anything like that. No, this is about fun. And practice. After all, we can bludgeon the Bandits with these as well.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, exhaling sharply. “What about the face? We adding the cost of reconstructive dental work to the price tag of this six-figure spanking?”

“No face shots,” he said bluntly, walking out. “We’re not savages – not until UltraViolence, anyway.”

Anyway, I followed.

The Vale estate at night felt older than it was, which is saying something, because the land had been cleared and the structure built long before Hudson was even a twinkle in his late father’s eye. Wood-paneled halls. Wainscoting about waist-high. Ceilings too tall — the house, which had state-of-the-art HVAC, remained a few degrees too cold to be comfortable, always. Even at noon, the house sat in shadow, its angles a seasoned architect’s boast, its windows sealed behind drapes stiff with dust and time.

We moved through the hall, quiet and quick, or as quiet as could be helped, as the old floors groaned like Cousin Phillip would shortly.

Hugo gripped the pillowcase tight. I kept mine low, the weight of the extravagant soap bars giving it a nice heft.

Phillip’s room was two halls over and down a back corridor they pretended was closed for renovation, where the sparse lighting glowed inexplicably blue and things were eerily silent.

We didn’t speak.

At the door, Hugo wrapped the case around his hand, giving him a tight grip that wouldn’t betray the task ahead. I mirrored him.

We stepped in.

Phillip was faceup, snoring, probably dreaming of women he’s subjected to his creepy advances. Drooling a little, hair naturally ugly but neatly combed like a child for his first day of school. And shirtless, of course. Cousin Phillip had bitch tits, but neither Hugo nor I commented because, well, it would be a surprise if he didn’t.

The blanket was bunched at his waist. I grabbed it and yanked it tight, pinning him. Hugo climbed on the bed, keeping a knee pressed down on the opposite side of the blanket, and forcefully shoved a bar of soap into his mouth. Phillip’s eyes shot open and his whole body convulsed… just before the first hit landed square on his sternum.

THUD.

He croaked and gagged.

Hugo brought his down again, cleaner this time. I went low for a shot to the floating rib. Then to his thigh. The soaps knocked around inside the fabric like expensive bones.

He twisted under us, trying to yell but the erratic movement of his tongue served only to give him a better taste of the soap jammed in his mouth like a ball gag. All that came out was spit and flecks of soap and muffled breath. Tears welled fast. His legs kicked but ultimately proved weak and useless.

Hugo’s face was cold now. Focused and methodical. His strikes hit rhythmically. He was a drummer mid-solo, the band gone quiet so he could tear the kit apart. He didn’t blink, not once.

In turn, I hit harder.

Phillip was sobbing, his eyes red and panicked. Snot foaming out his nose. The fear came from somewhere deep, where nothing logical lives, triggered by deeply ingrained survival instincts. His body twitched and started to lock up. Then, quiet.

He passed out.

We stood there, breathing hard but not obvious. I watched Hugo try to slow his exhale through his nose. I did the same. Neither of us wanted to look more winded.

“How’s it feel to be beaten raw with a half a mill, Cousin Phil?” I said, patting him on the bitch tit.

Hugo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This has got to be a... top ten most expensive bludgeoning in history.”

“Easy.”

We looked down at him, his skin gone chalky, bruises blooming like ink across his chest and thighs. Even unconscious, he twitched beneath the blankets, a stubborn pulse of pain working its way through the meat.

Hugo stepped back first, and I followed him out of the room.

Door shut behind us without a word. I lit a cigarette. Hugo took a puff off it, before handing it back. He said, “Sweet dreams, chum,” as I went back to bed.

I dreamt of nothing.

📖

Part 2

Boys Will Be Boys

The next morning, Hugo and I groggily sauntered into the kitchen, desperately searching for a filled coffee pot; at least that’s what I was doing.

“Hilda!” Hugo shouted, pulling his robe tight.

A heavyset, grey-haired bottomless pit of energy whirred around the corner, wobbly navigating the grooves of the tile floor in the heels Hudson forced her to wear as part of her maid uniform.

“Yes, Master Hugo,” Hilda said, out of breath, taking her place in front of him, prepared to carry out whatever task his mind conjured.

“...Coffee?” he said expectedly, eyebrows raising, hands fanning out. “You know I rise at nine on weekends, and I prefer — I like — my Americano piping hot and waiting for me by the northeast bay window. In the east wing.”

“It’s eleven thirty, Master Hugo.”

“My Patek is losing time again, Danny Boy,” Hugo said, turning and brandishing his watch for me to inspect. It correctly read eleven thirty, but I wasn’t about to challenge him on it, not when I just wanted to take two Advil, down some expensive African slow-roasted shit (undoubtedly not fair trade), and go back to bed until the sun went down.

“Ah, my progeny and his charming liability, up before noon on a Saturday,” Hudson Vale announced in his trademark rough but refined and impossible to ignore voice. “I’m flying out to Majorca this afternoon — you can take the Benz or the Range Rover or the Ferrari if you must, but Hugo, keep your grubby little hands off the Rolls.”

“I don’t even like the Rolls, father,” Hugo responded dismissively, biting into an apple he found sitting with other apples in an ornate basket on one of two kitchen islands. “I find it performative and predictable.”

Hudson laughed. “Says the kid trying to make it ‘big’ in the wrasslin’ business! Performative and predictable; boy, that is rich!” He walked around to Hugo, playfully but aggressively tousled his bed-head, and gave him a jab in the arm. “Thank you. I needed a good laugh; I have to fire a man and four hundred or so lesser men when I close their factory today. Just leave the Rolls alone. It’s 2025 — I can and will remote-monitor.”

Cousin Phillip shuffled into the kitchen, spine hunched and arms slack, like every breath cost him something. His shirt was soaked. He winced just from standing.

Hudson let out a dry exhalation of a laugh upon seeing him. “Oh, what, did the escort know judo this time or something?”

Phillip's eyes drifted to me, to Hugo, and the floor.

“Hudson,” he finally said, looking like he was trying to steel himself to deliver damning information, “your son and his… co-dependent… brutally assaulted me last night.”

“What?” Hudson replied, his brow furrowed, emotional response unreadable.

“Hugo and that… FREELOADER! … they attacked me while I slept last night!”

“Use your indoor voice when you’re in my home, son,” Hudson cut in before Cousin Phillip could continue.

You could see the little weaselly fucker swallow the testicle he calls an Adam’s Apple in that moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vale, BUT — but… they hit me with pillows, and, uh,” he began to stammer and lose his train of thought, probably from lack of sleep due to verging up all night bleeding internally.

Takes a lot out of a guy.

“They hit you with… pillows?” Hudson raised an eyebrow and turned to Hugo and me. “Your boys’ slumber party get a little too rambunctious?”

“They had BRICKS in them!”

I chuckled.

Hudson caught it. “What’s so funny?”

I answered, “Let’s say, for instance, Hugo and I were to enter Cousin Phillip’s room at night, while he slept, and beat him with pillowcases filled with bricks. Do you really think he'd be standing here talking to us right now?”

Phillip gasped.

I continued: “Phil, I’ve seen you bruise from sucking your thumb too hard.”

Hudson glanced at his watch. “Now Phillip, apologize.”

“Me?” he croaked.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me, but why?”

“You’re a tattletale, Phillip. A whistleblower.” Hudson spoke the word ‘whistleblower’ with disgusted derision, like it was a slur he couldn’t believe escaped his lips. “You know this family’s stance on tattletales and whistleblowers.”

Phillip blinked, uncomprehending. “But I was attacked.”

“And yet here you are. Upright. Speaking. Breathing through both nostrils, I assume.” Hudson focused most of his attention toward drafting an email on his phone to a business associate. “Christ, Phillip, I’ve had interns throw themselves out of windows for less than what you’re whining about.”

“They beat me… with bricks,” Phillip snapped, losing steam halfway through the sentence.

“Pillows,” I corrected. “With potential brick-like qualities. If your story was true, that is. Hugo and I, we plead the fifth.”

Hudson waved his hand. “Whatever it was, you lived. Congratulations.”

Phillip’s mouth hung open like he was waiting for logic to arrive and rescue him. It didn’t.

“But I’m your nephew.”

The way Phillip said it told me everything I needed to know.

Phillip looked at Hudson as a surrogate father figure — his real dad locked up for embezzlement more than a decade ago — but Hudson looked at Phillip as just another hand reaching for his brandy.

“And Hugo’s my son. Who I’m pleased to see is finally showing some grit.”

Hudson adjusted his cuffs and started to walk out of the kitchen, saying, “Having Daniel around’s been good for him. He’s sleeping less. Complaining less. Reading less foo foo bullshit. Punching more.”

He looked at Phillip like he was something undercooked. “You should find yourself a Daniel, if only someone would tolerate… all that you are and are not, Phillip.”

With that, Hudson made his exit, striding off with his trademark power-walk.

Silence settled in as we were left alone with Phillip.

I thought about our upcoming brass knucks-on-a-pole match against Hessian and Gamble: how nice it felt to hit someone with something other than fists, knees, or elbows. Almost like last night’s attack was a warm-up. Phillip hadn’t really done much to me, aside from a few thinly veiled racist jabs. I didn't care about his reputation with women, or whether that made him deserve what he got.

Then it hit me.

I didn’t need a reason.

The GVG doesn’t need an excuse to hurt someone.

Not every blow struck has to prove a point, deliver “justice,” or send a message.

Sometimes… violence is the message.

📖

Takeaways

As we wrap up today's lecture, I am still left with questions.

I wonder, what could Tony Gamble and Hessian learn from today's lecture about Daniel Green and Hugo Vale? Never to fall asleep in their house while they have a good excuse to beat you to death? To make sure they have no access to your locker room in the early morning to prevent them from installing a bizarre prank?

Or is there something deeper to be gleaned?

Brass Knuckles on a Pole.

As bizarre as an Iron Maiden with a tuxedoed deer inside.

And yet, don't they thrive in the bizarre? Don't they celebrate it, even?

Brass Knuckles on a pole.

A stipulation that will no doubt lead to torturous conditions. After all, even brass knuckles are a torture device when wrapped around the right fist.

And yet, don't they enjoy torture? Don't they celebrate it, even?

Brass Knuckles on a Pole.

A condition that not only suggests, but necessitates the name of the very supercard the match is placed on.

And yet, don't they thrive in and enjoy UltraViolence?

Don't they celebrate it, even?