The Secret Society
of Hit Men - Part 2
By The Hit Man
When Mark started to come to, his head was hanging down, chin against his chest, his arms and shoulders stiff and sore. He tried to pull his arms around only to find that he couldn't. Bringing his head up maybe a little too quickly, he banged it straight into something metal hard enough to make a 'clanging' noise. He bent back over, sighting a pole that ran down between his legs. He realized his legs were tied to the pole with a thin rawhide type rope, a bare foot braced on each side. No doubt something similar held his hands.
A door opened in the wall and out stepped four figures. He didn't know their names but he recognized each of them from the alleyway. Obviously it had been a setup. What he didn't totally understand was why they had chosen him. More importantly, what did they want?
"Aw, good, you're awake." The voice belonged to the last one who had come into the alley, the older one whose muscular legs had made such short work of his consciousness. The man continued talking, actually making introductions, pointing to each as he said their name.
I'm Matteo. Jim in the blue shorts. Chris in the short greys. And Alex in the long greys." Each nodded in turn. "And what is your name?" Mark could hardly believe it, they didn't even know who they had.
"My name is Mark. Now tell me what you want." He tried to sound like he was in charge, hoping his bravado wouldn't sound false and might even spur them to letting him go. The four men snickered softly.
"Our employers would rather show you than tell you, Mark," Matteo said.
"And just who might your employers be?"
"They are a secret society." No more explanation seemed to be coming.
"Secret society of what," Mark asked sarcastically?
"They are the Secret Society of Hit Men." Mark couldn't help himself. It all sounded so hokey. He burst out in laughter. He saw Matteo nod to Alex. Without warning, Alex slammed a fist right into Mark's lower gut, driving his air out, eliciting a loud grunt. Not allowing him to gather his wits about him, each of the other three followed suit, slamming either a fist or a knee into his gut. His knees were wobbly, his head light from lack of oxygen, his stomach muscles groaning from the repeated hits. The men stood back as if to admire what they had just done. As soon as Mark began to get his strength back, they repeated the cycle. Over and over, pummeling him, punishing him, kicking and hitting until Mark could stand no more. His knees gave, his head falling to his chest. As he lapsed into unconsciousness for the second time, he stopped feeling the punches, unaware whether they stopped at that point or not.
This time when Mark came to, he was surprised to find a lone figure in front of him. He couldn't help but admire the fellow's physique as he leaned with his arms stretched over his head, braced against a pipe. In fact, Mark was pretty certain he knew the fellow, had seen him some where recently.
"Aw, good, you're awake again. Sorry about the capture team. They got a little carried away in their responsibilities."
"Capture team?" Mark's brain was still a little too addled to understand quite what was happening. "Don't I know you?"
"Chris Austad. I've done quite a bit of modeling but you might recognize me from the soap I'm currently in called 'Passions', or that reality show, 'My Big, Fat Obnoxious Fiancé.' Either one ring a bell?" Mark couldn't say for sure and returned to his original question.
"What did you mean capture team?" Chris lowered his arms and began to stretch out.
"Well, the capture team goes out and finds possible members. When they do, they capture them and bring them here for the test."
"Members? Member's for what? What test are you talking about?" Chris was tired of questions. It was time for action. He stepped up close to Mark and pounded him with a quick combination to the gut, just above his belly button. Already punished, Mark gasped at the blows. He tried to tighten his abs but as Chris continued to shower him with blows, he found that his earlier beating had left him pretty defenseless. His breathing quickly turned ragged as he struggled to bring in air between hits. A blow caught him low, just above his groin and Mark felt gorge gather in his throat. The blows stopped.
"Sorry about that," Chris said. "Kind of a low blow wasn't it?" Mark could hardly respond. Then the blows resumed, only carefully aimed higher, most landing just below his sternum. With each blow, Mark could feel his resolve sinking away. His gut had never hurt so much, feeling like it was on fire. Even his inner organs were sore, something he had never experienced before, even from his workouts. Chris continued to pummel and punish him until his head began to droop again. It was at that point the beating stopped.
"Oh no, mate. My time is done. Don't want you nodding off again now, do we." With that being said, Chris disappeared through the door the 'capture team' had appeared through earlier. Mark had many more questions but there wasn't anyone present at the moment to ask. What could possibly be next, he wondered.
Mark didn't have long to wait. A figure stepped out the door, dressed all in leather. Even as he stepped into the lighting, the person dropped the top part of the outfit open, exposing an incredible set of abs. Mark recognized him right away, Peter Andre.
"How you hanging in there, Mark," Peter asked. "I sure hope you aren't all tuckered out yet. I am ready for some fun." Peter took off the rest of the leather as he spoke, leaving on a pair of jeans and boots.
"What do you mean fun," Mark said. "I sure ain't having any fun getting the stuffing beat out of me." Peter looked at him, a serious look of concern on his face. Then, without warning, he delivered a powerful kick, boot and all, right into Mark's ribs.
At that, Mark was pretty sure he was going to puke. Peter lambasted Mark's abs with continued blow after blow, his boot soles leaving waffle shaped patterns wherever they landed. Peter added a couple of high kicks right to Mark's chin, leaving him more dazed then ever. As he began to sag, Peter rammed his boot right into Mark's crotch, holding it there as he put pressure on Mark's privates. For the first time since the whole thing had started, Mark let out a primal scream of pain. His back arched, his muscles straining against the bonds that held him.
"Let me down from here and I'll show you some kicking, you bastard." Mark barely managed to grit the words out between his teeth which he was clutching to forestall the pain of the boot rammed into his groin. Peter dropped his foot but immediately started to pound Mark's abs with his fists. Much to Peter's liking, Mark had found his second wind and his abs were hard and ungiving.
"Now that's what I like," Peter said, "showing some spunk." It took another good 15 minutes of powerful blows before Mark was defeated, his abs once more softened and unable to stop the fists that bore into the muscle. Peter stopped and stepped back.
"That was a pretty good show, Mark," he said. "That should count pretty good toward your final score."
"Score? What score?" Mark yelled this at Peter as he too disappeared from the room.
The next person through the door was the last one Mark would have expected to see. And he was the first one who actually put fear into Mark for what he might be able to do. It was Mark Wahlberg. Even as he crossed the floor, Mark was amazed at the abs that still covered his 36 year old torso. But his biceps had grown to gargantuan size. Mark was not looking forward to having them pounding at his already defeated gut.
"Let's see what you got left," Wahlberg said, stepping up and slamming a fist solid into Mark's lower abs. The stroke had so much strength behind it, Mark was pretty sure it went clear through to his spine. "Hm, still needs a little work," Wahlberg added as he stepped into a pugilists stance. For the next several minutes, Mark suffered at the hands of a master, each blow further destroying his musculature, digging in deep, shoving his internal organs around in a jumble. Suddenly, Mark felt someone moving around behind him. Without warning, his bonds were cut and he fell to the floor. Wahlberg didn't stop the punishment. Instead, he switched to a dropping motion, driving his fist in each time. Mark tried to curl up but Walhberg simply punched him in the kidneys, forcing him to open back up. Walhberg grabbed him by the hair and hoisted him up bodily, slamming him against the wall. Holding him with one arm choking him, Walhberg continued to blast away until Mark had no strength left and collapsed against Wahlberg who simply moved out of the way and let him fall. As mark lay there on the floor, only one eye open, he saw the feet of many others now standing around him. A foot caught him in the side, shoving him to his back. His focus centered on Wahlberg who stood closest.
"Welcome to the Secret Society of Hit Men," Wahlberg said. "You have passed the test with a near perfect score. Let's finish this." An explosion of fists and knees attacked Mark, quickly driving him into unconsciousness for the 3rd time.
It all felt strange as Mark came to, this time to find himself in a luxurious king size bed in a well appointed room. Except for the way his body ached, he would have thought it all to be a dream. Beside him on a chair were the shorts he had worn the day before and his skates. He pulled up the blankets to verify that, yes, he was indeed naked. As he sat up, a wave of nausea rushed his stomach as the pain came on full bore. He had to sit quiet for a few moments until it passed. That's when he noticed the envelope propped on the chair as well.
Tearing it open, he read:
Welcome to the Secret Society of the Hit Men. You have passed our entrance exam with flying colors and we welcome you to our ranks. You will receive a private invitation to our next meeting. In the mean time, the final entry requirement is that you propose another prospective member to be tested for our elite brotherhood. By now, we assume you know the requirements for being considered. We await your candidates name.
The Secret Society of Hit Men
Below the scrolled name was an embossed picture of a fist walloping a well formed set of ab muscle. Looking down at his own set of bruised and battered abs, Mark was sure he knew just who he would recommend.