Lights, Camera, Action...

Right then, this is a crime story that deals with the transformation of a living, breathing human being into seemingly nothing at all, and in an especially twisted and savage way. Not for the faint-hearted.



Lights, Camera, Action

An undisclosed location, July 1984.

Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano was slowly coming out of the anaesthetic. The chloroform-soaked wad of cotton wool, encased in a huge hand that had muzzled him as he went to unlock his car after a heavy night’s drinking, was beginning to wear off.

And now he was slowly becoming fully aware of the real nightmare that now awaited him.

He came to, stiff and aching as if he had spent the entire night in the trunk of a car, which he had. A big, bear-like man with a neck like a bull and a face only marginally more attractive, riding in the same position all night while bound and gagged had left him barely able to move and that was exactly what his assailant had wanted. The man in question hauled Martorano from the car in his huge hands as though he were little more than a sack of laundry and with as little effort, or gentleness, casually tossed him to the ground. Now fully awake, as if the fear of realising he’d been kidnapped hadn’t been enough, Martorano recognised his captor and stark terror flooded through his body.

It was Richard Kuklinski.

One of the most feared, and fearsome, freelance hitmen in the United States, if not the world, Richard ‘The Ice Man’ Kuklinski was no joke. He was a very discreet man, he had to be in his line of work, but within the Mob and the criminal world he was known as a man who delivered the goods in whatever way his clients asked him to.

No matter how sadistic or sick-minded the client’s needs.

However you wanted someone whacked, Kuklinski would deliver. He didn’t kill women or children, but if you were a man then you were fair game for him. It didn’t matter who you were or what you’d done or if you’d even done anything at all. Kuklinski didn’t moralise, he didn’t judge, he didn’t even revel in his work as some hitmen do. He just killed. Whoever he was paid to. In whatever way his employer of the day dictated.

He’d use any method that suited him. Some he strangled, some he shot, some he stabbed. Just lately he had taken to spraying cyanide into the faces of his many victims. But, on this occasion, his employers had asked him to make Martorano really suffer and, as usual, he had no trouble whatsoever in obliging.

‘Hello, Vinny.’ he said, casually tearing the gag from Martorano’s mouth. ‘You know who I am and what I’m going to do. And you know why and who for, so there’s no point in begging or trying to bribe or threaten me so I’ll let you go. I always deliver on a contract, your bosses know that. That’s why they hire me. And you, my friend, are going to find out, first hand and only too well, just how efficient and obliging I really am.’

‘You know, you really shouldn’t have tried to muscle in on Little Nicky’s share of the rackets. It’s disrespectful to try taking a man’s business just because he’s in the can for the next twenty years, and you know how these old bosses feel about disrespect. You thought that he was out of sight, so he was out of mind. But he’s right here. He’s me.’

Martorano let out a fearsome, animal shriek, much as a cornered animal does when the hunters are closing in for the kill. He knew Kuklinski and what he was capable of. Indeed, he had done a couple of hits with him and had seen his horrifying lack of pity and remorse at close quarters. He had laughed about it afterwards with his Mob buddies, his ‘goodfellas’ as he called them. Now he knew that his time on this Earth was rapidly drawing to an end and that, if Kuklinski (or whoever had hired him) had his way, that end was never going to be a pretty one.

‘Now, now Vinny’ said Kuklinski. ‘We’re in a cave, miles away from anybody. Nobody’s going to hear you and, even if they do, I’ll be ready and waiting for them with my little friend here.’ With this he produced and lovingly caressed the silenced Uzi he always carried when he was preparing for a long night’s work. ‘So be a nice guy and don’t bother making a scene. Nobody saw us arrive, nobody will see me leave. And nobody will know that you were ever even here.’ Kuklinski smiled as he spoke, a wolfish grin that only made Martorano even more afraid of whatever horror undoubtedly awaited him this night.

‘OK, Ice Man, I know this is it... and you’re gonna whack me. Just make it quick and clean, like a wiseguy should, that’s all I want.’

Kuklinski tutted softly and thought for a moment before replying conversationally. ‘Vinny, Vinny, Vinny... You know me. I’m always happy to do whatever a customer asks. The problem is, you’re not the customer, you’re the mark. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to satisfy Little Nicky. And he’s asked me to make this job a really special one, OK?’

Martorano writhed and struggled against his bonds, as if trying to test them for any looseness that would enable him to free himself and take on Kuklinski man to man. There was, however, no chance of that. Kuklinski had been too thorough, he had done his job too well for Martorano to find any help from that quarter. Instead, all his struggling only tightened the plastic ratchet straps already locking his arms and legs so tightly together and effectively sealed his fate then and there.

Kuklinski sat in his chair, expressionless and utterly dispassionate as he watched Martorano roll around, trying ever more desperately to free himself. Kuklinski was a vastly experienced, utterly reliable and entirely cold-blooded hitman, but he had never attempted a kill like this one. Even by his advanced standards, this was something very special and he awaited the results with interest and anticipation. Who knew, maybe nobody had done this before, and it could certainly be sold to future customers as a special, and very expensive, means of doing murder.Even the most twisted of his customers, and there were many of that disposition on his list, couldn’t fail to appreciate the sadism involved in such a slow and painful hit. And, while it offered the thrill and customer satisfaction of which he was so proud, Kuklinski couldn’t fail to appreciate the practical element in that it also solved the trickiest problem for many a hitman before him, that of disposing of the victim after death.

For, with this method, there would be nothing left to dispose of...

Kuklinski looked down at his intended victim and again gave him a wolfish grin, not because he enjoyed Martorano’s suffering but because he wanted to fulfil his contract to the letter. That meant making him suffer as much mentally as physically and that could be accomplished not only by making Martorano suffer a ghastly physical fate, but accompanying that with the mental agony of not letting him know exactly what awaited him until the last second. That way, Martorano’s mind and imagination could run riot, especially as he knew Kuklinski and his methods of old. Martorano knew Kuklinski to be utterly indifferent to the pain and suffering of others, especially that of his victims. For instance, Martorano knew that Kuklinski had once taken a blowtorch and burnt off the genitals of another wiseguy who had tried to rip him off over some stolen property one time. He had let the man live, but he was much less of a man nowadays. It was with thoughts like this running through his fevered brain that Martorano was left to ponder his fate as Kuklinsky stepped out for some fresh air and let Martorano think about it for a while.

Kuklinski stood by his car, as if pondering his next move and whether this was one step too far even for him. No, of course it wasn’t. And even though it didn’t turn him on, he still had his customer’s wishes and thereby his own reputation to consider. And this would seal his reputation as delivering the ultimate in cold-blooded customer satisfaction. In his business, as in so many others both legal and illegal, reputation was everything.

He unlocked the back door of his car and checked that all the contents were in place. They were, as Kuklinski was always careful to ensure he had all he needed for whatever kind of job he hired for. A video camera, a tripod, a microphone and stand, a trio of battery powered storm lanterns and a couple of spare batteries. All was there and ready for immediate use. He also pulled out a flask of hot coffee, a large bag of his favourite sandwiches, a decent-sized salami and a surgeon’s scalpel. It would, after all, be a long night and he didn’t want to go without some food and a hot drink. He packed the film equipment into a large kitbag, slipped it casually on to his shoulder, picked up his food and flask in his free hand and started back to the cave. A little work setting up for the shoot and all would be in place for Martorano’s short-lived film career.

As the star of his very own ‘snuff’ movie.

Kuklinski strolled back into the cave and carefully laid down the bag of film gear near his chair. He made himself comfortable, poured himself a coffee and began to eat his sandwiches. As he did so, he noted the look on Martorano’s face as he calmly ate his evening meal. Martorano couldn’t believe his eyes as Kuklinski calmly munched his way through his sandwiches, and marvelled at the absolute coolness of the man who had, as he had earlier said, something ‘special’ lined up for Martorano’s death. Martorano had always been a reliable killer himself, but nothing like as cool and relaxed as his nemesis, now sat calmly before him as if studying Martorano like some sort of lab animal.

Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he finished his meal and said in a friendly tone of voice ‘Sorry, buddy. Are you hungry? Or would some coffee go down well about now? Pity I finished it all. After all, the condemned man is meant to have a hearty last meal. But don’t worry, I’ve got something here that might do just as well.’

Martorano, despite the stark terror that had accompanied him since the dope had worn off, felt his belly rumbling. ‘Yeah, sure, go ahead. I’m hardly worrying about my figure right now, am I?’

Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he produced the salami from the bag. Along with the scalpel. Martorano blanched as he saw the blade in Kuklinski’s hand and Kuklinski seemed genuinely concerned as he said ‘It’s OK, Vinny. I’m not going to cut you up into strips and throw you into the nearest trash pile. Here, have some good Italian sausage to keep you going.’ With that he deftly sliced off a couple of segments and fed them to Martorano who craned his neck forward to accept the morsels like a well-trained lap dog accepts a biscuit. Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, feared enforcer with the Philadelphia Mob, reduced to begging for scraps like a poodle. The thought upset him so much he almost appreciated what Kuklinski was going to do to him. The shame and humiliation would have finished him as a wiseguy and left him a laughing stock on the street otherwise. At least he would have gone out as a goodfella should, proud and defiant to the last, with nobody to know he was spoon-fed his last meal. He was ready for whatever Kuklinski had in mind for him now.

Or so he thought...

Kuklinski took his time setting up the film camera, lights and microphone. True to form, he was the consummate professional in all things, looking carefully at positioning the lights so as to give him the clearest of shots of Martorano as he lay on the stony cave floor, trussed and helpless. Kuklinski even found time for a rare moment of gallows humour as he made his final preparations for the big show.

‘Am I getting your best side, Vinny?’ Kuklinski said, grinning as he did so.

‘Man, you can go and FUCK YOURSELF!’ roared Martorano, in a mixture of frustration and blind terror as he finally realised just how messy his final end was to be. He had noticed the stirring in the shadows thrown around by the storm lanterns and, while he couldn’t see exactly what was moving around in the cave, he knew full well it was something alive and that Kuklinski was going to kill him and leave his body exactly where it was. No Last Rites or Mass to be said for the soul of Vinny Martorano. No decent burial in consecrated ground. He was about to die and be left as food for whatever lived here in this dank little hole in the ground.

Except he wasn’t. Kuklinski had, as he had promised earlier, come up with something particularly ‘special’ for ‘Martorano: The Movie.’ He wasn’t going to kill Martorano himself and simply film that. That would be too simple and quick. No, the customer had demanded that Martorano be made to really suffer. And suffer he would, because if there was one thing about his work that Kuklinski really enjoyed, and it wasn’t the actual killing itself, it was that in his opinion the customer was always right. If he wanted Martorano to really suffer, then Richard Kuklinski was the man for the job.

Kuklinski stepped forward, bent down and casually cuffed Martorano across the face, as if to punish him for the insult. Then the scalpel suddenly appeared in his other hand and Martorano knew that the time had come. Kuklinski began deftly slicing off his clothes. First his expensive tailor-made Italian suit had to go, then his shirt, then his black silk boxer shorts. Kuklinski worked in silence, smiling companionably at Martorano as he stripped him of his wallet, his expensive gold Rolex watch and other jewellery, as nothing was to be left behind to identify Martorano. Little Nicky had been quite clear when he placed the contract. Outside of the underworld, nobody was to know where Martorano had disappeared to, and Martorano was to suffer in a manner so hideous that any and all hoodlums were to understand that Little Nicky was still the boss, whether in jail or on the outside. And Kuklinski was never one to disappoint a customer.

Once Kuklinski had finished his amateur tailoring, he stood and looked down at his victim. He turned on the camera and looked carefully through the viewfinder, as if to ensure that Martorano was fully in shot and a decent close-up of his face was a definite possibility, and smiled wolfishly. This was going to be very interesting indeed. He stepped forward and began making small, clearly defined cuts in Martorano’s limbs and body. He was careful, for as an experienced hitman he had anatomical knowledge as good as that of any surgeon, not to accidentally nick any veins or arteries. He didn’t want Martorano to die or lose consciousness from lack of blood, after all.

Martorano began to scream with every cut and, as he lay shrieking like a banshee, he twisted and turned and bled, slowly but surely. The noise attracted the attention of the permanent residents of the cave, the creatures that lived here full time, were always ravenous for a meal and always happy to find one laid on for them. The combined smells of sweat, fresh blood and fear overrode their natural caution at the amount of noise dinner was making and they began to creep forward, sniffing at the air and growing ever more interested with every breath. Then they began to speak, chattering to one another.

As a horde of half-starved rats tend to do.

Kuklinski watched with ever more interest as the rats began creeping closer and closer towards the shrieking Martorano. Martorano began writhing and twisting with desperate urgency, trying to scuttle away from what was something out of his worst nightmares. Kuklinski had promised him something special and now here it was, not being killed and left for the rats, but being cut up and left to be slowly eaten alive.

The rats began to cluster around Martorano, sniffing and prodding him with their claws and noses, scuttling round and all over him in an obscene circus of hungry mouths and writhing tails. Then they began to nibble at parts of him, ears, fingertips, his nose, lips and tongue. Kuklinski watched and listened in silence as the shrieks of the dying human began to be subsumed beneath the rabid chattering of the rats as they devoured him alive. He panned the camera up and down Martorano’s rapidly vanishing body as the rats did his obscene work for him. Martorano’s shrieks gradually diminished, first to mere screams, then to gurgling moans, then, finally, to nothing.

Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, once the most feared enforcer in the Philadelphia Mob, was dead. He had met his match and nobody could even give him a decent burial, let alone mourn him.
It was near dawn now. Kuklinski switched off the camera and packed away his kit. It had been a fascinating evening and his employer would be well pleased with his next home movie. Kuklinski paused and took a last look back at what had once been a colleague, not that Kuklinski had ever had any real friends. Nothing remained, even the bones had been devoured.

All that remained of Vinny Martorano was a large patch of blood and a few scraps of bloody flesh, nothing whatsoever to identify Kuklinski’s latest kill

It was an excellent day’s work.