Time Stands Still

Zenon Konopka entered the room. On either side of him stood the Boston couple. They led him into the room, where Tyler sat with his head bowed, almost like he was dead. On the floor, in front of his feet was the piece of black tape, he’d torn off.

Katie spotted it and laughed. “Aw, guess the little guy needed some air! Poor Seggy!”

Zenon squatted down and reached out. He forced Tyler’s chin up. The forward’s eyes instantly locked on the face of the one player he couldn’t stand. When he had been asked about which player he would never want to meet in a dark alley, he’d replied with Zenon Konopka. This Buffalo Sabre goon was the worst hockey player on the face of the planet, who wasn’t named Sean Avery.

Zenon was a goon. A terror on the ice. And, being completely honest, this man freaked him out. The guy would often chirp him during the play, slam him into the board, manhandle him, the list went on and on at the horrible things this man did to the poor forward. He just didn’t like playing with or against Zenon Konopka.

And now, as he stared at the man whom he had called out to the media, he felt the anxiety rise in him. Was the guy going to make him pay for that? Was he going to hurt him? Zenon flashed a sinister smirk and Tyler’s blood ran cold. There was no doubt that this goon was going to make him pay with his fists. It was Tyler Seguin season!

“He’s all yours, Z!” Katie exclaimed. “The tape, ropes and whatnot is on the table, so help yourself. We’ll let you have some fun!”

“And remember where to put him when you’re done!” Tommy added.

The Sabre growled his understanding, before turning all his attention back to the panicking Tyler Seguin. Zenon’s hand flew out at once and his fingers wrapped around Tyler’s throat, making him cough and make horrible gurgling sounds, as he fought for air.

“So, you wouldn’t want to run into me in a dark alley, eh?”

Tyler tried to bat Zenon’s hand away from his throat, but with his wrists bound together, he was helpless. He thrashed about, kicking his feet, which were still pressed together into one. After he thought the man was going to choke him to death, he let go, allowing Tyler to take in air.

It was only for a few second, before the goon seized Tyler’s arm and yanked him to his feet. He ripped the tape from Tyler’s legs, both strands and then landed a blow to the Dallas player’s stomach. Tyler doubled over, as Zenon quickly darted to the table, snatching up the roll of duct tape and returning. He rapidly ripped off another rectangle and stuck it over Tyler’s mouth, making sure his big meaty enforcer hand covered it as well, keeping it in place.

Tyler lifted his arms up to remove the tape, but he was halted instantly, as his wrists were grabbed by the goon and lifted up over his head and bound by a dangling rope, that had been set up.

Even more helpless, the Dallas Star felt himself dangling like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. He tilted his head up to see that the end of the rope was wrapped around a hook contraption in the ceiling. He saw the rope wrapped around the tape, which secured his hands together.

“How about now? Want to run into me in a dark alley, now?”

Tyler whimpered a reply and was punched again in the stomach. He jerked at the motion, causing himself to swing back and forth lightly.

“I love it when my victims don’t chirp back at me! And I love it even more when they can’t disrespect me and make me seem like a heartless goon!” He rounded Tyler twice, before halting before him once more.

Tyler’s eyes were wide with horror. He wanted to snap at this man and tell him that what he was doing wasn’t changing Tyler’s mind any. And if the HDA or NHL caught him doing this, he was sure to get a 20 game suspension of hopefully, kicked out, banned from playing hockey.

“I’m silencing your voice Tyler, because you need to learn that some things are better left unsaid!” He smacked Tyler over and over, assaulting him without a break. The helpless hostage pulled at the rope, feeling his arms go numb again. His shoulders screamed at him, as the rhythm and motion of his swinging from the blows felt like his arms would pop from their sockets.

Tyler squeezed his eyes shut as he took the brutal beating. At the end, he felt the goon cut him loose from the rope. Bruised, weak and beaten, he crashed to the floor, landing hard on his side. A searing pain raced through him and he howled into the tape. But he kept his eyes shut.

Soon he felt the tape being unwound from his wrists. Zenon stripped his shirt off of him, leaving his upper body exposed. A shiver crept up his spine, but he ignored it, focused on breathing and trying to remain calm. He didn’t dare move, as the tape was replaced with a rough manila rope, which was wound in a tight figure-eight motion, secured his arms behind his back once more. He still kept his eyes shut, unable to open them for fear. The goon reached up and brushed his cheek, before Tyler felt the adhesive ripped away.

When Zenon was finished, he dragged Tyler into another room and finally dumped him roughly inside some other room. He could hear the sound of a metal door shutting in place and a key turning in a lock. He was trapped somewhere new, he knew that. But where?

Tyler lay on the floor, shirtless and bleeding from a few cuts. He managed to curled up in a fetal position. His face and body hurt, beaten to a pulp. He tried to open his eyes, but they were either too swollen or caked with dry blood to yield. He had never felt such pain, even on the ice. Never even imagined that it could be so bad.

There was one time during his time with the Bruins, that he had to play the rest of the season with a really bad knuckle injury. But that was nothing compared to this! He had thought that it was one of the most painful periods of hockey he had to play through, and he couldn’t do anything without it hurting like crazy.

Tyler had been through countless training sessions to beef up his body and make sure he was ready if the crazy fan decided to strike, but he hadn’t realized just how crazy, insane and smart they could actually be. Anyone who hadn’t been through this kind of “rough up” could never really understand just how bad it was. How painful and agonizing it was. Now Tyler understood.

He’d been able to keep it together so far, putting up a fight, resisting, talking back, but just barely. He was freaking out and he didn’t know if he would survive. He just wanted to go back to Dallas and resume playing hockey. Why did people have to be so cruel? There were moments when he was on the verge of calling it quits. He told himself that they would know when to stop and that they wouldn’t kill him….yet. They needed him alive.

Tyler’s captors were obviously less concerned about the mess. They had spared his feet and genitals and, for the most part, had slapped rather than punched him in the head. Most of the beating had been inflicted with open palms and a hockey stick, methods that were designed to elicit pain without causing life-threatening injury. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. Tyler had kept a careful inventory of where and how they were hitting him. Fortunately, they had restrained themselves from striking him in the head too many times. Other than a heart attack, the easiest way to lose a subject during interrogation was to create hemorrhaging in the brain.

Tyler tired his eyes again and got one of them partially open. The eyelid fluttered to life to reveal his dank surroundings. He wasn’t in the lair anymore. Or maybe he was. He was in a cellar of some sort with a dirt floor. White sheets were draped along the walls.

Tyler tried to lift his head, but it hurt too much, so he lay there and tried to take an inventory of his pain. Nearly every inch of his body was aching, but there were a few areas that stood out. Chief among them, were his ribs. He was pretty sure a few of them were broken or at a bare minimum bruised. The majority of the session had been conducted with Tyler’s arms strung above his head to some contraption on the ceiling -- his flanks exposed to the brutal blows. Even when they weren’t beating him, his shoulders screamed with pain as if they were going to be ripped from their sockets.

Tyler gathered the strength to roll from his side onto his back. He winced as shards of pain shot through his rib cage. Slowly he turned his head toward the door. There was a video camera that was mounted on a tripod. The red light under the lens told him it was still recording. That was good. Record all of it, for all he cared. He heard movement and voices outside the door. Tyler tensed with the anticipation that the beating would begin again. The door opened, throwing more light into the room. Tyler blinked as Tommy reached up and turned the camera off.

“Go ahead and kill me! What are you bastards waiting for?”

“We’re not killing ya, Tyler!”

“Oh sure! You had Konopka beat me up!”

“He wanted ta!”

“You didn’t have to let him!”

“We aren’t arguing with ya, Tyler! Ya need ta be taught a lesson! And ya must learn!”

“Bite me!” Tyler snapped, in a sudden surge of strength and power.

Tommy lunged forward and grabbed him around the neck, making another shot of agony shoot up his spot. Tyler went limp, trying to bite back the searing pain that was ripping through his bones.

“Careful. Don’t make things worse fah yah-self!”

Tommy shoved him backward. Tyler coughed violently, trying to maintain his fierce glare, but he couldn’t as the rough coughs made him spit out blood on the cold floor. Tommy cackled and walked back out.