Where There's A Will: Part 15

Only one drop today.....the plot is thickening.

Chapter Fifteen

The world was an abyss of black.

Then, a puncture wound of light, blooming from a pinprick to an overwhelming flood. A stabbing brightness, an intrusion into unconsciousness. Samson's vision swam, shadows shifting, blurred shapes congealing into a reality too cruel to comprehend at once.

His body was heavy, weighed down by fatigue, by something else. He was slumped forward, his massive shoulders drooping, his thickly corded arms pulled high above his head, wrists encased in iron. His knees buckled, his enormous quads trembling as if they’d been suspended in strain for hours. The sensation of cold steel pressed against the soles of his bare feet. He swayed in the dim light, and his hazy focus locked onto the shimmering lines below him.

Rails.

A deep breath, his powerful chest rising, stretching his broad torso. His head lolled back. The source of the blinding light—a single, merciless spotlight—burned through his retinas, its cruel intensity a celestial interrogation. Nothing beyond it, only the suggestion of movement, the whisper of unseen eyes.

He forced his gaze downward again, tracing the rails forward, watching them snake into the darkness before curving sharply right—joining another track at a switch.

His muscles screamed in protest as he turned his head, every tendon in his neck rigid with resistance. And there—just feet away, caught in his own unforgiving spotlight—hung Charlie. Nude. 

His muscular form, carved from hours of devotion, suspended like a fallen god, arms shackled above his head, every sinew drawn taut beneath his smooth, sweat-slicked skin. The light kissed each muscle, his sculpted pectorals, the deep ridges of his abs, the generous swell of his thighs. And there, swaying between his legs, his thick endowment.

Samson swallowed hard. A deep pit of dread yawned open inside him.

He forced himself upright, pushing against the crushing fatigue in his limbs. The iron chains clinked, the slack tightening instantly, yanking his arms higher. His shoulders strained, his biceps flexing involuntarily against the pull. He shifted his stance, but cold steel bit into his ankles—manacles, bolted to the ground. Charlie was bound in the same way.

The air was damp and stale, the scent of old stone and something metallic hanging thick in the space. The walls around them were dark, foreboding, carved from ancient stone. A dungeon? No—Samson recognized the architecture, the faint damp chill that clung to the air. The manor’s basement. The old wine cellar, close to the hidden depths of Arnold’s laboratory. A single high window on the far side of the room let in a ghostly trace of pre-dawn light, casting an eerie blue tint over the edges of the chamber.

His breath came ragged now, the adrenaline coursing through him, banishing the last of the fog.

How long had he been unconscious?

His pulse thundered. He yanked at the chains, his massive arms bulging with effort, but the restraints didn’t yield.

"Charlie!" His voice cracked the silence, reverberating against the stone. "Charlie, wake up!" His plea was raw, edged with urgency.

A soft groan. Charlie’s head lolled forward, then rolled weakly in Samson’s direction. His lashes fluttered, his lips parting in a sluggish exhale. Confusion painted his features, then growing horror as his consciousness returned in cruel increments. His fingers curled instinctively, his muscles flexing, but the realization of the chains came quick, his restraints pulling taut. His breathing quickened.

"What—" His voice was hoarse, unsteady. "What is this? Samson?" His accent made his name sound softer, but the panic sharpened each syllable. "Where are we?"

Then—

That sound.

A dreadful hiss, followed by the thick crackle of static. A voice, smooth as venom.

"Samson, Samson, Samson," the voice crooned, drawing out each syllable like a serpent savoring its prey. "Just what am I going to do with you?"

Samson’s jaw clenched. Every muscle in his body coiled.

"Let me go. LET ME GO!" His bellow ricocheted off the walls, but the chains mocked him with their unyielding grip. 

A chuckle, rich with condescension. "Now, now, Samson. There’s no need to cause a scene," Arnold cooed. "It’s beneath you."

Samson’s fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

"I warned you, didn’t I? Told you to stay away from those who would deceive you. And what do you do? You run straight into the arms of that scheming little Charlie." Arnold spat the words, dripping with disgust.

A cold chill slithered down Samson’s spine.

"Oh yes," Arnold continued, his tone shifting to something almost amused. "I’ve known about you two for quite some time now. Did you really think you could keep it from me? A good thing my dear brother Gibson is such an astute observer, not to mention Eddie’s penchant for reality television. Otherwise, your pathetic little plan might have actually worked."

Samson's stomach turned to ice. So Arnold had known. Had known that Charlie was an imposter, had known of their plan. But why was the betrayal being laid at his feet?

"I trusted you, Samson," Arnold said, his voice dripping with disappointment. "I built a life for you—a life that any man would kill for. And you threw it away. For what? For some English gutter rat?"

Over the tape, Arnold exhaled a heavy sigh.

"However," he mused, "despite your current… predicament, I am nothing if not merciful. You still have a choice. You can do the right thing."

The chains rattled as Samson fought against his restraints, muscles rippling beneath his battered skin. "What the fuck are you talking about?" His voice was a snarl.

Then, movement. Something rolled into view.

A small, four-wheeled cart trundled to a stop at the head of the tracks. Atop it sat a grotesque mechanical beast—a vertical sheet of cold, gleaming metal, its shape evocative of an insect’s wings. But it was the blades that caught the eye. Buzzsaws. A dozen of them, arranged in brutal symmetry, protruding from slits in the steel. Each saw glinted under the sickly light, waiting, humming.

A shudder ran through Charlie. His breath came in shallow gasps, his entire body rigid with horror.

Arnold's voice purred through the static, indulgent. "This, my dear Samson, is the Abattoirist 3000. One of my more... efficient innovations, utilized in certain meat-packing subsidiaries. Designed to process fresh livestock with surgical precision. The buzzsaws can reduce an entire carcass—bones and all—within moments."

Samson's eyes widened. His body went cold.

"And now," Arnold continued, "we come to the heart of the matter. You may have noticed the tracks below you. One set leads to you. The other..." His voice turned sly, almost playful. "...leads to dear, sweet Charlie."

Samson’s stomach churned.

"You have a choice to make, Samson. One of you will meet the Abattoirist’s embrace. The other will live."

A beat.

"You have one minute."

As if the very air itself recoiled from the horror unfolding, the mechanical beast roared to life.

The first sound was a high-pitched whine, a metallic keening that sent a visceral tremor through Samson’s core. Then came the whirring, the unmistakable shriek of steel teeth spinning with merciless precision. The blades of the Abattoirist 3000 began to rotate, their edges catching the light as they spun faster, a blur of polished death. The machine hungrily awaited its prey, vibrating with an eagerness that was almost sentient.

A cry tore through the chamber, raw and panicked.

Charlie.

"What the FUCK, Samson?!" Charlie’s voice cracked, his accent jagged with terror. His muscles flexed against the chains, his sinews straining, his powerful chest heaving with desperation. He jerked at his restraints, his broad shoulders trembling under the effort, but the iron shackles held firm.

"PLEASE!" His voice broke into a ragged sob. "Please don’t do this!"

Tears spilled down his sharp cheekbones, glistening under the harsh light. His lips, usually curled into a smirk or pressed into an expression of quiet confidence, now trembled in unrestrained panic. The sheen of sweat coating his naked, muscular body made him seem almost sculptural, as if he were some tragic figure carved from marble, captured in the moment before his destruction.

Samson’s throat tightened. His mind was still fogged, his limbs sluggish, his thoughts weighed down by the lingering effects of chloroform. He fought against it, against the oppressive haze dulling his reflexes, but his thoughts still swam in sluggish circles.

Think. Think. There has to be a way. Some logic. Some way of getting through this. But there wasn’t.

There was no logic in Arnold’s games. There never had been. There was only suffering, only cruel choices designed to break a man from the inside out.

One of them was going to die.

Charlie’s breath hitched in a stifled sob. His eyes locked onto Samson’s, pleading, searching, begging for something—reassurance, an escape, a miracle. His lips parted, forming words between broken gasps.

"Samson! For the love of God, please!"

Samson couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. The weight of it, the raw, naked desperation in Charlie’s eyes, the fear twisting his beautiful features—it was too much to bear. He turned away, his heart hammering, his mind clawing for clarity.

“I just—” Samson’s voice cracked. He wrenched against the chains, muscles bulging, his body flexing with brutal strength, but it was hopeless. His breath left him in a furious roar. “FUCK!”

His voice exploded through the stone chamber, filled with rage, frustration, helplessness.

"You sick fucks!" he bellowed, his voice raw. "LET US GO!"

Silence.

Then, the voice.

Calm. Detached. Amused.

“Time’s up," Arnold declared, his tone cool, unbothered. "What is your choice, Samson? You or Charlie?" 

Samson’s breath hitched. His heartbeat was deafening now, a relentless pounding against his ribs.

He turned to Charlie again.

Tears streaked the other man’s face, his lips trembling, his chest rising and falling in shuddering gasps. Samson had never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped bare—not just physically, but emotionally. There was no bravado left, no playful arrogance, no knowing smirk. There was only fear.

Fear of dying.

Fear of what the machine would do to his flesh.

Fear of being abandoned.

And Samson, for all his power, for all his strength, was helpless. A deep, shuddering breath. His throat felt thick, his mouth dry. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Charlie flinched as if the words were a physical blow. Samson swallowed hard, his jaw tight. "I’m so sorry, Charlie—for everything. For all of this."

Charlie shook his head violently, his entire body trembling. "No—no, please, Samson, don’t do this!"

Samson turned away, staring into the blinding spotlight, his expression set. His voice, though trembling, was firm.

“I choose Charlie.”

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then—

"No—NO! NO!" Charlie’s voice was a wail of pure anguish. His entire body arched against the chains, his muscles taut, veins bulging against his skin. He thrashed wildly, desperation turning his movements erratic, uncontrollable. The chains clinked and groaned under the force of his struggle, but they did not yield.

"Samson, please!" Charlie sobbed. "Don’t do this to me! I don’t wanna die! Please!"

Samson couldn’t look at him anymore.

The cart moved.

A mechanical clunk echoed through the chamber as it lurched forward, rolling steadily down the track. The sound of metal grinding against metal filled the air, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against rails. The machine's blades spun faster, their high-pitched whine growing into a deafening shriek, eager, merciless.

Charlie’s breath came in ragged, choked gasps. His struggles turned frantic.

Then, Arnold’s voice—mocking, saccharine.

"How tragic," he mused. "Like a scene from Shakespeare. Thank you, Samson, for your choice. I’m sure Charlie will be most appreciative."

Samson blinked. Appreciative? Why would –

His brow furrowed. Then, he saw it. The switch.

The switch hadn't diverted over to Charlie. It had diverted—to him.

"No." The word barely escaped his lips before the full weight of realization crashed over him. No. No. NO!

The saw-blades screamed, their hellish wail clawing through his skull.

"NO!" Samson roared, his voice a raw, primal bellow. His body lurched, every muscle tightening as he fought against the chains, the veins in his arms bulging, straining, his raw strength a caged inferno of panic. His huge cock slapping from thigh to thigh as he raged against his bindings.

“I CHOSE CHARLIE!” he screamed, spit flying from his lips. "I FUCKING CHOSE CHARLIE TO DIE!"

Arnold’s voice hummed, as though savoring the moment. "By sparing Charlie, you have truly demonstrated the strength of your character," he said, his tone sickly sweet. "Perhaps I was wrong about you, Samson."

The saws screeched as they neared.

Arnold sighed. “Nevertheless, it’s a little too late for reconsiderations.” 

Samson thrashed, every tendon in his body burning as he fought with all his might. The chains cut into his wrists, his skin burning, splitting, but he didn’t care. His muscles flexed, bulged, his body glistening with sweat as he wrenched, pulled, tried to break free.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" Samson’s voice was an earthquake, rattling the walls, tearing from his throat with unrestrained fury. "YOU FUCKING COWARD! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!"

The machine loomed closer. The buzzsaws were so near now, he could feel the wind coming off them, the heat of friction as they spun at lethal speeds.

Arnold’s voice, smooth and final.

"I very much look forward to seeing you soon, my dear friend."

The tape clicked off. The machine rushed forward. The blades sang. And Samson screamed.

The machine shrieked, a symphony of death, the spinning blades a blur of silver and shadow. The wind off them roared against Samson’s sweat-slicked skin, a prelude to agony. His heart pounded, a brutal percussion in his chest, but his body was iron—muscles flexed in a desperate, futile resistance.

And then—

Impact.

The first saw met flesh.

A searing, unbearable white-hot pain exploded in his side, splitting him open in an instant. The blade carved through muscle, through skin, through the thick corded fibers of his abdomen, ripping, tearing, shredding as blood sprayed in a vicious arc. A guttural, animalistic scream ripped from Samson’s throat, a sound that wasn’t just pain—it was horror, it was rage, it was the realization of his own destruction.

The machine did not stop.

The second blade struck his thigh, slicing through the monstrous muscles that had carried him through every battle, every struggle. His flesh peeled away in gory ribbons, his quadriceps, once solid and indomitable, cascading in torn chunks down to the rails below. Hot blood gushed in great spurts, painting the steel, the floor, Charlie—who screamed in unfiltered, uncomprehending terror.

Samson convulsed, his body jerking as the saws continued their brutal work. His breath came in ragged, choking gasps, his lungs fighting against the agony as the blades carved deeper, deeper, deeper. His enormous cock, heavy between his stallion legs, was instantly chewed up into fleshy ribbons, his massive nuts pulverized into the blades.

His arms—his beautiful, powerful arms—one of them snapped back as a saw caught his wrist, the chains giving a moment of slack only for the machine to cleave straight through the bone, severing his hand with a horrific crunch of splintering marrow.

He didn’t even recognize his own screams anymore.

His voice was raw, hoarse, blood gurgling in his throat as the machine mangled him, turning him into nothing more than meat, his body jerking violently as his own blood drowned the floor beneath him.

Charlie sobbed, screamed, his body thrashing as if trying to throw himself between Samson and the machine—but the chains held him. His muscular form shuddered, his face streaked with Samson’s blood, his lips forming silent, desperate pleas.

The machine did not care.

The saws climbed higher, reaching Samson’s torso, their ravenous teeth digging into the ridges of his abs, sawing through sinew, opening him up like a ripe fruit. His intestines spilled, steaming, onto the tracks in wet coils, his stomach muscles shredded, his ribs soon exposed, gleaming white beneath the butchery.

His body jerked again, his breath ragged, his vision flickering—a cacophony of pain, of sound, of horror—

The saws reached his chest.

The bone resisted, but only for a moment.

A blade dug deep, split his sternum, and suddenly there it was—his heart, still beating, still fighting, even as the machine shredded everything else. His body spasmed violently as the saws carved through his ribcage, his shoulders, his throat, his screams reduced to nothing but a wet, gargling choke as blood filled his lungs.

Charlie sobbed harder, his muscles trembling, his face twisting in horror as he watched Samson—his Samson—reduced to nothing but a ruin of flesh and bone.

Samson’s body gave one last, violent convulsion—then stilled. The machine did not stop until there was nothing left. His head rolled, barely attached, eyes wide—staring, forever locked in that moment of betrayal, of horror, of pain.

The saws spun one last time.

Then the machine hissed to a halt, coming to rest at the back-stop behind where Samson had been standing, covered in muscle sludge, blood and gore.

A deep silence followed.

The only sound was dripping.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Dripping from the chains, from the ceiling, from Charlie’s trembling lips, from the ruin that had once been Samson.