The Last Straw
By Mickey

STORY STATUS: Completed 8/24/06

ARCHIVE PERMISSIONS: Ask first. I'll probably say yes.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for fun and I sure as hell didn't get paid for writin' it. No copyright infringement intended.


Once again, they skip taking me back to my cell; it's straight from that damn box to this god-forsaken room.

"What did Kanan want with my slave?"

And right to the questions again.

Ya know. Screw it. I'm not saying a damn word any more. I tried the whole `truth' thing and the `sarcastic' thing. Hell, I even tried the whole `tell a lie with enough facts to be plausible' thing. He doesn't believe a word I say anyway.

He glares at me for a minute then picks up a knife.

Here we go again.
Same old shit again.
Marching down the avenue.
One more day and we'll be through.
I'll be glad and so will you.

My mind must be slipping. I haven't recited that old chant in a long time. Like since the beginning of my Special Ops days. God, I wish it were true. There is no way in hell this son-of-a-bitch will ever let me go.

"Ahhh." Shit! That hurt. He really loves those knives.

No, seriously, I think it's an obsession. It's unhealthy. For me, anyway. Guess his Mom never taught him about not playing with not playing with knives.

"Why did Kanan come back here? Was it just for the female?"

Still not talking.

Crap! God damn that frigging hurts!

The second knife buries itself to the hilt in my gut.

Double crap. I think I'm gonna hurl. I hope not. I really don't relish the thought of puking my guts out all over my shirt. The sarcophagus heals the body. It does nothing for odors.

Speaking of odors, I could really use a nice, long, hot shower. God, I reek.

Uh oh. He's talking again. Sorry, mind wandered a bit. Didn't catch that last question. Care to repeat it?

Guess not.

Mother fucking son of a goddamn whore bitch! Two drops of acid, released almost simultaneously, burn into the tender flesh of my cheeks.

Damn it, Daniel, fucking do something. I can't do this anymore. Please, please don't let me be responsible for what this sadistic bastard is going to do to that woman when I crack. It won't be long now.

"What secrets did Kanan learn while he was here?"

Damn. I bet I missed the Simpsons again. That bites. Bastard, I missed that History channel special on the Korean War too.

He releases a third knife and it's suddenly very hard to breathe. A blade in the lung will do that to ya. A fourth knife makes breathing damn near impossible.

"Why do you insist on trying my patience? You must know this will get you nowhere. You will break."

No shit, Dick Tracy. Eventually, not just yet. No one could take this forever. Why should I make this easy for you?

A fifth knife is released. Damn it all to hell. I have a sneaking suspicion those are tears in my eyes. No! I will not let that bastard see me cry. I refuse! I haven't cried since my dog, Demon, died.

I know, not the best name for a dog, but I was three when I got her. Besides, what else do you call a dog with red eyes? The vet said it was some sort of genetic abnormality or burst blood vessels or something. Mom thought it was freaky and somewhat frightening. I thought it was awesome.

Dean hated her at first sight. The feeling was mutual. He got so mad that Mom wouldn't make me get rid of her.

I think he asked another question. I couldn't give a rat's ass.

How many of those freaking knives does he have? I liked it better when the third one was the killer.

Another, large, drop of acid is released and I scream. Loud. Until my voice gives out on me.

He just sits there in his goofy looking chair with that damn spooky grin. I don't have much time now. My vision is getting dark and fuzzy around the edges.

He wasn't kidding when he said this time would be far worse. I hurt so badly. I know that next time, I'll be spilling my guts like a damn crook edging for a deal with a DA. This was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The only reason I'm not spilling my guts now is that would require use of my vocal cords. Which I don't have anymore. The acid burned them out.

"It is time for the sarcophagus."

God, I hate that grin.

I wait for the nauseating free fall and sudden, bone-crunching stop, but they don't come. Guess he changed his mind.


This time there is no quick end. He pushes a button and I drop to the floor. Which, of course, forces the knives in deeper. I can't even groan.

He walks over and crouches down beside me. Then, one by one, he pulls the knives out and watches as my blood flows freely from each deep wound. I can do nothing but gasp like a fish out of water as I bleed to death.

I really hate that fucking snake.