No Pain, No Gain
Tisa Timchak
Pain & Gain is a 2013 American action comedy film[4][7] directed by Michael Bay and starring Mark Wahlberg, Dwayne Johnson, and Anthony Mackie. It is based on the activities of the Sun Gym gang, a group of ex-convicts and bodybuilders convicted of kidnapping, extortion, torture, and murder in Miami in the mid-1990s. Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely's screenplay is adapted from a 1999 series of Miami New Times articles by Pete Collins, which were compiled in the book Pain & Gain: This Is a True Story, released concurrently with the film.[8][9] The book and film's title is a play on a common adage frequently used in fitness: "No pain, no gain".
Released on April 11, 2013, Pain & Gain received mixed reviews, praised for its script and performances but criticized for the violence, directing, and historical inaccuracies. Against a $26 million budget, the film grossed $86 million worldwide. Sun Gym gang victim Marc Schiller (depicted in the film as 'Victor Kershaw') sued the production company over his portrayal.[10][11]
In 1994, ex-con and bodybuilder Daniel Lugo is hired by Sun Gym owner John Mese as a manager. Lugo befriends trainer and bodybuilder Adrian Doorbal, who was recently rendered impotent from steroids. He envies the earnings and lifestyle of Victor Kershaw, a member he begins to train. Inspired to be a "doer" by motivational speaker Jonny Wu, Lugo plans to extort Kershaw for his assets. He recruits Doorbal and manipulates Paul Doyle, another ex-con and born again Christian struggling with drug use, into blindly playing along.
The police arrest Doyle at the church, Doorbal at home, and Mese at the Sun Gym. Lugo flees in Kershaw's speedboat. Deducing his move, the police rush to a bank in Nassau to catch him attempting to steal the rest of Kershaw's money, which he moved to an offshore account in case something happened. Lugo slips away again, but gets run over by Kershaw and is finally arrested.
At the trial, Doyle gives a full confession incriminating Doorbal and Lugo; Robin, upon discovering her husband's criminal activities, divorces and also testifies against Doorbal along with Sorina. Lugo and Doorbal are sentenced to death. Doyle and Mese are sentenced to 15 years. Doyle served 7 years and converted back to Christianity while Mese died in prison.
At the end of the movie, Doyle has an attack of conscience, confesses, and testifies against Lugo and Doorbal. Instead of the death penalty, he gets 15 years but only serves 7. Carl Weekes, the religious and recurring drug-abuser part of Doyle's composite, drove the car that ran over Schiller and got 10 years for attempted murder; he served 7 years. Jorge Delgado, who actually testified against the rest of the gang, did so in order to avoid the death penalty.
Though the Kershaw character is depicted as socially pretentious and pompous, there was nothing to indicate his wealth derived from anything other than legitimate sources. In real life, immediately after testifying against the Sun Gym gang, Marc Schiller, on who Kershaw is based, was arrested and charged with operating a $14 million fraudulent Medicare scheme.[41] Facing 25 years federal prison, Schiller was aided by the sitting trial judge of criminal case against the Sun Gym gang who testified on his behalf. In 1999 Schiller was offered and accepted a plea deal for the statutory minimum of 46 months and was released from prison in 2001.[46][47]
Skeletal muscle is a dynamic tissue that responds adaptively to both the nature and intensity of muscle use. This phenotypic plasticity ensures that muscle structure is linked to patterns of muscle use throughout the lifetime of an animal. The cascade of events that result in muscle restructuring - for example, in response to resistance exercise training - is often thought to be initiated by muscle damage. We designed this study to test the hypothesis that symptomatic (i.e. detectable) damage is a necessary precursor for muscle remodeling. Subjects were divided into two experimental populations: pre-trained (PT) and naive (NA). Demonstrable muscle damage was avoided in the PT group by a three-week gradual 'ramp-up' protocol. By contrast, the NA group was subjected to an initial damaging bout of exercise. Both groups participated in an eight-week high-force eccentric-cycle ergometry program (20 min, three times per week) designed to equate the total work done during training between the groups. The NA group experienced signs of damage, absent in the PT group, as indicated by greater than five times higher levels of plasma creatine kinase (CK) and self-reporting of initial perceived soreness and exertion, yet muscle size and strength gains were not different for the two groups. RT-PCR analysis revealed similar increases in levels of the growth factor IGF-1Ea mRNA in both groups. Likewise, the significant (P
The treatment of haemorrhoids remains challenging: multiple treatment options supported by heterogeneous evidence are available, but patients rightly demand a tailored approach. Evidence for newer surgical techniques that promise to be less painful has been conflicting. We review the current evidence for management options in patients who present with varying haemorrhoidal grades. A review of the English literature was performed utilizing MEDLINE/PubMed, Embase, and Cochrane databases (31 May 2019). The search terms (haemorrhoid OR haemorrhoid OR haemorrhoids OR haemorrhoids OR "Hemorrhoid"[Mesh]) were used. First- and second-degree haemorrhoids continue to be managed conservatively. The easily repeatable and cost-efficient rubber band ligation is the preferred method to address minor haemorrhoids; long-term outcomes following injection sclerotherapy remain poor. Conventional haemorrhoidectomies (Ferguson/Milligan-Morgan/Ligasure haemorrhoidectomy) still have their role in third- and fourth-degree haemorrhoids, being associated with lowest recurrence; nevertheless, posthaemorrhoidectomy pain is problematic. Stapled haemorrhoidopexy allows quicker recovery, albeit at the costs of higher recurrence rates and potentially serious complications. Transanal Haemorrhoidal Dearterialization has been promoted as nonexcisional and less invasive, but the recent HubBLe trial has questioned its overall place in haemorrhoid management. Novel "walk-in-walk-out" techniques such as radiofrequency ablations or laser treatments will need further evaluation to define their role in modern-day haemorrhoid management. There are numerous treatment options for haemorrhoids, each with their own evidence-base. Newer techniques promise to be less painful, but recurrence rates remain an issue. The balance continues to be sought between long-term efficacy, minimisation of postoperative pain, and preservation of anorectal function.
Together with fellow strongmen Adrian Doorbal (Anthony Mackie) and Paul Doyle (Dwayne Johnson), Lugo plots to kidnap and rob slimy entrepreneur Victor Kershsaw (Tony Shalhoub), a client at Lugo's gym. But Doorbal, an anxious man with steroid-shrunk gonads, and Doyle, a cocaine-addicted born-again Christian, are as simple-minded as Lugo is short-tempered. So while Lugo's failure is foretold in the film's opening scene, it's also treated as the inevitable conclusion to his story because almost everyone in "Pain & Gain" is a narcissistic dimwit.
The only competent/intelligent character in "Pain & Gain" is retired private detective Ed Du Bois (Ed Harris). Du Bois is unhappy in his retirement and doesn't like the idea of whiling away his remaining years playing golf or going fishing. He doesn't pursue Kershaw's case out of a sense of responsibility, but simply because it's a way to break up the tedium of his life. But even Du Bois is not infallible; to prove it he's afflicted with back pain, if only momentarily.
But while Mese was a prominent accountant -- he'd been president of Mese & Associates in Miami Shores since 1970, and occasionally taught accounting theory at two local universities -- no one could say he was astute when it came to hiring his gym employees. One Sun Gym manager, according to lore, had left for vacation and was arrested in Louisiana with massive amounts of cocaine and amphetamines in his car. Another manager, an ex-cop, quit working at Sun Gym then performed the ultimate reverse sting when he led three drug dealers out to the Everglades and executed them. Mese claimed that other employees stole from the gym. One quit, swearing that Mese had swindled him.The gym's core clientele -- obsessed with developing muscle size, definition, and density -- was problematic as well, described by observers as "cops and bad guys." One Miami police officer ventured that he could "meet my monthly quota of felony arrests in one night at the Sun Gym" by running background checks on the denizens pumping iron all around him.By 1992 Mese was about to ditch the enterprise. His bright hopes for Sun Gym had imploded. It was about time, his friends and family thought. He'd already lost one partner and many clients at his accounting firm because of the inordinate attention he gave the gym, and the time he spent coordinating bodybuilding contests during the tax season. The gym had been nothing but a drain, another bad investment. His dream that it would become an internationally renowned muscle mecca was all but dead.Then Daniel Lugo turned up on his doorstep, looking for work. The 30-year-old New York native had moved to Hialeah about four years earlier, along with his wife, Lillian, and their four adopted children, all of whom were Lillian's relations, left to her custody after several family tragedies. He and Lillian were no longer together, though they remained close friends. He'd since remarried.Lugo was full of ideas for the gym. Like a rainmaker in the wilderness, he promised Mese he could help deliver a virtual torrent of members and cash. They'd work together and build an empire: a Sun Gym clothing line, Sun Gym vitamins, a Sun Gym juice bar, a Sun Gym karate team. But best of all, Lugo said, he was developing computer software that would render obsolete all previous methods of gym management. For Mese, whose accounting firm also owned a computer company, this was perfect. Lugo's software would strengthen the gym's ability to monitor membership payments and accounts receivable.So persuasive was Lugo that Mese was happy to overlook his past. The new hire had just served a fifteen-month sentence at the Eglin Air Force Base Federal Correctional Institute, a minimum-security prison camp in Florida's Panhandle, and was beginning a three-year federal probation period full of "special terms," which included paying $70,000 in restitution to his victims. In addition he couldn't establish any lines of credit or incur credit charges without the permission of his probation officer.Lugo's crime had been to prey on individuals in desperate need of cash. His victims, unable to obtain conventional loans, had placed ads in the Miami Herald seeking venture capital. Lugo masqueraded as David Lowenstein, an agent representing financiers connected with a fictitious Hong Kong bank that had millions to lend to American small-business owners and entrepreneurs. Employing an advance-fee payment scheme, he collected up-front from eager applicants, supposedly to purchase Lloyd's of London insurance to ensure repayment of the loans. He ultimately collected $71,200 in fees but failed to deliver any loans.In May 1990, FBI agents had arrested Lugo at Scandinavian Health and Racquet Club in Kendall, where he worked as a salesman, making $600 per month. When the feds made him declare his worth, Lugo estimated that he made another $1200 per month in commissions. He pleaded guilty to fraud in January 1991, in Miami's U.S. District Court. As a requirement of his plea agreement, he also admitted to similar criminal activity in Oklahoma. (His victims' losses there totaled $230,000.) In his Acceptance of Responsibility statement to the court, Lugo wrote, "I hereby acknowledge my guilt and I know what I did was wrong. There is no substitute for hard work and I am a hard worker.... It will never happen again for I have learned not to use intelligence for wrong actions to justify the good end." But on that solemn occasion, he lied one more time, insisting to the court that he was a Fordham University graduate with a computer science degree (in fact he'd attended Fordham but left before graduating).Despite that background John Mese hired him to manage, and revive, Sun Gym. And for a time it looked as though Lugo would do just that. The six-feet-two, 230-pounder certainly had the physique and the dynamic personality to attract new clients. Although he began as a personal trainer, he soon was promoted to general manager. And by the summer of 1994, Lugo had become the absolute centerpiece, the star in the Sun Gym universe. On the books, at least, business looked good.Lugo's best buddy at the gym was Noel "Adrian" Doorbal. The two had met a few years before through a girl Lugo was working with at the time, Lucretia Goodridge. Doorbal, a cousin of Goodridge, recently had arrived from Trinidad and was living at her house while he got a feel for life in the States. A tenth-grade dropout, he worked as a fry-cook at Fiesta Taco in Kendall, riding a bicycle to and from work. Over time the two men took jobs as personal trainers in a series of Miami gyms. They were also constant, serious workout partners. After Lugo was released from Eglin and divorced from Lillian Torres, he married Goodridge. With her cousin added to the mix, he got a two-for-one deal: a spouse and a best friend, for better or worse.Lugo soon hired Doorbal to work part time at Sun Gym. And Lugo did even more for his friend: He made him very rich. By January 1994 the 22-year-old Doorbal, whose visa had long since expired, was able to invest a million dollars in a Merrill Lynch mutual fund account. Truly amazing for the young, part-time personal trainer with just two clients, neither of them named Madonna or Stallone.How did he get so rich? Almost immediately after Lugo was released from Eglin and hired by Mese, he met a weight lifter at Sun Gym who had an affinity for white-collar crime and also was fresh out of jail. Together they established ten phony medical companies, then rented dozens of mailboxes, many at the Lakes Postal Center in Miami Lakes. They bought names, Social Security numbers, birth dates, and other information about legitimate Medicare recipients for ten dollars apiece, and mailed fraudulent bills to the government for nonexistent medical services.Lugo kept the lion's portion of their take, which was fine with his partner (he later told investigators he'd begun to fear for his life after hearing Lugo boast about hiring a hit man to kill a partner who'd crossed him). When they parted ways, Lugo deposited the ill-gotten gains into the mutual fund account under Doorbal's name; he was mindful of his probation, and he still owed his victims $71,200 in restitution.During that summer of 1994, Carl Weekes decided to leave New York to straighten out his life. Miami was perhaps an odd destination for someone trying to steer clear of drugs and crime, like going to Las Vegas to kick a gambling habit.Originally from Barbados, Weekes had been just one year in the Marine Corps when he threatened his sergeant's life. He was discharged in lieu of a court martial and returned home to Brooklyn, working intermittently and living off relatives. He committed house burglaries, as well as armed robberies of drug dealers, and became addicted to alcohol and crack cocaine.When he was 30 years old, he suffered a seizure, entered rehab, got clean, and found Christianity. But he was still on welfare and his girlfriend was pregnant with their third child. She had a cousin in Miami, she said, a Haitian immigrant named Stevenson Pierre. Perhaps he could help Weekes start over. Weekes figured he might as well try. He'd save some money, then bring his family down to join him. He left New York on his 31st birthday.Pierre didn't especially like Weekes, whom he'd met several times at family gatherings. He thought Weekes was spoiled and impulsive, a braggart and a brat. But family was family, so he offered room and board, and the promise of a job at the gym where he was employed.Pierre, who had once worked as a credit analyst and skip tracer for American Express in New York City, was on the Sun Gym payroll. Daniel Lugo had hired him in February 1994 to create a collection agency for overdue membership payments. The plan ended abruptly two months later, when the 26-year-old Pierre announced it would take more than a hundred grand to become incorporated, licensed, and bonded. He stayed on staff, however, as back-office manager in the weight room, supervising the personal trainers and exhorting the weight lifters to get bigger, stronger: no pain, no gain. But Pierre, who clocked in at five feet five and just 130 pounds, hardly cut an inspirational figure at Sun Gym. Before long he was little more than a desk clerk.In September 1994, when Weekes arrived in Miami, Pierre took him to the gym and introduced him to Adrian Doorbal and Daniel Lugo, whose celebrity status among fellow employees increased with word of his financial genius. But like Pierre, Weekes was a lightweight. He weighed only 140. Sorry, said Lugo, he had no openings. At least not at the moment. Rumors were afloat that the gym was for sale, and Lugo was under a hiring freeze. But he hinted nonetheless that something might open up. So Weekes lived with Pierre and the latter's seven-year-old son, and waited. He yo-yoed between Miami and New York, collecting public-assistance checks and food stamps.Then things got worse for Weekes: The gym laid off his host. Pierre took a job in Little Haiti at his father's dry-cleaning shop, but Weekes still moped around the house, hoping to hear from Lugo and growing more desperate. He could do this in New York and be with his family. He wanted to work.Suddenly, opportunity.In mid-October 1994, Lugo called Weekes. He had an offer, he said. Come to my office for the particulars. Lugo's "office" was a room he maintained at the Miami Lakes branch of the accounting firm headed by Sun Gym's owner, John Mese. When Weekes arrived for the meeting with Lugo and Doorbal, Stevenson Pierre was there as well.Lugo asked the two men if they were interested in making $100,000 for two days' work. He'd recently discovered that a bad man, "a scumbag" named Marc Schiller, had stolen not only $100,000 from him, but an additional $200,000 from a gym member named Jorge Delgado. It was probably not true, but Lugo laid it on thick anyway. They intended to get it back, and more, he went on. Pierre knew the 31-year-old Delgado from the gym, and had heard that he and Lugo were buddies. He knew Lugo had the keys to Delgado's warehouse in Hialeah. Called Speed Racer's, the warehouse was used as a storage facility and distribution center for Delgado's various business interests. Pierre had once helped transport some Sun Gym exercise equipment there.Schiller needed to be "taken down," said Lugo, and in his lexicon, that meant they should snatch the scumbag, take him to a secluded spot, beat him, make him confess to stealing the money, and force him to return it, plus take his house and anything else he owned. Then maybe -- probably -- kill him.Well, Pierre thought, that's a little severe. Why didn't Delgado and Lugo just talk to Schiller? As for Weekes, he knew at once that this was exactly the kind of action he'd come to Miami to avoid. But when Lugo sidled up to him, slung his side-of-beef arm around the smaller man's coat-hanger shoulders, and promised that once the Schiller business was behind them, he'd personally impart some of his financial genius, any resistance crumbled.They met again a few days later at Lugo's office, and this time Jorge Delgado was present. He'd okayed the plan to abduct and, if necessary, kill Schiller. Now he was ready to provide information about their relationship, the man's private life, his daily routine.In 1991 Delgado had to quit his job as a car salesman. His wife, Linda, who worked for Schiller in his M.S.S. Accounting Services office in West Dade, cried as she described to her boss the couple's perilous finances. A sympathetic Schiller offered the Havana-born Delgado a job and brought him in as a gofer. But soon he had a title: marketing representative. As time passed the men became best friends and partners in several business ventures (Schiller staked Delgado's investment money), including a nutritional-supplements company and a new accounting firm. All in all Delgado had profited immensely from the relationship. A few years earlier, he and his wife were living with her parents. Now he had a nice house north of Miami Lakes. Linda didn't have to work anymore. They were planning to start a family.Delgado knew Schiller's family well: his wife Diana and their two young children, David and Stephanie. In fact Schiller so trusted Delgado that he gave him the security code to his home. Delgado knew the layout of the house and where the safe was located. He knew Schiller left his pistol and valuable documents locked in the safe. More important, he knew where Schiller banked, and the exact locations and dollar amounts of offshore accounts Schiller created for investors. He'd even gone with Schiller to the Cayman Islands, where his boss set up the accounts.Then, late in 1992, Delgado met Daniel Lugo at Sun Gym. He used him as a personal trainer during workouts, and Lugo became a compelling force in his life away from the weights as well, sort of a strong, popular older brother. Delgado tried to bring Lugo into business with Schiller, but Schiller thought Lugo was coarse and creepy. When they had their falling-out, it was over Delgado's preoccupation with Lugo. Schiller said: Him or me. Delgado picked Lugo. Schiller warned him: That guy's going to get you into a lot of trouble somewhere down the line.Now, in the fall of 1994, Delgado's wife had a baby on the way. What kind of scumbag, Lugo asked, would take food out of a baby's mouth? So forget the measly $200,000 Schiller has "stolen" from Delgado. They were going after everything Schiller owned: his $300,000 house and all its furnishings; the million dollars he'd invested offshore; more than $100,000 in his personal bank account; his cars; his investment in La Gorce Palace, a luxury condominium being built on Miami Beach; his Schlotzsky's Deli franchise near Miami International Airport; even his credit cards.The Sun Gym gang hurried over to The Spy Shop on Biscayne Boulevard, owned by John Demeter, a born-again Christian. Beneath large banners reading "Jesus Saves" and "God Is Love," they examined merchandise designed to shock, incapacitate, imprison, and eavesdrop on their fellow man. Pretending to be a security crew for a rock band, the gang bought shock-inducing taser guns, stainless-steel handcuffs, and small Motorola walkie-talkies featuring privacy-enhancing point-to-point communication settings, just like the cops use.Lugo rented a burgundy Ford Astrovan from which they could watch Schiller's movements, tail him, then grab him. And when they had him, they would use the van to carry him to Delgado's Speed Racer's warehouse. Weekes and Pierre agreed to ride in the back of the van on these scouting expeditions; two black men circling Schiller's upscale Old Cutler Cove neighborhood in South Dade surely would get pulled over.But despite the new hardware and high spirits, the gang's first attempts to kidnap Schiller failed. To be kind, they were not smart plans -- not in their conception, especially not in their execution. For Halloween they planned to don ninja outfits and trick-or-treat in Schiller's neighborhood. They'd knock on his door and nab him when he answered. But instead they opted to spend the night at a strip club. They thought of another scheme: kidnapping him as he drove along the Palmetto Expressway during rush hour. But as they tried to catch up to his car, Schiller took an unexpected exit ramp.The most complicated tactical operation took place early one November morning, right in Schiller's front yard. Although he lived in a gated community, access to the home was simple: A perimeter road next to a canal allowed anyone entry. Schiller's house was the closest to this road.Adrian Doorbal, Stevenson Pierre, and Carl Weekes waited for Schiller to open his door and walk outside to pick up the morning paper. The three men were dressed all in black and wore gloves and military camouflage makeup. (Weekes remembered this application technique from his Marine Corps training.) They crawled across the lawn and huddled under movers' blankets in a chilly predawn rain, preparing to storm the house and hold the family hostage. But a passing car spooked them, and they radioed the now-familiar "mission abort" message to Lugo, who was in a nearby park with the van. The group ran all the way back to the vehicle.When morale was down after yet another failed abduction (there had been six by now) Lugo would take the crew to the Solid Gold Club on 163rd Street, Miami's premier strip palace, and hand his colleagues money for the dancers. He would buy the guys drinks and tried to buoy their confidence. If the gang pulled off this Schiller caper, he'd say, these voluptuous naked centerfold fantasies could be theirs!At 9:00 a.m. on Thursday, November 14, the Sun Gym gang made its seventh abduction attempt. Lugo sat in his Toyota Camry, blocking Schiller in his 4Runner in an alleyway next to his Schlotzsky's Deli franchise. Parked around a corner, the Astrovan -- with Doorbal, Weekes, and Pierre -- was to close in, blocking Schiller from behind. They would pluck him from the 4Runner, subdue him, and kidnap him. But while Schiller blasted his horn for an agonizing minute at the heavily tinted Camry, the guys in the van radioed that they couldn't start their vehicle. Mission aborted! Again!When the gang regrouped at the Miami Lakes business office he shared with John Mese, Lugo was livid. This was it, he told them; the scheme was off. He'd had it with their bungling. No more cocktails and naked babes for these losers. He had his Medicare scheme to rely on. If the rest of them wanted a merry Christmas, they'd have to snag Schiller.Adrian Doorbal and Carl Weekes responded to Lugo's challenge like football players who've been reamed by the coach at halftime. In fact they'd already decided Pierre wasn't sufficiently gung-ho for the assignment. So after the three left Lugo's office, they dropped off Pierre at his house, essentially benching him for the game. They now pinned their hopes on another player: Mario Sanchez, "Big Mario," a former Sun Gym weight-lifting instructor and licensed Florida private eye. The detective business had soured, and Sanchez, at six feet four and 270 pounds, now worked as a bouncer at Hooligan's Pub & Oyster Bar in Miami Lakes. He appeared to be in a financial jam, driving his Volkswagen Jetta on a doughnut spare tire. But he still possessed several assets, notably, a concealed-weapon permit and a .357-Magnum revolver.Later that day Doorbal approached Sanchez in the gym and asked him outside to talk. They climbed into the van with Weekes, and Doorbal laid out his offer: He needed an "intimidator" because he planned to collect money from a drug dealer who welshed on a debt. Sanchez would earn $1000 in one afternoon."What is this, a big drug dealer we're collecting money from, Adrian?" asked Sanchez. He knew that approaching a dealer with a "money claim" wasn't the safest way to spend an afternoon. "I don't want to go collect from any guy in the Colombian cartel. I don't want to wind up dead, my picture on the front page of the Miami Herald with flies and maggots in my mouth."Following that meeting Doorbal and Weekes unexpectedly showed up at Sanchez's apartment. He was still reluctant to participate: Are you positive you aren't going to hurt this guy? But Doorbal assured him he could pick up a quick grand for doing what he did nightly at Hooligan's -- merely "looking big and mean" -- and maintained they just wanted to settle a legitimate debt.Sanchez agreed. The holidays were coming and he wanted to give his son a nice Christmas present.That same afternoon Marc Schiller was waiting at Schlotzsky's to meet with a prospective buyer of the franchise delicatessen. Despite its location near the airport, the eatery attracted little evening business, and he'd already had to lay off several employees.Schiller's problems were fairly normal: coping with a broken swimming-pool pump; trying to sell his failing deli; wrapping up his CPA work early so the family could travel to Colombia to join his in-laws for Hanukkah. He was anxious that day to get home to his wife and the kids. Freakish, late-season Tropical Storm Gordon was beginning to surge over Miami. Still he waited for the buyer. Doorbal, Weekes, and Sanchez drove to Schlotzsky's and parked in the back lot.It was just past 4:00 p.m. when Schiller gave up hope that his buyer would show. He walked across the parking lot under a leaden sky to his 4Runner, and just as he opened the door, the three men grabbed him and began to stun him with tasers. Each zap carried 120,000 volts. He tried to hold on to the steering wheel but was violently yanked away. "Take my watch, my money ... my car!" he yelled, thinking this was a robbery or a carjacking.Nothing. Just more shocks and punches."What the fuck do you guys want?""You," Schiller heard as they dragged him toward the van. He struggled, he screamed at them, at any possible passersby. They forced him over to the van and heaved him inside. Someone jammed a gun barrel to his