Read Online Caught Stealing (2004) by Charlie - Henry Thompson 0 Huston - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlie - Henry Thompson 0 Huston
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them where the key was and they looked in the box and just as I was getting ready for my life to get normal again, Red, who was looking in the box, popped his head out with a frown.
-No key.
And those two words revolved around and around in my head. They meant something, but I wasn't sure what. So they just kept plowing through the smog of my hangover, looking for a place to land while my apartment got quieter and everybody could hear Red say, again:
-No key.
And that's how I end up facedown on my bed with a mouth full of sock and Red sitting on my legs, pulling out my staples one by one with the needle-nose pliers they found in the toolbox under my sink. And I have a secret. The secret is, I don't know where the key is. So these guys can do whatever they want and I just won't talk. Because I have nothing to say. Lucky me.
I'm having trouble breathing. I have the sock in my mouth and my nose is clogged with blood, so I'm having trouble breathing. The bad guys seem to be aware of this, so they have developed a system. The way it works is, while they're actually hurting me they leave the sock in to muffle the screaming, and when they ask a question they take it out so I can answer. Every time the sock comes out, I gasp a bit to get as much air as possible before I tell them I don't know anything and they stuff it back in and I start to suffocate again.
I've got about fifty or so staples. The first few they yanked out real quick, without asking any questions at all, just so I'd get the idea, I suppose. Now, they're getting serious about it. Red sits on my legs to keep them from thrashing around and digs the tips of the pliers into my wound until he gets a good grip on one of the staples, then he starts to pull on it, slowly. The Russians have my arms pinned down, stretched straight out from my shoulders to either side of the mattress. Whitey has the right and Blackie the left. They feel like they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. I know Roman is standing near the bed off to my left, because that's where his voice comes from every time he asks another question I don't know the answer to. The Samoan has yet to make himself known to me, so I assume he's still on his own clogging up my toilet. Bud is definitely under the bed; I know this because every time I scream through the sock, he starts to yowl along with me.
They started with the easy questions.
-Where's the key?
To which I mostly spluttered.
-But I left it right there, it was right there. I don't know what could have happened to it.
Then the questions start getting a little weird.
-What is the key for?
The sock comes out.
-Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! What? Gasp! What is the key for? Gasp!
Roman pauses for a moment and I'm expecting the sock to come back, but it doesn't.
-What is the key for, what does it open?
What the fuck?
-Gasp! How the. Gasp! How the fuck should I. Gasp! Know? It's your fucking key. Gasp! Your fucking object.
This is not a state-approved answer. The sock is stuffed in my mouth. I'm in the middle of drawing in a lungful of air and the sock cuts it off. I get sock fluff lodged in my throat and I start to choke. I feel like I might vomit. I don't want to vomit. Please, God, don't let me vomit. Please, God, I don't, I just don't want this. Please make this stop. Please. Red gets a grip on the next staple and starts to tug. The original wound was sharply defined, a pain that had carefully designated borders. As Red pulls at the staple, I feel the wound stretch. The original pain is distorted and twisted and a new pain, more crude, takes its place. Just as the flesh around the staple starts to tear, I feel a pop and the wound snaps back.
The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds has always been one of my favorite albums. When the Russians grabbed me and started dragging me toward the bed, I made a bit of a scuffle. To help cover the noise, someone, Red I think, put on a CD: Pet Sounds. I don't know if this represents personal taste or if it was simply at
-No key.
And those two words revolved around and around in my head. They meant something, but I wasn't sure what. So they just kept plowing through the smog of my hangover, looking for a place to land while my apartment got quieter and everybody could hear Red say, again:
-No key.
And that's how I end up facedown on my bed with a mouth full of sock and Red sitting on my legs, pulling out my staples one by one with the needle-nose pliers they found in the toolbox under my sink. And I have a secret. The secret is, I don't know where the key is. So these guys can do whatever they want and I just won't talk. Because I have nothing to say. Lucky me.
I'm having trouble breathing. I have the sock in my mouth and my nose is clogged with blood, so I'm having trouble breathing. The bad guys seem to be aware of this, so they have developed a system. The way it works is, while they're actually hurting me they leave the sock in to muffle the screaming, and when they ask a question they take it out so I can answer. Every time the sock comes out, I gasp a bit to get as much air as possible before I tell them I don't know anything and they stuff it back in and I start to suffocate again.
I've got about fifty or so staples. The first few they yanked out real quick, without asking any questions at all, just so I'd get the idea, I suppose. Now, they're getting serious about it. Red sits on my legs to keep them from thrashing around and digs the tips of the pliers into my wound until he gets a good grip on one of the staples, then he starts to pull on it, slowly. The Russians have my arms pinned down, stretched straight out from my shoulders to either side of the mattress. Whitey has the right and Blackie the left. They feel like they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. I know Roman is standing near the bed off to my left, because that's where his voice comes from every time he asks another question I don't know the answer to. The Samoan has yet to make himself known to me, so I assume he's still on his own clogging up my toilet. Bud is definitely under the bed; I know this because every time I scream through the sock, he starts to yowl along with me.
They started with the easy questions.
-Where's the key?
To which I mostly spluttered.
-But I left it right there, it was right there. I don't know what could have happened to it.
Then the questions start getting a little weird.
-What is the key for?
The sock comes out.
-Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! What? Gasp! What is the key for? Gasp!
Roman pauses for a moment and I'm expecting the sock to come back, but it doesn't.
-What is the key for, what does it open?
What the fuck?
-Gasp! How the. Gasp! How the fuck should I. Gasp! Know? It's your fucking key. Gasp! Your fucking object.
This is not a state-approved answer. The sock is stuffed in my mouth. I'm in the middle of drawing in a lungful of air and the sock cuts it off. I get sock fluff lodged in my throat and I start to choke. I feel like I might vomit. I don't want to vomit. Please, God, don't let me vomit. Please, God, I don't, I just don't want this. Please make this stop. Please. Red gets a grip on the next staple and starts to tug. The original wound was sharply defined, a pain that had carefully designated borders. As Red pulls at the staple, I feel the wound stretch. The original pain is distorted and twisted and a new pain, more crude, takes its place. Just as the flesh around the staple starts to tear, I feel a pop and the wound snaps back.
The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds has always been one of my favorite albums. When the Russians grabbed me and started dragging me toward the bed, I made a bit of a scuffle. To help cover the noise, someone, Red I think, put on a CD: Pet Sounds. I don't know if this represents personal taste or if it was simply at
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