front of the van. Colin’s
wig was on the ground, red stains marred the pavement. Man, that was a bad case
of gonorrhea. He needed to get to a doctor.
The van jostled and rocked. Roger slid the door open. Colin
was inside the darkness of the windowless van, face down. His checkered pants
looked like they were soaking wet. The idiot had pissed himself.
Roger kneeled on the van floor, rolled his partner over and
slapped his cheek. “Colin, what the hell, man? We had the kid. He was right
there.”
Colin’s head lolled to the other side.
Roger sat back sharply and gasped. He returned his eyes to
his partner’s pants. It wasn’t piss, it was blood. His pants were cut and —
Roger opened his mouth to scream. Nothing came out but a
gurgle.
Pain shot through his back. His body convulsed and flopped
like a fish on the boat deck before it gets nailed in the head with a hammer.
He fell on top of Colin’s legs, his face in Colin’s crotch. The coppery blood
that soaked his clown pants filled Roger’s nostrils with the smell of welds he
spent his working days burning onto pipes under strangers sinks and behind
their piss-stained toilets.
A hand grasped his shoulder and rolled him over. An imposing
figure loomed above him. Heavy set, broad shouldered, hunched like the guy had
seen his share of time in the boxing ring. He pulled a knife from his coat and
brandished it in the dusk. He held it above his head. The sunset glinted off
the edge as he swung it at Roger’s pants.
Roger screamed like a little girl afraid of clowns and tried
to cover his dick.
The knife cut through his hands and stuck in his crotch. He
screeched and cursed and kicked at the guy’s leg.
The man didn’t flinch.
Roger rolled over and tried to drag himself further into the
van. It was like some lame-ass movie, a crappy slow-motion scene. All he could
hear was his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. All he could smell was sweat and
blood. Pain ripped through his ass. He screamed, his voice gaining volume. Why
didn’t anyone hear him? Why wasn’t anyone trying to save him?
He dug his fingers into the van’s smooth, metal floor. His
pants were hot and wet but his legs like ice. His eyes lost focus and his head
felt like a balloon floating above him. Blackness descended.
Roger blinked against the glaring fluorescent light. The
stink of antiseptic and anaesthetic with the underlying sulphur of stale urine
seeped into his consciousness. He tried to sit up. Metal clanked against metal.
He tugged on his right arm, opened his eyes wide. The room was stark white. He
lay in a bed with little-kid bars. What, were they afraid he’d fall out like a
fucking baby? He scanned his body. Bandages covered his hands, his wrists
handcuffed to the bars. Blinding pain seared between his temples and ached
between his legs.
At the end of the bed stood a uniformed cop, one hand on his
sidearm, the holster unclipped. The cop smirked, turned to the door. “Hey. He’s
up.” He turned back and sneered at Roger, one side of his upper lip lifted and
quivered. Elvis would have been proud. “Or should I say awake. You’ll never be up again.”
The blood drained from Roger’s head. “What the hell does
that mean?”
The cop jerked his head at Roger’s crotch. “It means your
days of sodomizing little boys are over, you sick fuck. He castrated you. Hell,
he did one better. He lopped your entire package off.”
“What?” Roger craned his neck and stared at his groin. All
he saw were bed sheets. “You’re full of shit.” He dropped his head to the
pillow.
A tall reed of a man swept into the room, a white polyester
coat open and flapping behind him. He lifted a chart from a hook on the end of
the bed and came to a stop near Roger’s cuffed wrist. “Mr. Roger Graves?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You lost a lot of blood. We cleaned up the wound and
closed.” He flipped a page up. “We couldn’t. Couldn’t —” The doctor kept his
eyes on the
wig was on the ground, red stains marred the pavement. Man, that was a bad case
of gonorrhea. He needed to get to a doctor.
The van jostled and rocked. Roger slid the door open. Colin
was inside the darkness of the windowless van, face down. His checkered pants
looked like they were soaking wet. The idiot had pissed himself.
Roger kneeled on the van floor, rolled his partner over and
slapped his cheek. “Colin, what the hell, man? We had the kid. He was right
there.”
Colin’s head lolled to the other side.
Roger sat back sharply and gasped. He returned his eyes to
his partner’s pants. It wasn’t piss, it was blood. His pants were cut and —
Roger opened his mouth to scream. Nothing came out but a
gurgle.
Pain shot through his back. His body convulsed and flopped
like a fish on the boat deck before it gets nailed in the head with a hammer.
He fell on top of Colin’s legs, his face in Colin’s crotch. The coppery blood
that soaked his clown pants filled Roger’s nostrils with the smell of welds he
spent his working days burning onto pipes under strangers sinks and behind
their piss-stained toilets.
A hand grasped his shoulder and rolled him over. An imposing
figure loomed above him. Heavy set, broad shouldered, hunched like the guy had
seen his share of time in the boxing ring. He pulled a knife from his coat and
brandished it in the dusk. He held it above his head. The sunset glinted off
the edge as he swung it at Roger’s pants.
Roger screamed like a little girl afraid of clowns and tried
to cover his dick.
The knife cut through his hands and stuck in his crotch. He
screeched and cursed and kicked at the guy’s leg.
The man didn’t flinch.
Roger rolled over and tried to drag himself further into the
van. It was like some lame-ass movie, a crappy slow-motion scene. All he could
hear was his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. All he could smell was sweat and
blood. Pain ripped through his ass. He screamed, his voice gaining volume. Why
didn’t anyone hear him? Why wasn’t anyone trying to save him?
He dug his fingers into the van’s smooth, metal floor. His
pants were hot and wet but his legs like ice. His eyes lost focus and his head
felt like a balloon floating above him. Blackness descended.
Roger blinked against the glaring fluorescent light. The
stink of antiseptic and anaesthetic with the underlying sulphur of stale urine
seeped into his consciousness. He tried to sit up. Metal clanked against metal.
He tugged on his right arm, opened his eyes wide. The room was stark white. He
lay in a bed with little-kid bars. What, were they afraid he’d fall out like a
fucking baby? He scanned his body. Bandages covered his hands, his wrists
handcuffed to the bars. Blinding pain seared between his temples and ached
between his legs.
At the end of the bed stood a uniformed cop, one hand on his
sidearm, the holster unclipped. The cop smirked, turned to the door. “Hey. He’s
up.” He turned back and sneered at Roger, one side of his upper lip lifted and
quivered. Elvis would have been proud. “Or should I say awake. You’ll never be up again.”
The blood drained from Roger’s head. “What the hell does
that mean?”
The cop jerked his head at Roger’s crotch. “It means your
days of sodomizing little boys are over, you sick fuck. He castrated you. Hell,
he did one better. He lopped your entire package off.”
“What?” Roger craned his neck and stared at his groin. All
he saw were bed sheets. “You’re full of shit.” He dropped his head to the
pillow.
A tall reed of a man swept into the room, a white polyester
coat open and flapping behind him. He lifted a chart from a hook on the end of
the bed and came to a stop near Roger’s cuffed wrist. “Mr. Roger Graves?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You lost a lot of blood. We cleaned up the wound and
closed.” He flipped a page up. “We couldn’t. Couldn’t —” The doctor kept his
eyes on the
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