Read Online The Wake-Up by Robert Ferrigno - Free Book Online

alerted him to a new e-mail. He tapped the password, checked his mail, his face getting red. “Quentin’s having trouble with the batch,” he told Vlad, then glared at Pinto. “We cut too much slack; everyone tries to play us.”
    “Don’t put me in that category, man,” said Pinto. “You’ll get your ten thousand—”
    “You don’t owe us any money,” said Arturo. “It’s been taken care of.”
    Pinto looked from one to the other. His sinuses dripped the bitter chemical into his mouth. He loved that taste.
    “We hauled away your Mustang, so now we’re even,” explained Arturo. “Left another quarter pound of frost with the little woman just to show your credit’s A-one again.”
    “You can’t have my—”
    “It’s not yours anymore. We just came by to have you sign over the pink slip.”
    Pinto felt the scar tissue on his neck get warm. “That’s a 1967 convertible. The
four
-barrel. Took me over three years to restore it. It’s
cherry.
” His scars were even warmer now. “Got to be worth at least twenty thousand . . . maybe twenty-five, and I wouldn’t sell it for thirty. I love that fucking car.”
    Arturo unfolded the pink slip.
    “I ain’t signing that,” said Pinto. “Fuck the both of you.”
    Lounging on Gloria Goose, Arturo sucked the last bits of protein bar from his eyeteeth.
    Vlad reached under his shirt, pulled a black pistol out from the waistband of his pants.
    “Hey . . . no, no.” Pinto backed up, tripped over Danny Duck, and fell onto the floor.
    Vlad squirted the right leg of Pinto’s jeans, twirled the pistol around his index finger, and slipped it back into his waistband.
    Pinto sat up, laughing. “A water pistol? Shit, Vlad, who knew you had a sense of humor?” He looked at Arturo. “So you were just fucking with me about the Mustang?”
    Arturo ignited a wooden match with a flick of his thumbnail, tossed it at Pinto. His leg flared with a bright blue flame.
    Pinto squealed, beat out the flame with his hands. “That ain’t cool.”
    Vlad quick-drew the squirt gun, pumped a couple of blasts of gasoline into Pinto’s chest.
    Arturo tossed another match but missed. His next two matches were batted aside by Pinto, but the fourth match set his chest on fire, singed his chin before he put it out.
    Pinto backed up, eyes wide. He tried to dodge, but Vlad was good with the squirt gun, hitting him in the leg, the crotch, and even his scalp with the cold gasoline.
    Arturo kept up a steady rain of burning matches, he and Vlad working in tandem, herding Pinto from one end of the room to the other. Pinto twisted and ducked around the bright plastic animal cars, but no matter what he did, he kept blazing up. The back of one hand caught fire, and when he tried to wave it out, he just made it worse. The stink of burning hair followed every move he made, and it was like the meth explosion that had scarred him happening all over again—the burn, the smell, the fear.
    Arturo held up the pink slip.
    Pinto flipped him the finger.
    Vlad pretended to fan the water pistol like a six-shooter, splashed gasoline on Pinto’s shoes an instant before one of Arturo’s matches landed on his foot.
    Pinto stomped like that Lord of the Dance faggot trying to put out the fire, screaming, while Arturo laughed and Vlad doused him. He stood there, out of breath, his clothes smoldering, soaked with gasoline, waiting for Arturo to torch him.
    Arturo struck a match, held out the pink slip in the other hand.
    Vlad blasted away with the squirt gun, splashing gasoline across Pinto’s face, drenching him.
    Arturo waved the pink slip.
    Tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks, Pinto slowly held out his hand.
    Arturo blew out the match.
    Arturo and Vlad stepped outside a few minutes later, blinking in the sunlight. Some of the carnies were clustered around the snack bar, scraggly men and women gobbling hot dogs before the crowds came. Others leaned against their rides, drinking beer out of paper bags.
    Vlad