It takes a moment for you to realize that the gunshots you just heard are most likely a good thing and not the sound of your impending doom. Understandable considering the fucked up condition you’re in.
.
“Sonuvabitch!” you hear someone yell, “It’s one of the fuckin Aztecs! Goddamn Spic shot out the front windows of the shop!”
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“Let’s get the greasy fucker!” shouted someone else, “Keep your weapons put away until we’re out of sight of that dickhead with the camera outside! Roach, Crowbar, you guys keep an eye on our little friend in the chair, the rest of you mount up and let’s ride. Move it!”
.
You hear the sound of a bunch of Harleys firing up and taking off. Shit. Looks like the Calvary isn’t here to rescue you after all. What the fuck? Well, maybe someone else heard the shots and the cops are on their way.
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Then again, in this neighborhood it’s more likely they would mind their own business, such business consisting of pimping or selling narcotics. You’re starting to slowly realize that you are going to die without ever seeing your firstborn child. What a shitty way to go.
.
Just then there’s a loud bang that makes your ears ring painfully and a flash of light so bright it penetrates the pitch black behind the tape over your eyes. Very slowly, the ringing in your ears subsides and then someone is unwrapping the layers of duct tape that bind you to the chair. Your eyes are uncovered, but they are so full of dried and crusted blood that you can’t see a damn thing.
.
“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice a dry croak that you barely recognize as your own. There’s no reply, but a few seconds later a splash of icy cold water hits you in the face, then another. Your vision clears, and standing in front of is Oscar, the midget porn star who may or may not have plowed your virgin ass while you were whacked out of your gourd on magic mushrooms. He’s smiling a little, holding a paper cone from a water cooler in each hand. You have never been happier to see someone in your entire life. Behind him, two men are laid out on the concrete floor of the garage, Roach and Crowbar presumably.
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“Hiya kid!” says Oscar, “man, you look like some dead dogshit! Excuse me for a moment…” One of the guys on the floor has gotten up onto his hands and knees, groaning with the effort. Oscar drops the paper cups, and pulls a stun gun from a pocket then gives the guy an unhealthy blast to the back of the neck, then a zap to the genitals, for good measure.
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“I’d much rather put a bullet in the back of their skulls, but I promised Blake there wouldn’t be any killing, and I’m a man of my word.”
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Blake? As in Detective Blake, the man who’d broken your nose and then shit all over your car after tearing it apart? What the hell did he have to do with any of this, and how the fuck does Oscar know about him?
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It’s all too much to try and wrap your bruised and battered head around at the moment, so you let it go for the moment, and Oscar continues.
“We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge my friend. I got the van outside, can you walk?”
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“Hell yes” you say, and to your surprise it turns out to be true.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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