by Kirk Alex
Biggs closed and locked the cabinet back up. Grabbed the chain leashes, the first-aid case, and stepped out. Locked the room. Lowered the first-aid kit, picked up the cord, and returned to the pit.
“Open it.”
Marvin lifted the door up, and Cecil attached the leashes to the loops on either side of the iron collar on Mr. Fimple’s neck. The chains were then threaded through separate holes in the door and the door was closed back over it. Marvin was instructed to take the electrical cord and plug it into the socket in the wall by the stairwell.
CHAPTER 17
Norbert may have been hurt and bleeding, but not to the extent that he didn’t gradually become aware of what was about to take place. He was able to pick up movement, glimpses, of the electrical cord, through holes in the door above his head. At first he nudged it open an inch or two, then followed that by an all-out effort. With folded forearms, shoved hard up against his side of the door, throwing Cecil clear off the door itself as it slammed open against the cement floor.
Norbert attempted to climb out of the pit. Was too heavy and clumsy and in way too much pain to pull it off. He was whacked across the head and neck a few times with the cycle chain by the bishop that rendered Norbert’s efforts not only ineffective, but left him dazed and helpless. He succumbed.
The door was shut over the pit once again. Padlock locked in place. Marvin Muck held the prong end of the orange electrical cord in search of the socket in the wall that was supposed to be somewhere in front of the bottom step of the stairwell and about twenty feet from the rectangular-shaped hole in the floor. Illumination was lousy. The red-haloed light way back at the other side, in back of Biggs, the Roscoe side of the basement where the wall of books was, hardly helped. It was way too weak.
Muck searched for it, while Cecil held his end: a wire in each hand, making sure that they were fairly apart and stayed that way.
“Got it plugged in?”
“Prob’ly.”
“There’s no ‘probably’ about it. It’s either plugged in, or it’s not.”
“Got it plugged in. Yo.”
CHAPTER 18
Biggs was lying on his belly over the door that covered the pit, poking the wire in his left hand in one of the holes in the door, while running the other wire through a separate hole in his right, all the while pressing his right eye up against a hole in the center of the door somewhere, doing his best to guide the wire down.
The left wire touched water, and was kept there, while he strained in vain to connect the right wire to the metal collar on Fimple’s neck. Nothing doing. Fimple, not as utterly brainless as perceived, kept himself down in the water up to about his chin, and there was no way for Cecil to make out where the goddamn collar was. Furthermore, he didn’t dare risk touching the water with the hot wire in his right hand from fear that it would short-circuit the entire system.
Well, dumb-ass Norbert was being clever, although hardly clever enough. That was the purpose of the chain leashes. Live and learn. One had to be smarter than the geeks. Cecil called Marvin over. Had him grab the chains. Told him to step back to the north of his head by a good yard.
“When I order you to yank, I want you to yank. He needs to be pulled up. Understand?”
“Yo. Ain’t got to tell me twiced.”
“I didn’t say it ‘twiced.’”
“I know that.”
Cecil shook his head. Let it go.
“Do it.”
Marvin went to work. Thin and wiry as he was. Pulled back, hard. Stepped back some even. Had to. Yanking on the chains.
“Pimple be one heavy mothafuckah.”
“Wrap them around your wrists.”
Cecil had his eye over the hole about the size of a large coin. He liked what he was seeing down there. The former used car salesman was being uprooted by the neck, so that the stainless steel collar was visible at this point. Biggs played around with the wire in his right hand, maneuvering this way and that. It took effort and concentration. Everything required concentration.
Finally, at last, the wire connected, if briefly, and Fimple got buzzed. Not enough, not for him, but some. Sparks materialized. The bishop felt a sense of accomplishment. He renewed his determination, even though Norbert kept doing his best to dip below the surface.
“He’s submerging again. Don’t let him go underwater. I want him up, out of the water. Pull back, hard. Do it, Marvin. Get him up against the door.”
Muck was working up a good sweat. Went for it. Gritting his teeth, seemed to be making progress.
Biggs searched out the collar down there. Connected. More sparks. And Fimple jerking about so hard that he caused Marvin to slip and fall. Marvin cursed. Biggs looked up. Did not have to say a word. Muck was back on his feet, and yanking on the leashes again. Biggs refocused on Norbert down in the pit. Had the wire against the collar for a decent amount of time this time, shocking Fimple a good deal. He did not keep the wire there, as he did not wish to kill him, merely teach him a lesson. Pit Therapy, that’s what the bishop liked to call it. Not much different from what they did to him over the years at the VA, Camarillo, and Atascadero.
He stuck the wire back down there, touching the collar, and watched current go through Norbert; well, his reaction each and every time. Made him jump around like a spaz. Frankly, if he had known Norbert was going to be this much trouble he would have left him on that bus bench in front of LA City Hall to begin with.
“You gonna kill him, man. Yo.”
“Nah. Not my intention. Norbert can take a lot more than the average sinner, a lot more.”
CHAPTER 19
Biggs realized that Norbert had had enough at last. Told Marvin to pull the cord from the wall. He unlocked, then lifted the door open all the way. When he looked down what he saw was a dazed geek. Hardly moving or coherent.
“How are we doing, Norbert?”
Norbert Fimple remained too out of it to respond.
“You bring it on yourself every time, Norbert, and that’s the truth. I don’t enjoy punishing members of the inner circle in this manner—but punish you I will when you break the rules. We have rules around here and they will be abided by. I won’t have you destroy my property. That door up there will have to be repaired, maybe even replaced. You better hope I have one in the garage that will fit. Then there’s the kitchen door, Bunk Room door—that will need work.”
Biggs turned his head in the direction of the walk-in. His attention was back on the big man in the pit.
“As if that weren’t bad enough, you did some damage to the cooler door handle. It’s uncalled for. There’s no excuse for it. I won’t stand for it, Norbert.”
It took a while, but Norbert was blinking, showing life.
“Surprised he ain’t chill.”
“Told you: Norbert can take way more than the average heathen. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fimple?”
Norbert was hacking, spitting up water.
“Get up, Norbert. You get put in a cell all by yourself this time. Solitary confinement.”
“Siberia?”
“Siberia.”
Norbert attempted to climb out of the pit on his own, and in his disoriented state was having a difficult time of it.
“Help him out, Marvin. Can’t seem to make it. Seems he can use a hand.”
“Sure. Dude can use a hand.”
Marvin stood at the edge of the pit. Reached down. Norbert grabbed his hand with one of his, and rolled up and out of the water, onto the cement floor. Rested on his side to catch his breath. He was bleeding from his nose and mouth; one of the ears. There seemed to be traces of vomit.
“Life can be tough enough, only certain individuals always have to make things just a little tougher. Don’t know why that is—only know that’s the way it is.”
“Norbert don’t be gettin’ nothin’. Got to be told two time’.”
“Yeah? Like somebody you know?”
“I don’t be knowin’ nobody like that.”
Biggs’s
attention was back on Norbert. “What am I supposed to do with you, Mr. Fimple? Do you want me to shoot you? Is that what you want?”
Norbert said nothing. Did not so much as shake his head in response.
“I don’t think you want that. I know I don’t. I don’t want to shoot you. I worry about you—but you have to stop causing me all this trouble. Doors cost money, lightbulbs cost money. I didn’t get where I’m at today by squandering funds. I’ve been destitute in my time, and let me tell you: it’s no fun. The world will shit on you when you’re broke and can’t fend for yourself. I know, believe me; I know what that’s like. It’s taken years to get where I’m at and I’m not about to let someone like you bring me down.”
Biggs thought if he went the distance, made him disappear, if he got rid of him right now, he’d only have to go to some nut house and recruit another psycho and break him in. Bus benches and sidewalks were no different: nutcases too defective to be taught anything, too out of it usually to be controlled to his liking—and that was too much work, too much of a hassle.
He’d been through it too often, been through it with all the other members of staff and board, and yet he needed them for the illusion a staff and board of directors created, if he intended to continue to benefit from the 501 tax exemption status as a church, if he intended on keeping and holding on to this two-story house with basement and attic and garage in back and a ’72 Rolls and new Fleetwood Cadillac and his half a mil-plus stock portfolio—which he damn well did. He valued it all, every bit of it; he wasn’t that “touched” just yet.
Furthermore, if he needed to be reminded of the hell that awaited him by bringing in someone new, all he had to do was take a look at the twisted, off-kilter geek from South Dakota, or was it North Dakota? Namely, Olin Goodfellow. All you had to do was take a look at that sack of pig slop named Goodfellow to be reminded how tough it was to bring in someone from the outside and teach them how to comport themselves.
Norbert Fimple rose to his knees, and with additional help from Biggs and Marvin, made it all the way to his feet. It soon became evident that the big man had soiled himself; the buzzing session had caused him to piss and crap his trousers. It had happened before. Nothing new there. The odor was unmistakable, on top of all the other odors in a dungeon that reeked of all types of noxious fumes.
At least the man was standing on his own two feet. Hardly at that. Some caution was warranted here, lest he fell and split his head open.
CHAPTER 20
They walked him to the street side of the basement and a cell that was located between a storage closet and a holding pen Biggs liked to call the Mattress Room. The cell they escorted Norbert to had been commonly known as Solitary Confinement—until Ionesco, the Pinko Punisher, started referring to it as “Siberia.” The name stuck. Cecil had a fair knowledge of Stalin and the Bolsheviks from having read up on the Commies over the years and thought the tag fit.
Although Ionesco had never set foot in the Soviet Union, let alone Siberia, he had spent a week in this cell himself a while back and upon his release had made a promise to Cecil, his “true American comrade,” that he would never again do anything to piss him off enough to be “sent back to Siberia.”
“Got me this sick feelin’ Norbert could be carryin’ a load in his drawer’. I know he done took a dump upstairs. A dude like him got enough doo-doo in him for five ghetto pimp’.”
Biggs gave Muck the silent stare, then went about unlocking the door to “Siberia.” Marvin hadn’t been able to hold the big man up by himself. Mr. Fimple’s legs gave way and he dropped to the floor outside the door to the cell.
“Could be we went too far this time.”
“He brought it on himself. Think I enjoy seeing him like this?”
“Should give the fool some dry skin’ to wear. Brogan’, too. Gonna come down wiff somethin’.”
“Like what?”
“Like ammonia. Or his death of cold.”
“You mean pneumonia.”
“Yo. Could be.”
“That would leave me demoralized.”
“Not you. Maybe the rest of them. Want the geek’ to be depress’?”
“They were born ‘depress.’”
Biggs unlocked the storage room next to the cell. Gave Muck the spigot key and told him to go get the hose where he had left it by the Fun Room door and connect it to the tap out by the pit. He also had to remind him to leave the nozzle end.
Marvin managed to accomplish the chore without a single mishap, and was back. He was instructed to help Mr. Fimple out of his soiled pants and boxers, wet shirt. Marvin proceeded without bitching. May have even felt a bit of compassion about all of it. Norbert was a messed up dude. His ho run off on him. Took the kid. Shit like that could make a homie lose his mind—and never want to sell another used ride. What he done before he got like this. What he was told by Cecil.
Biggs dragged the nozzle over and hosed the behemoth down thoroughly. Found a couple of towels in the storage closet and tossed one of them at the flunky. Wiped what remained of the Trusty makeup on his face with the other. Marvin walked Mr. Fimple into the cell. Helped him dry his head and shoulders, upper body in general, and let him do what he could as far as drying his legs and privates on his own.
“Don’t try to play with the man’s dick. I’m watching.”
“Man, fuck you. Yo. I don’t be playin’ wiff his dick. Pit Therapy fucked him up. Too much shock treatment. Can hardly dry his private part’ without help.”
Biggs was back in the storage room. Re-emerged with a stack of folded clothing: dark green chino pants, green shirt, army boxers. Handed them over to Marvin, who in turn assisted Mr. Fimple into them.
“You happy, rapo?”
“I could be mo’ happy if I had a ho workin’ the track an’ makin’ bank.”
“Prostitutes get busted. It wouldn’t be long before the rollers came looking for us. You can’t seem to get that through your head. Why should I risk losing everything because you have this wild notion to be the next Iceberg?”
Marvin was about to do some more running of the mouth. Biggs waved his hand, shutting him up and letting him know to get with the next step: Mr. Fimple would need something to defecate in for the duration of his isolation.
“Grab a honey bucket, roll of ass-wipe. Jug of water. Drop his dirty clothes, including the towel, in the washer by the john before you do that. Pour in two cups of concentrated detergent. Using hot water. Then wash your hands. Got all that?”
“Yo.”
“Oh yeah: I think his dentures fell out in the cooler somewhere. Don’t concern yourself if you can’t find them. We’ll pick him up another set next time we visit a boneyard.”
“Boneyard?”
“Where do you think those came from?”
“Ain’t thought about it.”
“You know they came from a stiff. You don’t think I would spend good ‘coin’ on fake teeth for him? Problem is they don’t always fit right. Only thing to do is to keep trying until you find a set that works. It’s a crap shoot.”
Marvin was clearly disgusted. Kept it to himself. Even so, pictures popped in his mind’s eye that turned his stomach.
“That reminds me: could use footwear, too. Check his feet for glass before you do the other stuff.”
Marvin bent down. Pulled a shard from the big man’s big left toe. Found another piece in the heel. Tossed them in the corner.
“Don’t do that. He’s liable to swallow them.”
Marvin retrieved the shards. Cecil had him drop them in a jar in the storage closet. Muck gathered up the dirty clothes and left to do what else he had to.
CHAPTER 21
Biggs picked up the first aid kit, and returned to the cell. Mr. Fimple was lying on the floor on his side, his back against the wall on the left. Biggs knelt beside him. Poured peroxide over the cuts, applied Band-Aids.
“I give you shoes but you refuse to wear them. Flip-flops never last you long. What am I going to do w
ith you? Step on a rusty nail and could lose a foot. That’s begging for it. Now, taking a foot off is no skin off my nose, Norbert, if it has to be done—only what good would you be around here?” Biggs shook his head. “What’s the use? Cause me enough grief to have a meltdown. Look, these break-ins and constant penchant for grub . . . You’ve got to behave yourself, Norbert. Show some patience. We’ll have Greta heat up some of that jambalaya for you later, maybe. You have to be patient, develop a better sense of patience, otherwise I’ll starve your ass down to nothing. You’ll be a big bag of bones, Norbert, if you don’t stop destroying my property.”
Biggs felt an obligation to remind him again of the damage done. “I have to replace that door upstairs now, repair the jamb, replace the lightbulb; replace two other doors. The handle that was in the wall to the right of the walk-in cooler door will have to be bolted into the wall again—because without it there is no way to keep the cooler door locked. You know all this—and yet you continue to fuck up, continue to cause me grief. Repairs take time and cost money—and I’m getting tired of it. You think I have a money tree growing in the backyard? There’s no money tree back there. The only money I see is the money I generate. I can’t go to the government for a handout; I can’t go anywhere for a handout. They don’t give a shit about me, or any of us. If that weren’t bad enough, they’re threatening to shut down the Bordello of Fear. You have no idea how crucial that revenue stream is. Glorified pencil pushers don’t care if we live or perish.” Biggs took pause, looking at the as yet stunned big man. “Know what they pay out there? They pay shit out there. Peanuts. Crumbs. Average salary. Try to get a job and see what they pay in the real world. It’s hell. I have to watch how I spend my money. I know all too well what it’s like to be broke and at the assholes’ mercy. I don’t ever want to be broke again—ever. I’d rather be burned alive than be destitute and begging for a handout.”
