by Bill Bernico
Weasel looks straight ahead of him and spots the workbench. On a cast iron stand he sees a foot-long metal poker with a wooden handle. The other end of the poker was made of thick metal that comes to a point. That point is fixed into the tip of a blue flame that is shooting out of a small propane torch canister. The tip of the poker is red hot and glows brightly.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind him Weasel hears a shuffling noise and a second later a man appears in front of him. The man is smiling a smile that has nothing to do with friendliness. It’s the wide-eyed, maniacal smile of a disturbed person. Weasel had seen that look before when he’d gotten into fights at the bar.
“So,” Norman says to his prisoner, “you’re awake. Did you have a pleasant nap?”
Weasel tries again to force his arms free from the restraints with no luck. “Let me out of this thing,” Weasel barks. “Now!”
“I don’t think so,” Norman says. “There are still too many things I need to do first. Shall we get started?”
“Started?” Weasel says. “Started with what?”
Norman looks at Weasel’s chest and points to the six large letters tattooed across the top, from nipple to nipple. “And just what is that supposed to say?” Norman says.
Weasel drops his chin to his chest, trying to see what Norman is pointing at. He looks up at Norman. “That says ‘Weasel’,” he tells Norman.
Norman looks again at the six letters and reads each of them, one letter at a time. “W-E-Z-Z-L-E,” he says, looking at his prisoner. “Are you saying that your name is Wezzle?”
“That’s Weasel,” Weasel says.
Norman nods his head. “You’re stupider than I thought,” he tells Weasel. “That’s not how you spell Weasel, you fucking moron. I’ll just bet you’re bad at math, too, aren’t you? What about geography, or history? Are you any better at those subjects, Wezzle?”
Weasel screamed now. “You let me out of here right now,” he says.
“Or you’ll what?” Norman says.
“Do you know who I am?” Weasel says.
Norman purses his lips and nods. “Sure,” he says, “you’re Wezzle.”
“Weasel,” Weasel screams. “You just wait until the rest of my gang gets a hold of you. They’ll rip you into so many pieces your own mother won’t recognized what’s left of you.”
“Crude AND stupid,” Norman says. “Stupid with a capital S. So you want to get out of here, do you?”
Weasel shows his gritted teeth. “Yes,” he says through closed teeth. “And right now.”
“Tell you what I’m going to do, Wezzle,” Norman says.
Weasel opens his mouth to object, but Norman backhands him in the mouth. He shakes a single finger in the air. “I said, no talking,” Norman says, like a teacher trying to quiet a student. “I’ll tell you what, Wezzle. How about I give you a little test or two and see just how stupid you are? You get four twenty-five point questions right and you can walk out of here without a scratch on you. But for every question you don’t answer correctly, well, let’s just say that you’ll have to pay a penalty. Would you like to start with spelling, math, geography or history? Come on, pick one or I’ll pick it for you.”
Weasel thinks for a moment and says, “Geography.”
“Geography,” Norman says, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “All right, Wezzle, this is for twenty-five points. What is the state that lies just south of North Dakota? You have ten seconds. Go.”
Weasel tries to picture the map of the United States he’d seen on the wall of the school he’d attended all those years ago. He draws a blank.
“Five seconds, Wezzle,” Norman says.
Panic sets in and Weasel still can’t come up with an answer.
“Say anything,” Norman says. “You might get lucky. But no answer counts as a wrong answer and as you know, wrong answers come with consequences.”
“Georgia,” Weasel shouts.
“Ehhhh,” Norman says, sounding like a buzzer on a game show. “Wrong answer. The correct answer was South Dakota.” He turns to his work bench and selects his tool of choice, a box cutter with a retractable blade. He turns to face his student.
Weasel’s eyes widen when he sees an inch and a half of the shiny blade sliding out of the handle when Norman pushes the button. “What are you gonna do with that?” he says, his voice quavering.
“You missed the geography test,” Norman says. “And this is the consequence. He lays the tip of the blade on Weasel’s biceps and drags it downward, following the lines of an eagle tattoo. Blood drips from the cut along the edge of the tattoo and Weasel cries out in pain. Norman traces the rest of the eagle’s outline and pulls the blade away. “There,” Norman says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Weasel lets out the breath he’d been holding and watches as more blood leaks out of the wound. He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest, but screams again when he opens his eyes to see that the crazed man is pulling at the skin on his arm with a pair of pliers. Weasel continues screaming as Norman pulls the entire eagle tattoo off Weasel’s arm. He dangles the patch of skin in front of Weasel’s face.
“There you go, Wezzle,” Norman says, taunting his prisoner. “That’s one less disgusting tattoo on your arm.” Norman lays the skin on his work bench and finds a small tack hammer and several tacks. He grabs the tattooed skin and holds it up against his workbench wall, nailing it in place. Satisfied with his handiwork, Norman turns back to Weasel. “All righty, then, shall we move on to the next portion of our test? Which subject will you choose next, Wezzle? Will it be; math, history or spelling?” Norman points to the six large letters on Weasel’s chest. “Personally, I’d save spelling until the end if I were you.”
Weasel’s still breathing fast and hard and he’s still crying.
“Pick one, Wezzle,” Norman says, “or you’ll forfeit this round, and you know what that means, don’t you?”
“Math,” Weasel says hastily.
“Math,” Norman says. “A good choice, Wezzle. Let’s see if I can make it a little easier for you than the geography question.” He thinks for a moment and then says, “Okay, Wezzle, still looking for that first twenty-five points. How much is five time six minus seven? Ten seconds, Wezzle.”
Weasel’s mouth moves along with his mental calculations. “Five time six is thirty,” Weasel mumbles to himself. “Take away seven and that leaves…”
“Three seconds, Wezzle,” Norman reminds him.
“Twenty-three,” Weasel shouts, getting in just under the wire.
“Very good,” Norman says. “Say, you’re a regular Jethro Bodine, aren’t you, Wezzle? I can see I’ll have to step up my game a little.”
Weasel exhales and closes his eyes momentarily. When he opens them again he sees the teacher coming back toward him again and he’s holding the box cutter. “What are you doing?” Weasel shouts. “I got that last one right.”
“That’s right, you did, didn’t you?” Norman says, laying the box cutter back on the bench.
Weasel sighed with relief.
“I guess that just leaves history and spelling,” Norman tells his prisoner. “Which one will it be this time, Wezzle?”
Weasel could feel the anger boiling up inside him but he kept this to himself. “History,” he says, with very little emotion.
“History,” Norman says, turning to his left and talking to an imaginary studio audience. “Let’s see how Wezzle does with history.” He turns to Weasel and says, “This is a three-part question, each part worth twenty-five points. You have a chance to make up for your geography fuck-up and pull ahead. All right, in what year did President Kennedy die, and in what city and who did they arrest for the assassination? You have thirty-seconds, Wezzle. Go.”
“Kennedy?” Weasel thinks. “Hell, he wasn’t even born yet when that happened.” His mind races, trying to remember bit and pieces of information that he’d heard during his thirty-five years on this planet. “1963,” he yells, rememb
ering that someone had told him that the assassination had happened exactly fifteen years before he’d been born.
“Give me the city,” Norman says, looking at the second hand on his watch. “Eighteen seconds, Wezzle.”
Weasel draws a blank, but he knows he still has another part of the question after this so he yells out, “Chicago.”
“And lastly,” Norman says, “give me the assassin’s name. Seven seconds left on the clock.”
Weasel has no idea but time is running out. He yells the first name that comes into his head. “John Dillinger.”
“Ehhhh,” Norman says, making that wrong answer buzzer sound again. He turns to his invisible audience again and says, “So, let’s see how our contestant did on this three-part question. For the years, he said 1963.” He spins on his feet and points to Weasel. “That’s right, Wezzle. It was November 22, 1963. Let’s see how he did with the second part.” He pauses for effect and then points his finger in Weasel’s face. “You said Chicago. Let’s see if that’s correct.”
Weasel’s breathing is coming in spurts now as sweat runs down his face.
“Oh, sorry,” Norman says. “The correct answer was Dallas. Dallas, oh so sorry, Wezzle. How about that third part. Wezzle says John Dillinger. Let’s see if the studio audience agrees.” He pauses again and then slowly turns to Weasel. He smiles slightly and then says, “Oswald, Lee Harvey Oswald is the correct answer. For you folks watching at home, I guess you know what that means. That’s right. It’s penalty time.” Norman turns to the work bench and grabs the box cutter and spins back toward Weasel again.
“No!” Weasel screams. “No, no, no, no.” His head shakes violently back and forth.
Norman pauses in mid-step. “No, you say?” Norman tells him. “Tell you what I’ll do, Wezzle. I’ll give you a choice. I can either cut and pull off one tattoo while you’re awake, or I’ll put you under again and remove three tattoos. Which will it be, Wezzle? You have ten seconds.” Norman begins whistling the Jeopardy theme song. When he gets to the last note, he turns to Weasel and says, “Which will it be? One while you’re awake, or three while you’re out?”
“Put me out,” Weasel says. “Please, put me out.”
Norman lays the box cutter down and grabs a cloth from the work bench. He pours a little more chloroform on it and clamps it over Weasel’s mouth. Weasel struggles and then falls limp. Norman steps over to the sink against the far wall and washes his hands before returning to the bench to retrieve his box cutter. He outlines three tattoos on Weasel’s arm and pulls them all off with the pliers, tacking them on the wall next to the first one. Weasel is still out, so Norman takes that time to throw in one bonus removal for no extra charge.
Norman knows it could be a while before Weasel comes around again so he washes his hands in the sink again and then climbs the basement stairs, stepping into the kitchen. He makes himself a sandwich and pours a glass of milk. Norman turns on the television set and watches Wheel of Fortune as he finishes his lunch.
“Buy a vowel?” Norman screams at the screen. “What kind of moron are you? There’s only two letters left unturned, you idiot. The answer is ‘Nothing To Sneeze At’, come on.”
The woman on the television turns the last vowel over, revealing the A. The contestant smiles and says, “I’d like to solve the puzzle. ‘Nothing to sneer at’.”
“What?” Norman yells at the television set. “There’s no extra ‘e’ in sneer. It’s sneeze, you asshole. Nothing to sneeze at.” Norman switches off the TV and finishes his sandwich and milk. He walks away from the living room, shaking his head and mumbling about the decay of civilization.
Norman descends the basement stairs again just as Weasel starts to regain consciousness again. As Weasel comes around again, he begins to moan and twitch in his seat. His nostrils wiggle up and down and he takes a few whiffs of the air around him. Was he in a diner? Did someone make dinner while he was out? He definitely smelled meat cooking. Then he looked down at his arm and noticed that three more tattoos had been cut off his arm and the exposed flesh underneath had been cauterized, probably with the hot poker that he’d noticed earlier on the bench.
Weasel’s eyes shifted from his arm to his chest. There was another large area that had been seared black with the hot poker. The six large letters that had spelled out Wezzle were gone. He looked up at his captor. “You said three,” Weasel yelled.
“No charge for the fourth,” Norman said. “Consider it a bonus. It was spelled wrong anyway. Hey, I did you a favor.”
Weasel began to cry some more.
“If I recall,” Norman said, “Just before we went to commercial, you still had one more category to finish and that was spelling. Oh oh, Wezzle. If I recall, that wasn’t your strong suit, was it?” He points to the patch of skin tacked to the work bench wall that spelled out WEZZLE in a fancy script font. “But this is your lucky day,” Norman says. “Even if you get this one wrong, I promise I won’t remove another tattoo.” He crosses his heart with two fingers and holds them up at his side, like a Boy Scout. “Shall we continue?”
Weasel tries his restraints again. His wrists are still held fast. “Go on,” he says.
Norman block prints a word on an index card and turns to his left again, pretending to show the card to the non-existent audience. “We’ll show the audience and the folks at home, the correct spelling and see if Wezzle can redeem himself.” He turns back to Weasel. “This is for fifty points, Wezzle. Your word is RECEIVE. I’ll use it in a sentence so you understand which word we want you to spell. ‘If you get this question right, you will RECEIVE fifty points’. RECEIVE. Spell it. You have fifteen seconds.” Norman begins making popping noises with his mouth, simulating the ticking of a clock.
“RECEIVE,” Weasel says. “R-E-C-I-E-V-E. RECEIVE.”
“Oh,” Norman says, disappointed. “So close yet so far away. Wezzle, the rule is I before E.”
“I spelled it with the I before the E,” Weasel says in protest.
“I before E,” Norman repeats, “except after C. I’m sorry, Wezzle, you missed it, and that brings us once again to the penalty portion of our program. But, as I promised, I will not be cutting off any other tattoos and I always keep my promise.”
Norman turns to the work bench and picks up a pair of pruning shears with curved blades and steps up to Weasel, who goes into a panic and vibrates his chair so badly that he falls over onto his side. It is only then that he notices the sheet of plastic that had been laid out beneath him and the chair he was attached to.
Norman rights the chair again and holds the blades of the pruning shears less than an inch from Weasel’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Wezzle,” Norman says. “I promised that I wouldn’t take any tattoos if you missed the spelling question.”
“Then what?” Weasel starts to say.
“You know, Wezzle,” Norman says, “If there one thing I hate almost as much as tattoos, it’s body piercings. What the hell were you thinking when you put those big holes in your ears with spools big enough to see through? You look like some fuckin’ savage from Africa. And those rings in your eyebrows. What possible purpose could those serve? That had to hurt, so I guess what I have in mind for you won’t be that far off from your original experience.”
Norman holds the pruning shears up to Weasel’s left eyebrow. Weasel bucks in the chair, his head flailing back and forth. Norman stands upright and takes one step back away from Weasel. “I guess it’s time for Deal or No Deal, Wezzle. Here’s the deal. You move your head again and I’ll cut off your nose. Deal or no deal?”
Weasel closes his eyes and tries to hold still. Norman leans in again and gets each of the pruning shears blades on either side of the eyebrow ring and brings the handles together. Weasel screams in agony as the silver ring, eyebrow and all, fall to the floor. Norman quickly grabs the cauterizing iron and touches it to the fleshy exposed area where the eyebrow had been. Weasel screams again and again and again. Norman gives him a few minutes to compose himself aga
in. He lets Weasel see him purposely lay the shears back down on the work bench before he slowly walks up to him again. He gently tugs at the silver spools in Weasel’s ears, removes them and leaves the spools lying on the work bench.
“There,” Norman says. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
Weasel doesn’t respond. Norman grabs Weasel’s chin and lifts it until their eyes meet. “Was it?” Norman repeats.
Weasel weakly shakes his head.
Norman returned to the work bench and comes back to Weasel holding a spool of nylon fishing line. He loops one end of the filament through the other ring in the right eyebrow and ties it tight. He reels off five feet of fishing line and cuts it off the spool. Norman ties the other end of the line to one of the heavy motorcycle boots he’d taken off Weasel’s feet earlier. He threads the string through the buckle on the side of the boot and ties it tight and then holds the boot up so that Weasel can see it.
“Did I mention that I didn’t like body piercings, Wezzle?” Norman says. “Well, these damned shit-kicker boots are just as disgusting and I don’t want them near me.” Norman tosses the boot toward the opposite wall. When the slack line runs out, it stretches taught until the ring rips out of Weasel’s eyebrow with a tearing sound.
Weasel screams again, surprised that he even had anything left in him to scream with. His right eyebrow was still in better shape than his left, but it bleeds nonetheless. Before he can voice another objection, Norman is on him with the cauterizing iron. The remaining eyebrow hair sizzles and smokes, along with the red, exposed flesh above his eye. A small wisp of smoke rises from Weasel’s eyebrow.
“Almost finished,” Norman says, retrieving the garden shears again. “Don’t make me have to remind you about your nose, Wezzle.” Norman grabs the flabby loop of skin that was once Weasel’s left earlobe and stretches it out as far as it will go. With a single snip of the shears, the earlobe comes off in Norman’s hand. He turns back to the work bench, taps a nail into the wall and hangs the loop of flesh from it before returning to his spot in front of Weasel again.
