by Layla Wolfe
“You’re in some kind of pain, aren’t you? You look defective.”
Defective? That was a strange way of putting it. “Yes, I was in a car accident. I’m in constant, chronic pain. Could you hand those other pills over, please?” I swigged the remainder of my warm beer, suddenly desperately thirsty. My mouth was still dry when I drained the last drops.
Not only had Alcatraz not handed over the pills, his pecker was in his hand. I think I even gasped at the sight of the used, wrinkled, gnarled thing. Yes, it was gnarled like a twisted tree trunk, something out of a fairy tale. It was so big, bent, beaten up and worn, it nearly had its own personality. Like one of those humanoid movie trees, I half expected it to sprout a face and start talking.
Whoa. This guy had been around the block. Or I just took something that wasn’t Molly.
Alcatraz scooted his chair so close his cream bandit practically brained me upside the head. I couldn’t run, because I’d never get the pain pills then. From my pre-wedding days on the casting couch as a photographer’s model, I knew you didn’t get ahead without putting something out. I had to expect this. Drugs were a commodity. You traded commodities.
Brandishing the doctor’s pen, Alcatraz did something even more amazing, grosser, fantastical. He inserted it in the hole, sliding it first one, then two inches up his meat flute. Why would anyone do this? What is the point?
“See? It’s a urethral sounding. Cock stuffing.”
I was in the medical profession, and I’d never heard of anything that bizarre, unnecessary, or undesirable. “Some kind of…catheter?”
“Right. It gives a new, thrilling experience.”
“But…” I was so dizzy I could barely see straight, but I knew enough to be appalled. “But you didn’t even wipe that off with alcohol! We try not to catheterize people because it just gives almost all of them bladder infections. Don’t you get a bladder infection?”
“Hell,” said Alcatraz, suave and experienced, “my insides are so crusted with infection who’d even notice? Oh, fuck it.” He seemed to have reached some kind of blockage, because a frustrated look washed over his pitted, craggy face. He dug the tool in and out, but couldn’t get it deeper than he seemed to want. “Fucking scar tissue!”
Now enlightenment came over his features. He looked up at me, a new idea in mind. He arm shot out, he gripped me by the back of my neck, and before I knew it, I was choking on the smelliest, foulest most rancid holy poker known to man.
“Do it!” he urged. “Suck my big cock, you slut! Show me how good you can be. Then I can sell you for a hundred million dollars! Show me what you got. I’ll give you any pills you want, just suck me like the cum slut you are.”
My mouth was so dry and I was so unprepared for this, I couldn’t even swallow. I could barely breathe, nor did I want to, with my face buried in that sludge pond of a mess. Lord only knew what sort of things, crotch crickets and pants rabbits, were slithering around in there.
I had done things in my youth, things before I met Vince. All the models I ran with did things. It was a given that in order to get ahead in your career you had to please people. Not all of the photographers were glamorous, muscled, desirable examples of masculinity either. We had to blow photographers, their assistants, hell, their fucking assistants’ assistants, just to get in the queue for a photo shoot. We could be buxom, resplendent, shimmering specimens of god’s gift to man. But there were a hundred thousand other models out there pimping themselves for the big plumb assignment too. You had to be a player, or you’d be out on your ass in a hot second.
Then I met Vince—one of these photographers—and he took me away from all of that.
I don’t remember exactly what went through my mind as that disgusting pig labored and grunted over what had to be the worst skull job ever. I was drugged, unwilling, unprepared, and nauseated. The stainless ball of the sounding was jammed against my tonsils. After a bit even I couldn’t fake it anymore, and I had to detach with a huge, ragged inhalation.
Almost panic-stricken, I remember clutching that gross sleeping bag, trying to get air in my lungs. In the airless trap house, that was hard to come by. Whatever Alcatraz had given me made it even harder to get air into my lungs, and tiny clear bubbles cluttered the air between us.
Alcatraz cut through those bubbles with a giant swipe of the arm. I’ll never forget his rage-filled face, snarling, growling, spitting. His face seemed to churn like the waves of an angry ocean, like it was made of wax and would melt right off.
“Bitch! Bitch. You’re going to learn to play this game if I have to kill you. You want your fucking drugs? You’re going to learn to play nice.”
Standing over me, he walloped me with a backhand. All my senses must have been whapped right out of me. Dizziness closed its somewhat comforting cloak around my head. I couldn’t tell up from down. I didn’t want to cling to consciousness anymore. I grasped at any shred of comatose paralysis I could find.
I remember that fucking poem going through my head. Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Except I swear I got the second two lines wrong. I kept thinking it went
His Love to guard me through the night
and wake me in the morning’s light
How could that be? Wasn’t there something about the praying to the Lord to take one’s soul?
All I could think later was, maybe I didn’t want the Lord to take my soul. Maybe, even after all I’d been through, I still had that one shred of survival instinct deep in my gut. I’d seen it time and time again with the seniors. They have seemingly nothing to live for, yet contrary to all odds, they keep clinging and clinging to the shittiest possible quality of life.
I think it comes down to that. You might say you never want to live this way. But the will to live is stronger than any practical sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROMAN
The drive to the ghetto down E. 22nd Street should not have taken that long. It probably didn’t, in actuality, but the presence of the Prospect, Wolf Glaser, made it nearly unbearable.
Roman wished he could have been allowed to go alone. Or they might’ve waited until sunrise, when everyone might be passed out in their plates of meth. But time was of the essence from the sounds of things, and he was stuck with this obnoxious yet gung-ho Prospect who seemed to view everything through the lens of an episode of CSI.
“I think we should’ve brought Russian ladies. They’re way more intimidating. You jump out at someone brandishing one of those babies and the guy just shits his pants.”
“We’re sticking with the AR15s,” Roman growled.
“We could’ve at least taken the Mossberg 500s. That’s the military style with a shorter collapsible stock and a larger clip for more shells.”
“I know,” said Roman through gritted teeth. They’d been forced to take someone’s cage, a nondescript Mustang, instead of their scoots, due to the probability of having to drive a comatose girl out of there, so he was stuck with Wolf for another fifteen minutes going crosstown.
“That’s why the AK47 is called a chopper or a street sweeper. You just mow guys down. It’s very impressive, the times I practiced with it out at the old bomb range. We could’ve picked up a couple of those and thrown them in the trunk, at least, for backup.”
“There won’t be any time. By the time we get in there, pin down whatever goons are hanging around, and find the girl, we won’t have time to go back to the car and unlock the trunk. It’s strictly a one-shot deal. We have one chance to get this right.”
Wolf Glaser persisted. “So are we gonna go in there, all guns blazing?”
Wolf actually wasn’t a violent bully. He had an idealistic, martial approach to every job, as though he were a member of a SWAT team and not a motorcycle club. He said all of this with a giant, happy-go-lucky grin, like he was in the middle of binge-watching Burn Notice. When Birdseye had first told Wolf he was going on the op, Wolf had actually
cried out “I’m on it!” while Roman rolled his eyes.
“I think that’s the best approach,” said Roman. “If we just stand there like lamos asking ‘where’s the girl’ they’re just going to laugh at us.”
“We could try busting in the back, take them by surprise. It’s good that we’re going early, before the party gets started. Lockjaw went by two hours ago, reported only two bikes and two cages out front. We can take four guys, especially by surprise.”
They had earlier donned bulletproof vests, but chances were, the guys inside the trap house were wearing them, too. Judging from the surveillance camera on the roof Lockjaw had reported, they were at least semi-professional dope boys who might be looking at the street on their screen, so they’d planned to park several doors down, risking having to carry the limp body of a girl.
“You’re really into this idea of taking them by surprise,” said Roman.
“It’s the only way, man! There are two cages out front, or there were two cages two hours ago, and who knows how many beaners they crammed into those rides?” Wolf gave the impression of a good boy playing at life on the wrong side of the tracks. Wolf could be talking about eating dead, burnt bodies with that idealistic grin on his face, causing Roman to wonder if he was two drummers short of The Doobie Brothers. It didn’t give Roman a warm feeling of confidence, having to wonder these things. If Wolf had a few empty box cars on his train of thought, he could be a massive liability. Roman had never worked directly with the Prospect before. He had to have trust in Birdseye that he wouldn’t saddle him with a half-wit.
“I’m starting to think we should’ve brought more muscle with us,” said Roman, turning right into the trashy neighborhood. The sun hadn’t set, so not many parties were in full swing yet. “I don’t want to risk throwing that stink bomb inside the trap house. We don’t want to make the girl any sicker than she already might be.”
“I’m telling you,” said Wolf, semi-serious for once, “surprise is the way to go. How big is the house, twelve hundred square feet? How long can it take to hold them all at gunpoint while you run in and snatch Slushy’s daughter?”
Roman actually had to agree with him. If by “surprise” Wolf didn’t mean come in through the chimney naked in order to shock the drug runners into a comatose state. “All right. You hold your AR on them while I search the bedrooms for the girl. Then we might as well go out the front.”
“Right. I’ll hold them up and steal their drugs while you search for—”
“No stealing drugs! We have one mission and one mission only, Wolf. No grabbing meth, angel dust, H, Molly, nothing.”
Wolf pouted. “You’re taking half the fun out of it. I mean, we are wearing our cuts. We do want them to know who’s running up on them. Might as well start an old fashioned beef.”
“No beefs.”
“Who is this girl, anyway? I never heard Slushy mention any daughter. Not that he talks too much about his personal life.”
“I really don’t know her. Never met her. Slushy just sent me a photo of her, so we make sure to nab the right chick.” Roman handed Wolf his smart phone.
“Whoa, mama!” remarked Wolf. “I wonder if that green and red hair is any indication of how hot-blooded she is?”
Roman snatched back his phone with irritation. “Don’t know, don’t care. She’s basically my fucking stepsister, Wolf, which is why I’m going to save her. Alla famiglia and all that. Okay, we should stop here.”
“We should stop here,” Wolf echoed.
They worked in silence from then on. The fence leading to the backyard was locked, so they had to break into the neighbor’s backyard in order to step on a meat smoker and climb the fence. They only occasionally skulked, half crouched over, to the back door. No sign of life emanated from the house. Now only one cage and one bike were out front, a lucky break. Trying the doorknob, Roman wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
He’d been expecting this, so motioned for Wolf to stand back while he shot out the knob. The few short blasts from the AR startled him, but it did the job. He could easily reach in and finger the lock open through the shredded wood.
“Go!” he told Wolf, now that their cover was blown anyway.
Of course at the sound of his AR bullets, men were yelling toward the front of the house. Wolf barreled right into a cholo exiting the bathroom, wasting several valuable seconds while he trampled the guy underfoot before blasting him with his semiautomatic.
Meanwhile, Roman had shoved on past the tangling couple. Leaving Wolf to deal with the living room men, Roman ducked into a bedroom, his back to the wall in the covert manner Wolf would have probably utilized. Whoa. Strange. A white woman was seemingly naked in the filthy kid’s sized bed with the disgusting coverlet pulled up to her chin. But it wasn’t Gudrun.
“Is Gudrun here?” he hissed.
The girl nodded, petrified, pointing toward the front of the house with her little pinkie.
Roman pivoted off to make a sprint for the hall, but a momentary thought struck him. As more bullets flashed and sprayed in the front room, he asked the girl, “Are you here by choice? I mean, does Gudrun want me to come save her?”
The answer was immediate. “We’re not here by choice.”
Roman held up a calming hand and made the dash. He never got the chance to duck into a second bedroom, though, because suddenly Wolf was being marched into the hallway, the barrel of a forty-five semiauto handgun to his temple. A wild-haired, wild-eyed thug had somehow gotten the jump on the enthusiastic wingman, and Wolf held his AR out to one side by the barrel, stock down.
The gunman was no doubt the epic asshat who had taken Gudrun. The craggy seasoned veteran of the war on drugs had an unhinged cast to his eyes. It was easy to tell he hadn’t slept in days. Sleepless men were dangerous men. “Bare Bones, eh?” His voice was as craggy as his face, the victim of thousands of gorilla juices, shake-n-bakes, and Belushis. “I just can’t get rid of you boys. Well, I can lose me a couple of you right now. Say hi to Ford Illuminati for me.”
But, like Indiana Jones meeting the black-robed guy with the flashy scimitar in the casbah, Roman shot first.
The guy jerked back with flailing arms as an impressive spray of blood spurted from his neck. Even before he hit the ground, Roman stomped on his arm, yanking the fifty cal from his steely grip, shoving the iron in the back of his jeans. The guy was motionless, DOA, the first casualty of Roman’s new career as an outlaw.
“In here,” he told Wolf, indicating the bedroom. “You get all the other guys?”
“I think so.”
The girl was passed out. In the darkened room with the lone window covered with a thick army blanket, Roman could still make out her voluptuous figure draped with a blanket, like a sculptor’s model. In three-fourths profile on her front, her arms flung over her head, one generous tit squished out the side. Roman was ashamed that he was actually stimulated by her shapely figure. Yes, it was her. The Kelly green stripe in her hair gave her away.
“Wow,” marveled Wolf. “That photo didn’t do her justice. She’d make a fine old lady.”
“She’s not even going to make a sweetbutt if we don’t fucking get her out of here,” said Roman. He referred to the general truth that men didn’t take for old ladies gashes who had been around the block. No one took an old lady who had already been fender fluff for all of his brothers. Even if she’d been abused beyond her control, the stigma stayed. “There’s another chick in the next room. See if she wants to come with us too.”
Bending deeply at the knees, Roman rolled the shapely girl into the crook of his arms. He took the blanket to give her some dignity, but most of it dragged on the floor, revealing one entire breast to his view. Before Wolf vanished, he swept down to grab some item of clothing off a chair, a spandex minidress of some kind, which he tossed on the girl’s body.
“Thanks,” Roman breathed.
Gudrun lolled utterly senseless. First one arm would flop out and dangle. If Roman managed to fr
ee one of his hands to stuff her arm back, another leg would dangle freely. Roman finally gave up and ventured through the living room, which presented as gruesome a sight as the gunfire had led him to believe. He was glad Gudrun was unconscious—he’d checked her mouth to make sure she even breathed—so she wouldn’t have to see the three sprawled beaners, one with half his head pasted to the wall behind him.
It was a gory, emotional juxtaposition of scenes—teeth, slimy organs, and bits of bone spattering the wall while he held the dead weight of a voluptuous, angelic woman in his arms. Kicking the door in toward him, Roman strode down the street, dozens of open-mouthed people gaping at him. Gunfire probably wasn’t as rare in this hood as the sight of a man as tall as a saguaro carrying a naked woman. Runners, spitters, and other low-level people in the dope game gawped at Roman as though at a narcocorrido concert as he bounced the girl down the sidewalk, keeping a straight face. He sure as shit hoped Wolf was behind him with the other girl. A couple of people filmed them with their smart phones, but that was life in the fast lane.
Even with her mouth slack and nasty smears on her face and chest, even with bruises already beginning to form on her forehead and cheekbone, Gudrun was a stunningly pretty girl. Roman could tell her cherry red hair was natural, obviously from Slushy’s Irish side of the family. He knew she was a nurse or something, and that was about it. How had a nurse gotten into this godforsaken trap house? Roman tried to recall what Slushy had told him. Not much.
Gudrun’s always been a troubled soul. Husband died in a car crash. Some fucktard picked her up at a rave.
As Roman loaded the bag of slippery limbs into the back seat of the Mustang, he put two and two together. One leg shorter than the other. A quest for painkillers must have led her to the trap house, lured by the creepy guy who was familiar with The Bare Bones, who knew Ford Illuminati, Prez of the mother chapter in Pure and Easy.
Sure enough, Wolf Glaser and the other girl were marching down the street, his woman’s arm draped over his neck, half dragging her. Roman was already in the driver’s seat gunning the engine by the time that girl clambered in the back, trying to put her friend Gudrun’s torso into her lap so she could shut the door. Shame washed over Roman that he’d only hit one guy while the dorky Wolfgang Glaser had buried three. Roman consoled himself with the fact that his hit was the most important one.
