Skin Games

by Adam Pepper

  I turned, and with my two clasped hands I twisted the door knob. It was locked. I got frustrated and starting banging at it, but that didn’t accomplish anything. I walked to the other end of the room. There were a few piles of boxes. With my shoulder, I leaned into the pile trying to tip it over, but the boxes were firm and didn’t give way.

  I ran out of ideas, and energy, and I plopped back down in the middle of the floor. It suddenly occurred to me just how thirsty I was, and hungry, and how much I really needed to piss. Mostly, I was thirsty.

  There was shuffling outside, and then I heard voices. The door opened. Tommy and Scrubby walked in; a third man trailed behind. I thought it was Vinny until I saw Vinny walk in and turn on the light after the other three were already in the room. The other man was Griff.

  Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Scrubby a golf club. Scrubby stepped towards me. I was sitting up in the middle of the room, my arms tight behind my back.

  “Fore,” he yelled, then swung his club, stopping it just before it made contact with my face. “Nah. I don’t deserve honors.”

  Tommy stepped up and began his taunting cackles. “Swing batter batter, swing batter, swing.” He started to swing but also stopped just before hitting my face.

  Scrubby turned to Griff and said, “It’s your turn. You have the honors.”

  “I don’t know, guys,” Griff said, back-stepping slightly but banging into Vinny who stood behind him.

  “You’re with us, aren’t you, Griff?” Scrubby asked. “You’re my guy, now. You know that.”

  “I know. It’s just...”

  “Just nothing. If you wanna be part of the crew, you show your loyalty. He’s no longer one of us. That was his choice. Now you have to choose.”

  I looked up at Griff, and he faced in my direction, but wasn’t really looking at me. He couldn’t bear to.

  Tommy held out the bat, and Scrubby held out the golf club.

  “Choose,” Scrubby said. “You have to choose. Club or bat. Him or us.”

  Griff took a step towards me.

  “Let’s go. Choose.” Scrubby waved the golf club.

  Griff hesitated; but then he took the shaft of the club.

  “That’s it,” Scrubby said. “Let him have it.”

  He gripped the club at the handle and waved it in the air a few inches above the ground like a golfer in a fairway. Griff had never even seen the inside of a country club; his form couldn’t have been any good, especially the way his arms were quivering.

  “Do it. Now,” Scrubby said.

  “Yeah. Nail him,” said Tommy.

  Griff took a deep breath, wound up, then bashed me in my kneecap with the club. A burning fire shot through my leg and radiated all through my body. I’m sure I cried out but don’t really remember it.

  “Again. Do it again,” Scrubby yelled.

  As Tommy said, “Higher. Hit him higher.”

  Griff took the club back again; then he drilled me in the midsection. The piss I’d been holding in could no longer be kept back; the pain was just too much. I tilted to the side, the act of sitting up now taking more effort than my body had to give.

  Tommy stepped up and whacked me in the hip with the bat. Scrubby took the golf club from Griff and belted me several times in the same kneecap that was already sore. He really laid into it, and I could feel it crumbling like a pound cake.

  “That’s enough,” Vinny said.

  “Aw, come on.” Scrubby flung the golf club across the room, and it bounced off a cardboard box.

  “I said enough. Let’s go.”

  And once again, they left me alone.

  * *

  I guess I blacked out. The pain had become almost intoxicating. The world becoming blurry, unreal, hard to distinguish. My mouth was just so dry.

  So dry.

  It might sound hard to believe, but the pain was secondary. I couldn’t focus on the pain itself. It was more of an all-encompassing irritant, like a tiny man standing on my ribs while crows pecked at my nose.

  But the thirst was another story all together. My mouth crackled. I couldn’t even gulp. There was no saliva to send down. My lips felt as if they might fall right off my face.

  There was noise outside, and I tried to sit up. When I put weight on my right leg, the pain was no longer secondary. My kneecap cried out. I knew it must have been completely shattered from the repeated nine-iron shots it took.

  The door came open. The light didn’t turn on as someone ran in. It was Griff.

  “Here. Take this.”

  I felt something cold on my face. Griff was holding an icepack to me. I wanted to speak but couldn’t manage many words. All that came out was, “Water.”

  “Okay. I got ya.” I heard fumbling; then I saw Griff pull out a metal canteen covered with a green sack. He cradled me from behind my neck and poured water into my mouth.

  I could barely swallow at first, and the water backed up in my throat. I forced what I could down, and some water spilled out all over my shirt. Griff cupped his hand and poured water in it, then splashed my face. He gave me another drink.

  Finally, I felt enough strength to talk. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sean.”

  “I know. It’s okay. You need to leave.”

  “Remember this canteen?”

  I did.

  “Remember when we were kids and my father used to take us up to Bear Mountain camping. We always brought this canteen along.”

  “I remember. Your father was always good to me.”

  “He always wanted to help you.”

  “He did. He helped me a lot.”

  “Sean. I have to get you out of here.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “They are going to kill you.”

  “I’m already dead.”

  “Stop talking crazy.”

  He took out a blade and cut the duct tape. My hands tingled and the relief was instant as the circulation in my wrists improved immediately. Griff put his hands underneath my armpits and hoisted me upwards.

  The first weight I put on my legs was too much. I cried out in pain. “I can’t. I can’t move.”

  Griff eased me back down. “It’s okay. I’ll carry you.”

  Griff was never the strongest guy. “You can’t carry me.”

  “I’ll manage. Come on. Let’s hurry.”

  The light flipped on, and Griff froze. His face turned an awful shade of green. Mario walked in first, chewing on a cigar. The whole crew followed: Vinny, Gucci Mike, Tommy and Scrubby.

  The room was silent. All eyes were on us. Just me and Griff, two lifelong friends embracing on the floor of a twenty-by-twenty storage room that reeked of mothballs, stale blood and fresh piss.

  Mario chomped on his cigar. Tommy bit his upper lip. Scrubby smiled and sneered.

  Griff began to whimper. After growing up the way he did, you’d think he’d know better. Predators are naturally attracted to weakness. A hungry hyena can’t help but pounce on a weakened impala. It’s instinct.

  This was no different.

  “Get that piece of shit over here,” Mario said.

  Tommy and Scrubby jumped at the command and grabbed Griff and yanked him up and off of me.

  “Get a table,” Mario said, and Vinny walked over to the corner where the old furniture was stacked up. “Grab a chair, too.”

  Vinny came back with a folding table and assembled it in the middle of the room. Gucci Mike grabbed the wooden chair and dragged it across the floor, coming to rest in front of the table.

  “Sit him down,” Mario said.

  Scrubby and Tommy carried Griff to the table and slammed him down into the chair. Tommy twisted one of Griff’s arms while Scrubby pulled at the other.

  “Hold him there. Right there like that.”

  Lying sideways on the ground, I looked up to see Griff’s face, green and soggy. He wasn’t struggling, not that it would have been any use the way Tommy and Scrubby had a hol
d of him.

  Mario tossed the grimy cigar and reached into his pocket for a fresh one. He took the shiny cigar clipper out and snipped off the end of the cigar. Mario put the cigar in his mouth. Gucci Mike quickly pulled out his lighter and lit it. “Give me that,” Mario said. Gucci Mike snapped the lighter shut and handed it to Mario, who then flared up the lighter and slowly puffed his cigar lit. After sucking in, then blowing out several smoke rings, Mario said, “Hold his arm out.”

  Tommy pushed Griff’s body forward while Scrubby straightened his arm out across the table.

  Mario shook his head and said, “You should know better.”

  “We told you, you have to choose your loyalty,” Scrubby added.

  Mario grabbed Griff’s hand and twisted his knuckles back. Griff grimaced and squirmed in the chair. Mario took Griff’s pinkie and stuck it in the cigar clipper.

  “Oh, please,” Griff said. “I’m sorry, Mario.”

  Mario nodded. “Oh, I know you are. I know.” Mario made a fist, then slammed it down on the cigar clipper.

  I’m glad Griff’s finger wasn’t in my direct line of vision. Shoulders and arms obstructed my view. But the noise that came out of Griff was enough for me to know the fate of his pinkie wasn’t a good one.

  “What’s the matter,” Mario spoke in a baby tone. “Did I hurt your wuddle pinkie poo?”

  Scrubby could hardly contain his laughter. Tommy found it pretty funny, too.

  Mario took the lit cigar and said, “Give me his hand.” Mario put the flame of the cigar right against Griff’s open wound. Griff screamed out as Mario said, “There. That ought to stop the bleeding.” Griff continued to scream for a bit, but it soon lowered to more of a whimper and Mario said, “Get him out of here.”

  Tommy and Scrubby led Griff out the door. Vinny followed. Mario folded his arms and looked at Gucci Mike. Gucci Mike shrugged but didn’t speak.

  “You, too, Mike. Leave us alone.”

  “Okay.” Gucci Mike walked out and closed the door.

  Mario and I were alone. He looked at his cigar, his face full of contempt. I wasn’t sure if the contempt was for me or if he was grossed out by the smoldering flesh on his cigar. He squeezed the burning nub off the front of his cigar and put the stub back into his mouth. Mario chomped at it while staring at me.

  “This can all end, Shamrock.” He took a step towards me. Mario grabbed the wooden chair and turned it away from the table and faced it towards me. He plopped down into it while sighing. “There’s no need to continue this. All you have to do is accept the inevitable.”

  “If it’s inevitable, why do you care what I say?”

  The logic of my statement seemed to anger him, but he didn’t go off. Instead he puckered his lips and spit out a chunk of bitten-off cigar.

  “Because you are going to learn respect. You will respect me, or you will never leave this room. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ve already made my choice.”

  Mario stood up. “It’s impressive. I’m not gonna lie, kid. You are a tough sonofabitch. There is no quit in you. But you can’t win this game.” He walked towards the door and his tone turned ugly again as he shouted, “I win this game. Me. I always win. You understand me?”

  I understood. I understood just fine. But I didn’t respond.

  “Answer me, dammit.”

  I still wasn’t answering.

  Mario opened the door, shut off the light, then stepped through the door.

  * *

  Time continued to pass, and as it did, I continued to lose control of my faculties. Eventually it wasn’t just my piss that I couldn’t hold in. Everything was soiled, bloody, bruised and broken. Every part of me. Every muscle hurt. Each bone ached. I was hungry. All I had to do was tell Mario what he wanted to hear, and this would end, for better or worse.

  But I had no intention of doing that. None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Mario Torretta had broken many men in his day. But he’d never break me. He could break my bones and keep me captive until I shit in my pants. He could even kill me.

  But he’d never, ever break my resolve.

  I heard voices, and the door opened again. The light came on and I saw Mario, Tommy, Scrubby and Gucci Mike.

  “Godamn it stinks in here,” Scrubby said.

  “You can say that again,” Tommy agreed.

  Mario wasn’t interested in the odor. “This ends today,” he said, and the way he said it, his diction so clear, his voice so calm and stern, never cracking, never breaking—the way he said it, I knew he meant it.

  This was the day I was going to die. It was the only possible ending. The sooner the better.

  “Just fucking kill me, then,” I shouted. To shout with force took all the strength I had left, but I surprised myself as I found it. “Kill me. I’m never gonna give in to you, so fucking kill me and get it over with.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Shamrock? Put you out of your fucking misery. End your miserable, shitty life. That’s what you want?”

  “Let’s go. Let’s do it,” Scrubby said.

  Mario held up his hand, motioning for Scrubby to be quiet, which he did.

  “No,” Mario said. “Not a chance. No way he gets off easy after all this.” He walked past me and called, “Come over here. Where’s that bathtub?”

  Scrubby and Tommy followed him into the corner, and I heard shuffling. I couldn’t muster up the energy to turn fully around to see them. Gucci Mike stood over me. As if I was going to get up and run. Even though I was no longer taped at the hands and legs, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I could hear an irritating sound, and then I saw Tommy and Scrubby dragging an old porcelain bathtub across the floor.

  “Gimme that,” Mario said, and Tommy handed him a jug. It looked like an old bottle of bleach, but the label had long since faded. “You know what’s in here?” Mario shook the bottle, and I heard the fluid inside, sloshing around. “It’s acid. You hear me, Shamrock? Fucking acid. Do you have any idea how much this shit burns? Do you?”

  I tried not to look. Mario took off the screw-top and walked over to the tub. I wasn’t looking, but I heard the acid dripping into the tub.

  Mario walked back to me and bent over, which wasn’t easy for him. He tilted his head. We were now eye to eye.

  “It’s not too late, Shamrock. Just agree to leave Nicole alone. It’s that simple. You agree to leave Nicole alone, and I let you walk out of here.”

  I felt like telling him there was no way I was walking out. My kneecap was completely fucked. But I kept that to myself.

  Nothing angered Mario more than silence. Mario liked screaming. Mario liked begging. He’d even take being told to fuck off. But silence infuriated him.

  He put the jug down. The cigar chomping started again. He bent down and grabbed the back of my shirt.

  “Grab his legs,” Mario said, and Scrubby grabbed a leg while Tommy grabbed the other. My kneecap began to cry out, but I held the pain in. Mario pulled me by the collar and held me over the bathtub. “Is this what you want? You wanna go in?”

  There was a coating of acid on the floor of the tub, maybe an inch. Maybe less. Enough to hurt like hell.

  “Is this what you want, Shamrock?”

  “Drop him in,” Scrubby said. “Come on. Let’s drop his ass in.”

  Mario pushed me away from the tub and then dropped me. Tommy and Scrubby followed suit, and I hit the cold floor.

  “Aw, come on,” Scrubby said, clearly disappointed.

  I was relieved, but only a little. I knew the reprieve was temporary.

  “Enough of this shit,” Mario said. He waddled across the floor, stomping his feet, seemingly out of breath. He tossed the butt of the cigar at the wall and walked out of the room.

  “This fuckin’ guy. I can’t believe he’s still alive,” Scrubby said.

  Tommy shook his head while mussing his pompadour.

  I heard shuffling from outside. Then I heard a voice. Despite its frantic tone and the distortion brou
ght on by the ringing in my ears, the voice pleased me.

  She walked around the corner and entered the room. As crazy as it may seem, after all I’d been through, for just a fleeting second when our eyes locked, I forgot all about my pain. Her brown eyes, big as ever, looked at me. My stomach tingled, just like the first day she’d paid attention to me. My palms started to sweat. I almost had the strength to get up and walk over to her. To take her in my arms, embrace her, plant a fat juicy kiss on her soft pink lips.

  Almost.

  Reality is never as romantic as we’d like. She didn’t run to me in slow motion, soft music playing in the background as she hugged me. Instead, she screamed. A horrible, piercing scream. It seemed to go on for an eternity. Her eyes were wide. Her tongue seemed to vibrate. Her lips quivered and her nostrils flared.

  She said some words, several. But all I could understand was, “Daddy!”

  Nicole tried to get to me, but Mario reached around her waist and pulled her towards him, the front of his arm wrapped around her like a belt. For a second, she was airborne, kicking her legs in front of her, but Mario’s big arm easily stretched across her skinny waist, and he set her down while he took a firm hold of her with both arms tugging her shoulders.

  “Look at him now,” Mario said. “Look at him.”

  Nicole’s screams turned to tears. Her face went red. I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her I was okay. That she didn’t need to cry for me. But I couldn’t spit the words out of my mouth. I could only gasp and feebly reach towards her.

  “Daddy, what have you done?”

  “Look at him.” Mario continued to repeat himself. His face got closer to hers. He was spitting flecks of cigar tobacco on her. “Look at him. Look at him.”

  Nicole did the opposite. She slammed her eyes shut, which only incited Mario. He dragged her towards me—the heels of her boots scraping against the floor—and then forced her to bend down.

  “Open your eyes, Nicole. Look at your loverboy now.”

  “Daddy, stop.”

  “This is what you get when you defy me. This is what he gets.”

  “Daddy, stop it. Please.”

  “This will all stop as soon as you two agree that it’s over.”