by Greg Barth
It was like walking into a snuff film production.
The man leaning against the fryer looked my way and raised his pistol.
I knew there was no time to reach my own gun and get it free before he could fire. A sudden burst of adrenaline urged me to duck behind the wall. Instead, I ran straight at him. He was only a few feet away, and I was fast.
I collided with him hard, grabbed his forearm with both hands, pushed the pistol back away from me. I raised my knee and caught him hard in the groin.
He doubled over, and I thrust his arm down over the edge of the fryer. His hand hit the hot grease and he jerked back. The sudden lurch forward then backward caused him to lose his footing, and down he went.
I still had hold of his arm against the fryer, so he couldn’t fall all the way to the floor. I pressed his arm tight and it slipped into the hot grease almost up to his elbow.
The grease sizzled around his arm.
The man screamed in agony.
He tried to get his feet under him, but my grip had him pinned and he didn’t have enough room to stand.
His scream grew louder and more savage. The hot grease bubbled and sizzled. He jerked and writhed trying to get himself free.
Then the other two guys were on me. One got his hands around my waist and tugged at me. The other tried to pry my grip free from the guy’s arm. I gritted my teeth and dug in, determined to make sure the pistol didn’t come out of the fryer. They couldn’t budge me.
“Let him go,” one of them said. “Let him go!”
The burning guy’s screams faded to whimpers.
I heard Chris gasping, taking in deep breaths. I couldn’t turn to her, but I drew comfort from the fact she was still drawing breath.
And then the blows came. First it was fists. I tucked my chin down and took the punches with the back of my head. Then one of the guys was lashing at me with the electric cord while the other beat me over the head with a fry basket. Each time he drew back with the basket, he said, “Fucking bitch,” then cracked me over the head with another blow. I felt warm blood trickle from a gash on my scalp.
I wouldn’t let go.
One of the guys grabbed a fistful of my hair and jerked my head back hard. He pulled the pistol free from my waistband. The hard steel gun barrel pressed against the back of my head. The metallic clicks as the pistol was thumb cocked.
“Fucking let him go now, bitch. Or I shoot you.”
I let go of the man’s arm.
What emerged from the fry vat no longer resembled an arm. It had swollen, the split skin hanging in ribbons, and the hand—twice its normal size—no longer held the automatic pistol.
A sickening smell filled the room.
THIRTEEN
I PICKED UP the men’s names as they talked. Well, as two of them talked. The other, Timmy Blake, lay on the floor with his burnt arm wrapped in a towel, crying and whimpering. He wasn’t saying shit.
The other two were Corbin Blake—the fat porn star that had been fucking Chris on camera while she was dying—and a guy he called Vegas—the one that had been choking her. I assumed Vegas was a cook or something who worked at the restaurant. He was tall and lanky.
Chris and I stood by the table. Still naked, one arm covered her breasts, her other hand covering her like a fig leaf. Corbin had my revolver pointed at us.
“You okay?” I whispered to Chris.
“My neck.” Her voice was hoarse and raspy. “It hurts.”
I nodded. “We’ll get you taken care of,” I said.
“They knew about us,” she said. “Knew we were coming.”
“Lilly Bett,” I said.
Corbin was giving instruction to Vegas. “Get Timmy to the hospital,” he said. “Call my dad the second you get in your truck. Tell him I need him to get over here right away. Right away.”
“What you want me to tell ’em?” Vegas said.
“Don’t tell him nothing except to get over here now.”
“No, I mean at the hospital.”
“Shit, I don’t know. Just tell ’em Timmy slipped and fell in the fryer or something.”
Vegas stepped over to Timmy, took him by his one good arm and pulled him to his feet. Timmy let out an anguished cry.
Timmy looked over at me. His eyes were brimming with tears and filled with pain. He stepped lightly, cradling his arm, whimpering with each step. “You bitch,” he mewled.
“And put a sign up saying we won’t be open today,” Corbin said. “Last thing we need is this shit going on while we got customers out front.”
“Got it, boss.” Vegas led Timmy through the kitchen door to the bar and dining room area.
Once they were gone, I looked at Corbin. “Chris is going to get her clothes on, and then we’re going to leave. And I’d like my revolver back.”
“The fuck you say,” Corbin said.
“As far as I’m concerned, we’re even. You guys hurt Chris, and I hurt one of you. We’ve got nothing left to discuss.”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that,” Corbin said.
“Well, let’s see about it now then,” I said.
“When my daddy gets here.”
“Your dad has nothing to do with this.”
“He don’t like it when people mess with his kids. You done shot my little sister and burned my little brother. And you’re trying to chase down Bucky. No matter what we did to your friend, I guarantee you my daddy won’t think he’s even with you. Not by a long shot.”
“Come on, Corbin. This doesn’t have to get any worse than it is right now.”
“Well it will,” he said. “For you. A lot worse.”
“Let Chris go then,” I said. “She didn’t do anything.”
Corbin chuckled. “Oh, she’s gonna do some things. She’s gonna finish all the things we was doing when you came barging in here.”
Chris tightened her arms to the parts of her body she wanted hidden. Her neck was bruised. Her dark eyes glared at Corbin.
I got the sense she was no longer a pacifist. I hoped Corbin would have opportunity to find out.
FOURTEEN
IRA BLAKE WAS impossibly tall, had to be six-seven easy. And lanky, with greasy black hair that hung from his black knit toboggan hat in stringy locks along his cheek. Five o’clock shadow. Slender face, big nose, big ears, with piercing dark eyes under coke-bottle lensed glasses. He wore a black jacket even though it was a warm day. His t-shirt had a slogan printed across the front. “Fuck Trayvon,” it said. I had no idea who Trayvon was.
Vegas was with him. He’d been gone maybe half an hour max.
“My god, boys,” Ira said. “I was figuring on some big trucker dykes or something. My, my, my. These little girls? You telling me these little girls are the ones caused such a fuss? Did Mulan here burn my boy’s arm in the fry vat? This fucking chink-a-billy, slant-eyed gook? Was it her?”
Chris’s jaw dropped.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you, you fucking noodle nigger.” Spit flew from Ira’s mouth.
Chris’s face reddened.
Ira mimicked an Asian-English accent, “Ancient Chinese secret?” He stared at her.
Chris held his gaze.
“Stupid coin-slot probably only speaks Bukakese,” Ira said.
“She didn’t do it,” I said.
Ira turned to look at me. “Goddamn, boys. I mean god damn. I’ve seen some nasty fucking skanks in my time. I’ve had some real two-baggers like those nigger girls that comes up from Columbia. But I never in all my days been faced with a skanky little crack whore like this one.”
“I burned Timmy’s arm,” I said. “It was me, and he had it coming.”
“Holy shit.” He drew the words out long, getting every inch of mileage from each syllable. “I fuckin’ kid you not. You’re some kinda inbred little hillbilly cum dumpster, ain’t you? It comes out in the stupid way you talk. Probably blowin’ boys up in the holler your whole life made you think you’re the prom queen or something, while really you ain’t got n
othing going on up in that empty noggin of yours. You can’t help that you’re dumber than a bag of shit. And now you go around causin’ trouble for half my family. You know what this is all about?”
I didn’t respond.
“Course you don’t. ’Cause you’re a stupid, possum-eatin’ trailer trash little cocksucker whose mommy and daddy was first cousins. So no way you’re gonna be able to figure this out on your own. I’m gonna lay it out for you. So don’t say I don’t feel no sympathy for the little holler-whores when they wander bow-legged outta the hills and bump into civilized folk down here in the South. My boy Bucky, he’s got some notion about forcing a meeting with that federal prosecutor that put your scrawny ass away. Bucky’s crimes ain’t federal—see, Bucky never was much in the brains department himself neither—kinda like you but not as trashy—but he figures he has a face-to-face with this prosecutor, he can work something out where he gets the reward money and make his warrants go away. He’s got a big ol’ head start, and you can’t stop him.”
“It’s a holiday weekend,” I said. “We’ve got time.”
He chuckled. “You can read a calendar. That’s a real trick. Somebody taught you numbers. Be real damn funny if I just let you go and try to catch him. You think you got all this time. You don’t know shit. Just a dumb fuckin’ hillbilly ridin’ around with a bamboo coon.”
I considered his words. “So you’re going to hold us here until he talks to Harding,” I said.
He grinned at me. A ridiculous montage of big, thick glasses, long nose, black hat, and yellow teeth. “No.”
I waited for him to say more. So far he hadn’t held back any words. But the silence just hung there between us. I shook my head in confusion. “You’re going to call for the reward yourself?”
His grin widened. “No.”
It wasn’t making sense. “The…the bikers then?”
His cheeks wrinkled with dimples. “You’re all scared of lawyers and bikers.” He shook his head. He leaned in closer, thumped his chest. “I’m Ira fuckin’ Blake. You ain’t never seen nothing to be afraid of until you seen me.” Ira turned away, walked over to the row of fryers along the wall. He bent down in front of the first one and turned the knob that regulated the gas, turned it to the highest setting. A whoosh as the increased gas flow ignited. He went from fryer to fryer, all down the line, turned the temperature up on each until all four were sizzling hot.
He turned back to me. “Here’s what I think, Elly May. My boy, Bucky? He’s a dumbass. A total fucking moron. Some dumb hick girl like you with them dick-sucking jaws comes along and uses boys like him for toilet paper. He don’t know no better. But the rest of my kids mean quite a lot to me. You come in here and you burn my son Timmy’s arm. A good man. Timmy works hard here in the restaurant ever’ fuckin’ day. Minding his own business. You barge in here and burn his goddamn arm. And my daughter? Lilly Bett? You think I don’t know you shot her? You put a hole through my precious, one in-a-billion baby girl. Now she’s scarred for life, and you think that don’t agitate me none?”
All the moisture in my mouth disappeared, as though my mouth was stuffed with cotton.
“We can work this out,” I said.
“I ain’t holding you here for nobody,” Ira said. “See, your problem is you stand here thinking you’re a person and that I’m going to treat you like a person. That you’re of some value to me. But you ain’t. You’re a thing. A piece of meat. Something I can do whatever I want with then take apart piece by piece until you’re not even a thing. You’re nothing to me. You need to get used to that. You’re just the nastiest ball of trash I ever laid eyes on. Now, I can’t see it with the naked eye, and I can’t smell it neither, but I’d bet anything there’s nigger blood running through you. And if it ain’t nigger blood, then I bet you been fucking niggers.”
He turned and spat into one of the fry vats. A loud sizzle and pop as the spit hit the hot grease.
“But I got some good news for you too,” he said. “You’re about to become a fuckin’ movie star. Confederate Snuff Productions is gonna win an Oscar over what’s gonna happen right here today.” His ugly-tooth grin again. “Don’t worry about it, hon. I’ll give the acceptance speech on your behalf.”
Vegas slipped a smartphone from his pocket. Tapped at the screen. “Just say when, boss.”
“I will not fuckin’ say ‘when’ like some French faggot, you dipshit. I’ll say ‘action’ like a real goddamn filmmaker.”
“Sorry, boss. Timmy usually runs the camera. I’ll do my best.”
“Now,” Ira said. “Who’s first?” He looked at me. “You? Or the little chopstick there?”
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“I think you’re first,” Ira said. “I’ll take some ugly redneck ass any day over a panda fucker.”
“You’ll rape me, then you’ll let us go?” My voice trembled a bit.
Ira chuckled at my words. “Oh, keep dreaming, holler hooker.” He turned back to the fryers. Carefully, one by one, he removed the fry baskets that hung over the hot grease and set them aside. He double checked the temperature dials and seemed pleased that they were at the hottest setting.
He turned and looked down at me from his impossible height, his dark eyes distorted through his glasses’ thick lenses. The crows’ feet along his temples deepened as the glared. His thin lips peeled back, exposing his long, yellow teeth. “I’m the man you dreamed about back when your daddy was fucking you in your little log cabin. I’m the guy you woke up wet in the middle of the night dreaming would come rape you. You couldn’t never get enough, because you never had me. I’m the guy that’s going to fuck you to death. I’ll purify you and burn the nigger blood right out of you. Now get your ass over here,” he said. He patted the front edge of the fryer with his hand.
I gulped. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. “No.” I felt the pressure of tears building in my eyes.
“Vegas,” Ira said. “You might have to help me with this one.”
Vegas stepped over to me.
“Corbin. You want to take another run at Whore Chi Minh there, you go right ahead.”
I turned to Chris. Her head was down, her eyes closed.
Vegas took me by my left wrist, the weak one, still bruised from Lilly Bett’s handcuffs, and jerked me forward.
FIFTEEN
VEGAS TWISTED MY weak arm around my back. He held it tight until I surrendered my right hand. He tied my wrists together with a kitchen towel.
I wanted to tell Chris that we had to fight. Somehow, we had to get ourselves out of this. That we had to be animals. Sharks. But I had no fucking idea what we could do.
Vegas led me around the table over to Ira.
The tall man was much uglier up close. The cheap, imitation tortoise shell frames, the knit hat, greasy hair. Long lines framed his mouth. Up close, his five o’clock shadow looked more like a couple of days without shaving.
“Now, we gotta figure this shit out,” he said. “Inbred hillbilly skanks are just too short these days.”
“Ira,” I said, my mouth so dry. “Look, I’m real sorry I burnt Timmy’s arm. Okay? Was he hurt bad? You think he’s going to be okay? I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “Just like you’re sorry for shooting my little girl.”
I closed my eyes. “I am. I really, really am. I like Lilly Bett. A lot. You don’t have to hurt me.”
“Well, how is that right? Huh?”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “I’ll do anything. I mean it. Anything. Just for you, okay? I can do things you’ll like. I’m good. You can…burn me. A little. You know? Just…please…” I broke down in sobs.
Ira nodded to Vegas. “This is gonna be good.”
“My arm,” I said. My hands were tied behind my back, but I held my elbow out to him. “Just…just…burn my arm…”
He grabbed me by the elbow, jerked me around, and shoved my belly against the fryer.
He
stepped around behind me. “Yeah, you know what, Vegas? This ain’t gonna work. I’m gonna need your help to do something…”
“What are you thinking, boss?”
“Here. Get her like. Fuck, man, I don’t know. Just, you know, pick her up and lean her, but don’t let her go in face first just yet.”
“Yeah, I see.”
Hands grabbed me from behind. They picked me up from the floor.
“No!” I kicked, squirmed, jerked my arms. I writhed and threw my head back. “No! No! Nooooooooo!” I pulled hard against the towel that tied my hands behind by back. I fought against my restraints until my hands were numb. I couldn’t get them to budge.
My feet left the floor. My tummy was pressed against the sharp, hot edge of the fryer. Someone took a fistful of my hair and shoved me forward until my face was inches from the hot grease. The metal of the fryer was scalding hot against my tummy.
“It’s burning…burning me,” I said. “Please! It hurts!”
“Well it’s fucking hot, bitch,” Ira said. “What’d you expect? Stupid ignorant damned skank.”
“No, no, no!” I kicked backward blindly at the men holding me.
“Hold on, hold on,” Ira said. “You don’t hold them feet still, you’re gonna get the baptism you shoulda got when you was attending snake-handling Sunday school with mamaw. I’ll duck your face in then I’ll fuck a dead girl. Don’t you think I won’t.”
Whoever held me by the fistful of hair—Vegas, I’d guess—pushed me closer until my face was completely in the pan, my nose less than an inch from the hot grease. My eyes dried in their sockets from the radiating heat. My cheeks felt flushed and clammy. A lone, bronze crinkled french-fry floated in the stinking black hell in front of me.
I stopped kicking.
“Oh, god, please,” I said. “Not this, not this.”
“There we go,” Ira said. “Yeah, see? This is real nice. Real nice.” A hand on my hip.
