I popped another can of Guinness. The widget released, letting out a hiss.
“Here.” I shoved it at Cass.
She grabbed it, still crying into a piece of toilet paper clutched in her opposite hand. “What am I going to do?”
“Drink it?”
“I mean about Kevin!” She said it like I was stupid and I had no idea what she was talking about.
I was not stupid.
Do you know what was stupid? The fact that she dated that tool in the first place. After he cheated on her. Hell, after he’d used a pair of handcuff to lock her to her bed and then forgot about it. He’d left her there for her mom to find. Yeah, that had not gone over well.
Cass blew her nose. It was noisy and sounded like it had a lot of snot. Gross. Maybe I needed the drink.
I grabbed the Guinness back from her and took a long swig. This night was going to be long. I needed all the fortification I could get.
Jerry adjusted his old dirt-colored cowboy hat on the top of his head, and then wrote down some words and notes on the sheet of paper sitting on the desk. He picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords.
“Nah, not yet,” he mumbled.
He erased a few of the words and then wrote something else on the paper. “Hmmm...yeah, better.” He strummed the chords again and shook his head. “Lessee...maybe a half-step up?” He played the chords in a slightly different key and smiled. “All righty then! Let’s see how this works!”
He stood up, strummed and picked his guitar, and in a nasal twang, sang out:
“They put me in handcuffs and took me to jail. I dint have enough cash to make me mah bail. I don’t have no comforts like good food nor TP and I am so lonesome. No calls from mah Sweet Pea. It’s all just a dirty and rotten bad bi’ness. and all ‘cause I drank me six pints of that Guinness and wrecked up the pool hall with mah good ol’ cue. Who’d a thought that some beer would bring me down? Who knew?”
Jerry took a bow. “Okay - Nashville, here I come!”
The cold water that dripped on Fenton’s forehead was not Chinese, but it was torture. Crying out with something that was neither quite growl , not quite scream, Fenton thrashed against his bindings. Useless! His lean muscles ached from days of trying to force himself free from this basement captivity. Not just useless – painful.
They’d sat him on the unfinished basement floor. The damp, uneven surface was already ensuring that his backside felt like mildew, even in the tattered jeans they had allowed him to keep. His legs were stretched out front of him, crossed at the ankles, chained to a support pillar. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, around the leg of a built-in workbench. A rope around his head kept his mouth partly open, and prevented him from bobbing out of the way of the drips.
The drips!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Fenton had been on his eleventh day on the run when they had found him. His hair was oily. His face was covered in thick scruff. Any water that seeped down from his forward never made it as far as his mouth. His mouth. So dry. So achingly dry.
He cast green eyes over to his right. The cooler. The cooler! Filled ice. Refilled every day. Restocked twice a day. Juice. Gatorade. Water. Coke. Last night it had been Guinness. They wanted to keep him thinking about the refreshment that was just out of reach.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water that teased and tickled his forehead only served to remind him of how thirsty he was. And how close that icy cooler was. Most recently they had put bottles of Apple Juice in it. Apple Juice. So good on a dry, thirsty mouth. So wet and cool and refreshing.
Fenton cried out and thrashed again.
How long?
To what end?
They had told him nothing. They never asked him any questions. They never made any threats, any statements of purpose. He could only assume they worked for the folks he had been running from, but that was a guess. Maybe these people were hoping to use him as leverage in some bargain with the group he already knew was after him. They didn’t seem to care if he knew.
He wasn’t sure he cared either. He just wanted them to let him go. It didn’t matter why they were holding, only that they were.
Three days now.
Drip. Drip. Drip And he had to pee. So bad. The sound of the trickling water didn’t help. The fact that he could see an old tank-less toilet in the corner with a stack of toilet paper at hand didn’t help either. He didn’t want to pee himself, but he might have no choice. He did not miss the irony of being incredibly thirsty while simultaneously having to pee like he’d been drinking iced tea all day. His rage made him thrash again.
Drip. Drip. Tick.
What was that?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Oh no. The sound of the water was suddenly being echoed by the unmistakable ticking of a timed detonator. Whoever they were. Whatever they wanted with Fenton, they were about to blow him up.
He thrashed about again, struggling pointlessly against his ties. There was no way out. No way to move. He would die here. Bound in a basement. A cooler nearby. A toilet in the corner. And him, needing to pee and take a drink.
I popped another can of Guinness. The widget released, letting out a hiss.
ReplyDelete“Here.” I shoved it at Cass.
She grabbed it, still crying into a piece of toilet paper clutched in her opposite hand. “What am I going to do?”
“Drink it?”
“I mean about Kevin!” She said it like I was stupid and I had no idea what she was talking about.
I was not stupid.
Do you know what was stupid? The fact that she dated that tool in the first place. After he cheated on her. Hell, after he’d used a pair of handcuff to lock her to her bed and then forgot about it. He’d left her there for her mom to find. Yeah, that had not gone over well.
Cass blew her nose. It was noisy and sounded like it had a lot of snot. Gross. Maybe I needed the drink.
I grabbed the Guinness back from her and took a long swig. This night was going to be long. I needed all the fortification I could get.
lol! What a hoot, Heather! (Was this written about someone you know???)
ReplyDelete=D
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteJerry adjusted his old dirt-colored cowboy hat on the top of his head, and then wrote down some words and notes on the sheet of paper sitting on the desk. He picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords.
ReplyDelete“Nah, not yet,” he mumbled.
He erased a few of the words and then wrote something else on the paper. “Hmmm...yeah, better.” He strummed the chords again and shook his head. “Lessee...maybe a half-step up?” He played the chords in a slightly different key and smiled. “All righty then! Let’s see how this works!”
He stood up, strummed and picked his guitar, and in a nasal twang, sang out:
“They put me in handcuffs and took me to jail.
I dint have enough cash to make me mah bail.
I don’t have no comforts like good food
nor TP
and I am so lonesome. No calls from
mah Sweet Pea.
It’s all just a dirty and rotten bad bi’ness.
and all ‘cause I drank me six pints of that Guinness
and wrecked up the pool hall with mah good ol’ cue.
Who’d a thought that some beer would bring me down? Who knew?”
Jerry took a bow. “Okay - Nashville, here I come!”
OH MY GOD!! Lightverse you crack me up!!!! And darlin' I think you're just a spit o' tobacco juice away from being a country-western sanger.
ReplyDeleteHeather - loved it!
"Really? This is your idea of fixing the problem?"
ReplyDelete"Look, I handcuffed the roof door and propped a chair under the knob. No one's getting out here."
"I'm still ticked at you"
(clink)
"Even after two of these babies?"
(tic-fssssshh)
"Great. Warm beer. This will solve all of our problems. Especially the squad of cop cars around the building."
"Hey, I didn't think they'd be so touchy about TP-ing the police station. It was your idea anyway, bro."
Lightverse - a song! wow! haha. I'm going to have to up my game.
ReplyDeleteB. Nagel - Loved the TPing the police station. hahahaha.
B.Nagel - that was soooo funny! (That story wasn't written from personal experience, was it??)
ReplyDeleteThese three pieces are especially amusing. Great job flashers!
ReplyDeleteAnd yeah, you know I love being able to call you that.
Bwahaha!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
ReplyDeleteThe cold water that dripped on Fenton’s forehead was not Chinese, but it was torture. Crying out with something that was neither quite growl , not quite scream, Fenton thrashed against his bindings. Useless! His lean muscles ached from days of trying to force himself free from this basement captivity. Not just useless – painful.
They’d sat him on the unfinished basement floor. The damp, uneven surface was already ensuring that his backside felt like mildew, even in the tattered jeans they had allowed him to keep. His legs were stretched out front of him, crossed at the ankles, chained to a support pillar. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, around the leg of a built-in workbench. A rope around his head kept his mouth partly open, and prevented him from bobbing out of the way of the drips.
The drips!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Fenton had been on his eleventh day on the run when they had found him. His hair was oily. His face was covered in thick scruff. Any water that seeped down from his forward never made it as far as his mouth. His mouth. So dry. So achingly dry.
He cast green eyes over to his right. The cooler. The cooler! Filled ice. Refilled every day. Restocked twice a day. Juice. Gatorade. Water. Coke. Last night it had been Guinness. They wanted to keep him thinking about the refreshment that was just out of reach.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water that teased and tickled his forehead only served to remind him of how thirsty he was. And how close that icy cooler was. Most recently they had put bottles of Apple Juice in it. Apple Juice. So good on a dry, thirsty mouth. So wet and cool and refreshing.
Fenton cried out and thrashed again.
How long?
To what end?
They had told him nothing. They never asked him any questions. They never made any threats, any statements of purpose. He could only assume they worked for the folks he had been running from, but that was a guess. Maybe these people were hoping to use him as leverage in some bargain with the group he already knew was after him. They didn’t seem to care if he knew.
He wasn’t sure he cared either. He just wanted them to let him go. It didn’t matter why they were holding, only that they were.
Three days now.
Drip. Drip. Drip
And he had to pee. So bad. The sound of the trickling water didn’t help. The fact that he could see an old tank-less toilet in the corner with a stack of toilet paper at hand didn’t help either. He didn’t want to pee himself, but he might have no choice. He did not miss the irony of being incredibly thirsty while simultaneously having to pee like he’d been drinking iced tea all day. His rage made him thrash again.
Drip. Drip. Tick.
What was that?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Oh no. The sound of the water was suddenly being echoed by the unmistakable ticking of a timed detonator. Whoever they were. Whatever they wanted with Fenton, they were about to blow him up.
He thrashed about again, struggling pointlessly against his ties. There was no way out. No way to move. He would die here. Bound in a basement. A cooler nearby. A toilet in the corner. And him, needing to pee and take a drink.
Fenton laughed darkly.
B. Nagel, what a hoot! Yea, I agree with Lightverse...you've done that right?
ReplyDeleteNevets- niiiice!!
CN Nevets - Woo, that is one crazy story!
ReplyDelete