(contains strong language*)
Ow.
I baled hay one summer at some out the way farm, completely against my will, mind you.
My old man said it would build character. It didn't pay for shit and fuck knows if it built character. All I can remember is my hands, in pain. I only bring that up, because of the rope. The ropes tying me to this chair. Its that same kind of rope, fucking baling twine. Tears the flesh off your hands.
..or in my current case, wrists.
I kick myself for just wearing a t-shirt and not my jacket. Perhaps, something with long sleeves even.
Beside me, Sammy continued a likely painful attempt to pry his hands free of his own cords.
I quit watching, and looked around the dimly lit room. His grunts echo around us.
"Fuckin' dump smells like an ass packed with dead fish." He winced between his teeth.
"Relax, just close yer flappin' head. Let me do the talking."
He won't listen. Who does? If I had my way I'd go back and tell myself three days ago, some crucial information - Next time you knock over a truck, owned by the Shanghai Diamond Exchange, make sure that particular establishment isn't in the pocket of the San Fransisco branch of the Chinese Triad. Because they use rough fucking baling twine.
Who knows if I'd have listened.
I crane my neck, but can't see behind myself, the hall we've been left in the middle of is quite large. A few dim lamps hanging overhead. Concrete floors, doors on both ends and defiantly smells of fish and smoke.
Boats in the distance? Small boats? Fishing boats I'm assuming.
If we weren't forced to pay Frisco's mob so much of our grab, I'd have thought about getting a boat this year.
"Who you think talked?" Sammy finally stops squirming.
"Whoever talked is most likely dead. We'll worry about that later, I need to think of what we're gonna tell these guys, when they come back."
See Sammy had that kinda face that did not endear him to people quickly. His jet black hair, combed a bit too slick, that and his head kind of resembled a snakes hood, and his eyes - a bit beady. I didn't need him pissing off our captors before I got a chance to talk.
"This aint china, don't these cunts know who we work for? John Woodrell isn't gonna take this from these yellow pricks. Just watch." Sammys voice hangs in the long concrete hall.
I close my eyes, willing some common sense into his skull, "We paid Woodrell his cut already, he might just claim he doesn't know us, that we aren't worth the effort to get back and by tomorrow you and I will be in six to eight garbage bags at the bottom of the bay. He's a fan of our work,... but only up to a point"
He gives me a look between sour and disbelief, "No way, we're his top smash and gr - "
Footsteps.
The side door opens with a horror film creak. Two well dressed Asian fellows and a third in one of those obnoxiously shiny silver club shirts walk towards us, with a gait that clearly states this chat could most likely go either way. Fast.
I get my first and only breathe of clean air, before the door creaks shut behind them. The taller suit, stops in front of us, the others behind him. Their annoyed footsteps finally stop echoing, I smile politely.
"Where are the Diamonds." The taller snaps.
"They are...around, we can find them."
I nod my head, trying to keep the conversation short, hoping to leave with all my fingers. Shorter suit seems to ignore my words, and looks about like he's never been there before.
The temperature of my blood begins to drop as I hear Sammy open his mouth, "How much are they worth? Like, in case we can't get them.... how much in cash?"
"The diamonds, and only the diamonds." Taller says.
I shake my head 'no' as Sammy continues, his voice growing defiant.
"Everything moves fast in this city, Christ man. That ice could be all over the glorious U. S. of A by now. We are just one part of a bigger operation, that you don't wanna fuck with, my friend."
Taller nods to Club shirt, who pulls out what looks like a 5.8mm Chinese QSZ-92 pistol. I think. I'm initially surprised he doesn't have a gun that's chromed out like his silly ass shirt. I go ahead and flinch anyway. What the hell.
Club shirt steps closer to Sammy and puts the barrel to side of his head, right in his greasy hair.
"Maybe you no hear so good." Taller smiles at Sammy.
"Maybe you can suck my fat Irish cock, you fu - "
I close my eyes, and think of my boat. Blue? Maybe a blue stripe across the side, or ....
My ear drums explode, causing my entire body to shutter so hard I don't immediately feel the warm blood and skull matter spraying the right side of my face and shoulder. The gun shot reverberates off the concrete leaving a painfully shrill ring still piercing my skull thirty seconds after.
If they say something to me, I don't hear it.
"GOD.... DAMMIT !!" I bellow, checking for my hearing to return.
I take a frantic fishy breathe and check if the bullet tore through Sammy's head and into me. No, I'm alive. I glance over just as a wad of red and grey mess leaks out of his still head onto his slumped shoulder. I take another deep breathe, and look away.
"The diamonds?" Taller says.
"I can get them."
I lie. Sammy was right, they're long gone. But, I don't feel like joining him.
"Let me go and I can find them, gimme three days. Three days, ok?" I feel some thing on my wrists. Its warm, too much to be my own blood. Some of Sam's blood and who knows what else, drips down my forearm.
Taller stares into my eyes. I don't blink. Even as something wet drips off my eyebrow.
Club shirt steps forward and presses the still scalding hot barrel of the gun to my temple.
"Ahhhhh...Ffffuck, three days...and I'll walk through that door, and hand them to you. Hand to God. Buddha, who the fuck ever.."
Fairly sure I can now hear my skin sizzling under the barrel like a pale Irish burger on a grill.
Taller stuffs his hands into the pockets of this black slacks, "We ask our employer if this is acceptable." He turns and short suit and Club shirt follow him back towards the door.
I exhale into a slump as they leave, I can't take the chance they simply waltz back in and put one through my eye.
I begin to frantically pull and claw at the ropes, hoping the splattered blood will help me slip free.
It still hurts. Like a bitch.
Ow.
Fucking baling twine.
Ow.
I baled hay one summer at some out the way farm, completely against my will, mind you.
My old man said it would build character. It didn't pay for shit and fuck knows if it built character. All I can remember is my hands, in pain. I only bring that up, because of the rope. The ropes tying me to this chair. Its that same kind of rope, fucking baling twine. Tears the flesh off your hands.
..or in my current case, wrists.
I kick myself for just wearing a t-shirt and not my jacket. Perhaps, something with long sleeves even.
Beside me, Sammy continued a likely painful attempt to pry his hands free of his own cords.
I quit watching, and looked around the dimly lit room. His grunts echo around us.
"Fuckin' dump smells like an ass packed with dead fish." He winced between his teeth.
"Relax, just close yer flappin' head. Let me do the talking."
He won't listen. Who does? If I had my way I'd go back and tell myself three days ago, some crucial information - Next time you knock over a truck, owned by the Shanghai Diamond Exchange, make sure that particular establishment isn't in the pocket of the San Fransisco branch of the Chinese Triad. Because they use rough fucking baling twine.
Who knows if I'd have listened.
I crane my neck, but can't see behind myself, the hall we've been left in the middle of is quite large. A few dim lamps hanging overhead. Concrete floors, doors on both ends and defiantly smells of fish and smoke.
Boats in the distance? Small boats? Fishing boats I'm assuming.
If we weren't forced to pay Frisco's mob so much of our grab, I'd have thought about getting a boat this year.
"Who you think talked?" Sammy finally stops squirming.
"Whoever talked is most likely dead. We'll worry about that later, I need to think of what we're gonna tell these guys, when they come back."
See Sammy had that kinda face that did not endear him to people quickly. His jet black hair, combed a bit too slick, that and his head kind of resembled a snakes hood, and his eyes - a bit beady. I didn't need him pissing off our captors before I got a chance to talk.
"This aint china, don't these cunts know who we work for? John Woodrell isn't gonna take this from these yellow pricks. Just watch." Sammys voice hangs in the long concrete hall.
I close my eyes, willing some common sense into his skull, "We paid Woodrell his cut already, he might just claim he doesn't know us, that we aren't worth the effort to get back and by tomorrow you and I will be in six to eight garbage bags at the bottom of the bay. He's a fan of our work,... but only up to a point"
He gives me a look between sour and disbelief, "No way, we're his top smash and gr - "
Footsteps.
The side door opens with a horror film creak. Two well dressed Asian fellows and a third in one of those obnoxiously shiny silver club shirts walk towards us, with a gait that clearly states this chat could most likely go either way. Fast.
I get my first and only breathe of clean air, before the door creaks shut behind them. The taller suit, stops in front of us, the others behind him. Their annoyed footsteps finally stop echoing, I smile politely.
"Where are the Diamonds." The taller snaps.
"They are...around, we can find them."
I nod my head, trying to keep the conversation short, hoping to leave with all my fingers. Shorter suit seems to ignore my words, and looks about like he's never been there before.
The temperature of my blood begins to drop as I hear Sammy open his mouth, "How much are they worth? Like, in case we can't get them.... how much in cash?"
"The diamonds, and only the diamonds." Taller says.
I shake my head 'no' as Sammy continues, his voice growing defiant.
"Everything moves fast in this city, Christ man. That ice could be all over the glorious U. S. of A by now. We are just one part of a bigger operation, that you don't wanna fuck with, my friend."
Taller nods to Club shirt, who pulls out what looks like a 5.8mm Chinese QSZ-92 pistol. I think. I'm initially surprised he doesn't have a gun that's chromed out like his silly ass shirt. I go ahead and flinch anyway. What the hell.
Club shirt steps closer to Sammy and puts the barrel to side of his head, right in his greasy hair.
"Maybe you no hear so good." Taller smiles at Sammy.
"Maybe you can suck my fat Irish cock, you fu - "
I close my eyes, and think of my boat. Blue? Maybe a blue stripe across the side, or ....
My ear drums explode, causing my entire body to shutter so hard I don't immediately feel the warm blood and skull matter spraying the right side of my face and shoulder. The gun shot reverberates off the concrete leaving a painfully shrill ring still piercing my skull thirty seconds after.
If they say something to me, I don't hear it.
"GOD.... DAMMIT !!" I bellow, checking for my hearing to return.
I take a frantic fishy breathe and check if the bullet tore through Sammy's head and into me. No, I'm alive. I glance over just as a wad of red and grey mess leaks out of his still head onto his slumped shoulder. I take another deep breathe, and look away.
"The diamonds?" Taller says.
"I can get them."
I lie. Sammy was right, they're long gone. But, I don't feel like joining him.
"Let me go and I can find them, gimme three days. Three days, ok?" I feel some thing on my wrists. Its warm, too much to be my own blood. Some of Sam's blood and who knows what else, drips down my forearm.
Taller stares into my eyes. I don't blink. Even as something wet drips off my eyebrow.
Club shirt steps forward and presses the still scalding hot barrel of the gun to my temple.
"Ahhhhh...Ffffuck, three days...and I'll walk through that door, and hand them to you. Hand to God. Buddha, who the fuck ever.."
Fairly sure I can now hear my skin sizzling under the barrel like a pale Irish burger on a grill.
Taller stuffs his hands into the pockets of this black slacks, "We ask our employer if this is acceptable." He turns and short suit and Club shirt follow him back towards the door.
I exhale into a slump as they leave, I can't take the chance they simply waltz back in and put one through my eye.
I begin to frantically pull and claw at the ropes, hoping the splattered blood will help me slip free.
It still hurts. Like a bitch.
Ow.
Fucking baling twine.
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