7"I hwo choo Hulhassian."
"Come again?" The boss is angry. I don't need the harsh tones to understand that. Anger reeks from his pores. The hormones, adrenaline, apirephine, whatever you call it, is in the air so thick I'm afraid I'm going to light it on fire with my cigarette. Wouldn't the poor tied up bastard like that. His final revenge. I can see it now. First, the air will give a little pop, and my cigarette will turn into a lightbulb for a moment. The flames will wicker onto the room, turning this dank, retched place into the inside of a Char-Broil grill in five seconds. The boss will scream. He'd try to put the fire out on his face by slapping it with more fire from his hands. Little does he know that depriving the fire of oxygen is not going to help. What the fire feeds on is inside him. The glands conveniently placed deep beneath his skin are what fuel the flames. He'll roll for a while. The tied up dude and I will watch, safe from the fire which only wants the hormones, like honey to a bee. After a few minutes, the boss will grab my ankle in a final act of desperation. He'd look at me with burnt, crispy eyes, begging me to put the fire out so he could die of pain five minutes later. Then, wouldn't this be for the books, I'd casually get the five grand from the inside of my jacket, cool as can be. It's blood money. Money he paid me so I would stand here and take up air while the tied up guy died. I'd throw that pile of money right on his burnt, crispy face. I'd watch twenties and fifties pour out black flames from the ink. I would assume they'd make a pretty nice mosaic of color. The boss will give a final burnt, crispy yell, roll over, and the fire will die out. No more hormones when you die, you see. Wouldn't that be appropriate. But the hormone won't light. I even puff a particularly big breath. The ash at the end lights up like a cancerous Christmas tree light. But nothing happens. I guess that's life.
"I hwo choo Hulhassian." Tied up guy at his finest. A smile. I didn't know you could smile through a ball gag. He must be really stretching the face muscles. What a guy. He's been in hell for over twenty minutes. I didn't need to look at my watch to know that. I pick my cigarette butt out of my mouth and drop it. It lands on the floor, along with three of his friends. Each takes five minutes you see. Almost to the second. Four cigarettes, twenty minutes. I crush the last embers with my foot. Gently, you see. As if I'm smothering the love of my life. I believe nothing that gave me so much clear-headedness deserves to be punished. The smoke at least prevented boss's sickening smell from reaching my nostrils.
"Remove the gag." The oh-so-ever-pissed boss spits out. Seems obvious, but I'm not suppose to do anything unless I'm told. The rest of the time, I'm the genuine, bona fide, country certified, thug number two. Right next to thug number one. It's he who does all the work. Poor bastard. He got paid the same money, but all I'm doing is smoking cigarettes and wondering when the tied up dude is going to die so I can go to the freaking bathroom. He goes behind the guy for a second, then longer. He's having trouble with the leather straps. Although there's no blood, the chubby fingers of his can't manipulate the clasp. The tied up guy closes his eyes. I know we're thinking the same thing. He realizes that the men in this room, me, thug number one, that idiot on the bed that I call a boss because I can't think of a better title, are phonies. He knows that the struggling guy behind his head knows as much about torturing someone as he knows about ballet. Then he opens his eyes. He spits out the gag. The guy finally undid the damn thing. He smiles again. His teeth are in perfect order, no blood or anything. The soft foam must have cushioned his mouth in the few punches he received. The boss shrinks a little in his failure. Does anger take over? No. He just sits there. The two men have reached a quagmire. Thug number one stands there, confused. I turn around, disgusted, and light another cigarette.
"Did I say you could turn around?" It's the boss. I bet he was desperate to regain some composure. 'Composure?' I haven't used that word since high school vocab quizzes. Man, when I talk, I talk with a vocabulary of an eight year old, with a voice of a sixty year old with gum disease. But my mind's turned Shakespeare on me all of a sudden. Like some outer being thrashed his deitylike fingers into my brain and inserted knowledge I managed to block out with Bob Dylan lyrics. I turn back, puffing one, two, three times, taking my sweet time.
"Sorry, boss." I say with a shrug. 'Ya prick,' I think.
"Don't do it again. In fact, don't do anything I don't TELL YOU TO DO. UNDERSTAND?" I couldn't understand it any better if you tried to pound it into my brain with a giant mallet. I felt kinda bad for giving him a second wind. I wished to see where the strangely equal Mexican standoff would lead.
"Sure thing, boss." My eyes flick over to the tied up man for a second. He's still got the smile on, but I know he's smiling at me now. I like this guy. I would call him 'tough as nails' except for the fact that I can bend nails and I don't think I can even push over this guy.
"In fact, Ray, why don't you just put out that damn cigarette." Why'd he call me Ray? We were on a first name basis? I thought this was supposed to be strictly a thug-douchebag relationship. He had broken the rules. Names were dangerous. One name was all it took to take entire branches down. If the tied up guy ever escaped, he'll come to me. Torture me for a name. Then he'd go to him, and torture him for another name. And so on and so forth. I should knock some sense into him.
"Sure, boss," I instead say. I turn around to flick the cigarette away.
"And you, punch him or something." The thug number one leans back to deliver a blow that wouldn't make a kitten flinch in pain. I take the almost full cigarette from my mouth. I'm rather fond of the thing. Throwing it away before it fulfilled its purpose seems like waste to me. But I can't disobey orders. Or can I? If I just keep on smoking, what will this prick say? Fortunately the question answered itself.
'Oh, no," I hear the boss whisper. I turn around, still the cigarette cradled carefully in hand. The tied up guy is standing now. I can make out a silver shining thing in his hand. Probably a razor blade that he snuck up in his sleeves. I told the boss to pat him down carefully. I see a bit of red on the shining blade. I think that the tied up guy must have nicked himself bad while cutting himself loose. Then I realize thug number one is standing behind him with his hand at his throat. It doesn't take a genius to realize that the red liquid flowing profusely between his fingers is blood. Hell it even squirts out every now and then onto the back of previously tied up guy's shirt. I'm about to tell him that blood is the hardest stain to get out, and he should get out of the stream when he lunges. The boss doesn't even try to take out the revolver tucked into his pants, angled in such a way so if the gun accidentally went off, it wouldn't blow off his left testicle or something. Instead, he falls back on the bed, also holding his beck. The two guys gagging and throwing their hands in the air would look funny had it not been real. Kinda like a Benny Hill clip. The guy who just murdered the boss looks at me. He smiles. He starts walking towards the door.
"BOOM!" A gunshot. Who fired? Thug number one's already dead. The boss. It seems that in one of his death rattles he pulled the damn trigger with his belt or something. Idiot. Keeping a gun with the safety off and the hammer pulled back. I wonder how he managed to keep himself bullet free for so long. Looking at the recently freed guy, I realize that he's no longer smiling. He's grabbing his side. Scrunched over, he gasps for breath. Damn. He's been shot. And the three other guys in the other room know something's up here.
The only other living guy in this room falls. Right into the only shadow of the entire room, provided by the awkward placement of the lamp and the bed. The door crashes open. It's thug number three, four, five to the rescue. They each have their guns out. One thug looks left. Dead thug body. He looks right. Dead boss. Then he sees me. Calm guy still alive. For some reason, maybe it's because I look like the tied up guy; maybe it's the fact that I'm the only thing that appears alive in the room; maybe I owe him money, he raises his gun and empties the magazine into my chest. I can't count the shots that hit. But I go down without a sound. The cigarette's still stuck in my mouth. TV always said that smoking will kill me. Well what do you say now, TV? I intently observe the ceiling. I feel like making a dust angel. More gunshots. Have I been hit more times? No, I didn't feel it. Hell I didn't feel the original seven or eight times. I look up. It's hiding in the shadows guy. He's still holding his side, like he's really glad to meet himself and giving himself a hug. In one hand he's got a gun. Boss's pistol. Thug three, four, five, dead as reality TV in five years. Then he falls again, this time next to me. We lie like a couple on a honeymoon bed. I see he's gotten hit a few more times. I don't know what to do. So I extend my hand in the little space between us.
"Ray." I say.
"Mickey." He shakes my hand. "You know, I have a brother named Ray." His breath sounds pained. Mine must too. Oh well. I guess that's life.
"I have a brother named Mickey." Is he my brother? I tried to cut off all family ties years ago. As far as I know, he could be my brother. After all, I do look like him.
"Coincidence?" Dying guy asks. I mull it over, and I realize it's tiring me to think.
"Sure," I end up saying. I black out.
I come back. I'm still in the room. Why did I awake? There's a burning sensation on my neck. I bring up a two ton arm and scratch. My cigarette fell out of my mouth and landed on my neck, you see. I guess that woke me up. I move a two ton head. The dying guy stopped breathing. I already see signs of glazing over his eyes. I turn my head back. The room is free of boss's smell. How long had I been unconscious? Why won't I die? I lift my three ton head and stare at my body. Ah, damn it. Idiot that shot me was a horrible shot. No fatal wounds. Mostly lower body. Two to my shoulder, and one near the left lung. I could live for hours. To pass the time, I think of what dead guy was saying. What did he say through the gag? "I hwo choo Hulhassian," I try to mimic. I realize the blood loss is going to kill me faster then my wounds. Better hurry.
It hits me. 'I go to salvation." Mickey was ready to die. That's why he smiled at the boss. That's why he stood up as he fired at the thugs. Or why he waited for entire seconds before killing boss. Or why he left me alive. He was fully ready to die. Now he's dead. I'm not ready. I was going to light boss's hormones on fire and throw this money in his face. Money's probably covered in blood by now, won't light even if I tried. Not fair. God, I could use a cigarette.