Prodigal Blues

Everything looked like it was being filtered through one of those gauzy camera lenses used in movies to make aging stars appear to not have crow's-feet and face-lifts.

I blinked several times, then—against my better instincts—shook my head.  The pain snarled forward and I bit my lower lip, wincing… but when I opened my eyes again, things were a lot clearer.

I almost wished they hadn't been.

I automatically clicked into janitor mode, examining the entirety of the mess at first glance, then breaking it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

Disorder first:  I was on the floor of a van and the van was moving; so much for the "Magic Fingers" scenario.

Disorder second:  The pain was getting intense in a hurry.

Disorder third:  My ankles were manacled together with one of those strap-and-chain numbers used on violent murderers being marched into a courtroom.

Disorder fourth:  There was dried blood all over the front of my shirt, which had been torn and was missing several buttons.

Disorder fifth:  I couldn't move my arms because each wrist was handcuffed to an iron ring soldered to the wheel wells on either side; I lay in an almost perfect crucifixion pose.

Disorder sixth (and for the moment, the most immediate):  I had to—in Cletus's words—make a pause for the cause.

I tilted back my head, and for my efforts got a forced-perspective view of the folding (and currently upright) seat I was chained behind.  I opened my mouth to say something and suddenly remembered that scene from Last House On The Left (one of Tanya's favorite horror movies for some reason) where the killers, just to degrade one of their female victims, force her to piss in her pants before murdering her.

I concentrated on keeping my bladder under control; I had to, otherwise I'd have no choice but to think about this really honestly seriously goddamn scary situation, and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

"Hello."

I looked up and saw a girl's face that was, from this angle, all hanging black hair, lower lip, and nostrils.  There was a strong smell of makeup about her.

"What… happened?"

"You hit your face against the phone table when you fell down.  The Taser was set a lot higher than I thought.  I am sorry.  Are you okay?"

"I have to… go to… the bathroom."

"Anything else?"

"My head… hurts."

"Okay, then."  She disappeared from view.  "He is awake and says he has to use the toilet.  I need to go, too."  I recognized her voice, even though there wasn't a motel-room door between us.  This close, it sounded as if she had something wrong with her throat; her sandy voice was even rougher that I remembered:  it sounded outright painful.

"Check the map, will you, Arnold?" said a hollow-sounding male voice.  "There should be another motel coming up."

Paper rustling.  "I think you are right."  This voice sounded very young, a boy of maybe eleven or twelve.  "Exit… Exit 24A."

"There is 23," said the first voice—I assumed the driver's.  "Check the computer, just to be safe."

"Do I have to?  I just checked it a little bit ago."

"Humor me."

"Please do not be mad."

A sigh.  "I am not, I promise.  Just make sure, will you?"

Someone began tapping  keys.

"May I see?" asked the driver.

"It is not in blue," said the younger voice.  "See?"

"Excellent," said the driver.  Then he called out:  "Can you hold it for five more minutes?"

It took a moment before I realized he was talking to me and not the girl.  "Uh… I think so."

Hair, Lip, and Nostrils came back over the seat.  "So… how much does it hurt?"

"Kind of a lot."

"Honest?"

"Honest."

"Okay, then."  She disappeared again.  Something with latches was opened, and when her hand came around the lower side of the seat to grab my arm I almost let go right then, it startled me so much.

"Do not wriggle around, please?  I do not want it to break off ."  Only her arms and hands were visible.  She felt along my arm, slapped it a few times to raise a vein, and started to administer a shot.  "This will make it better, I promise.  Demerol."

"Hang on a second," I said, but it was too late; she'd already sunk the plunger.

"You should be okay now."

It took about sixty seconds.  The last thing to consciously register was that "Take The Highway" had ended and "A New Life" was starting, which meant it wasn't the radio, they were listening to a tape of The Marshall Tucker Band's Greatest Hits, an album I'd been meaning to buy, and promised myself I would buy if I got out of this alive, then the Demerol sang a different, shinier song that was suddenly all I wanted to hear….

6.  Contractions

When I came awake this time, nothing was vibrating, not even my skull.  I still felt shiny from the Demerol.  And weightless.  But mostly shiny.  In a weightless kind of way.  I tried swallowing only to discover I had a mondo case of cotton-mouth.  A drink of water sounded good.  Sounded great, in fact.  Richard the Third at the battle of Bosworth Field didn't want a horse as much as I wanted some water.

Opening my eyes, I saw the stucco ceiling above.

Fu

(…to Mark, Earth to Mark, your circuit's dead, something's wrong…)

have a care in the world, but something seemed out of place, seemed different… didn't it?  Yeah, it sure did.  Then I wondered

(…all shiny from the DEMEROL SHOT, bright guy; is THAT enough of a hint for you?)

why it felt like I was partially undressed, so I lifted my head and saw that I was, indeed, naked from the waist down.  Something cold and heavy was around my right ankle, but at least my hands were free, so I rubbed my eyes and pulled myself up and as I rose into a sitting position all the tumblers fell into place and I remembered the lightning bolt and the considerate floor and bumpy crucifixion ride and realized that wherever I was and whatever was happening, smart money said it wasn't good—

"Do not scream or call for help."

Seven words guaranteed to wake your ass up in a hurry.  I grabbed a handful of bed sheet and covered myself.

Then he spoke again:  "Please, I meant to say.  Please do not scream or call for help."

He was sitting in chair next to a lighted floor lamp whose low-wattage bulb cast most of his face in shadow.  He looked to be around twenty or so, dressed in a tan, short-sleeved cotton shirt, with tan khaki pants and tan shoes under which he wore tan socks.  Everything about his appearance was so bland as to make him indistinguishable among a crowd; even his light-brown hair was cut in a style so precise it was invisible; pass him at the mall, on the street, or in a busy truck stop restaurant, and you wouldn't give him a second glance.

"Please don't hurt me," I said, the words crawling out of my throat.

"I would rather not," he replied, leaning forward into the light.  "But I will not hesitate if I have to.  I thought it was only fair you know that, all right?"

I saw the gun in his hand before I looked at his face; the former was some kind semi-automatic pistol with a silencer attachment, ugly and big and serious as cancer; the latter, while at first glance pleasant enough in a forgettable way, was sharp and smooth and strangely without lines or wrinkles—not that a twenty-year-old face should look haggard and world-weary, but even in this light, with my foggy vision, there wasn't a laugh-line, crow's foot, or blemish to be found on his features:  he could have passed for a department-store ma