A Neon Rattrap - Part 6
The privacy door mechanically swings open generating a low grinding sound like an overweight handicap’s electric wheelchair. Another poorly dressed thug makes his appearance grinning and staring at the floor while he makes his way through the threshold. His head pops up in alarm at realizing I am standing there, and three other bodies follow closely behind him. The two in the middle are another set of my rivals: Fish, and the third is yet one more poorly dressed and underfed henchman.
Fish are both bound with their hands behind their backs. They have a reputation of not being ones who play by the rules. The sight of them being ushered relatively quietly by a mere two thugs lead me to believe that there are more of The Pimp’s men in the Lobby. My competitors are twins, one male and the other female – though you wouldn’t know which is which without a full body cavity search, something Rocco would have gladly assisted with. They go by the single name Fish. Or is it plural? Fish is hard-core “kill your momma for not cutting the crusts off your sandwich” and have silently beaten me to the mark on several assignments. Truth be told, I like Fish.
A Neon Rattrap - Part 5
There’s no telling how much time I have before someone comes snooping to see how Rocco is getting along with me. I’d only heard stories about Rocco and these sides of The Pimp’s house slash office, normally I am treated to the front portions with the civilized people.
There are no windows here, and the only obvious way out is the door that led me into this pit. Other than the sloppy dripping sounds, the room is dead silent – a real contrast to the previous ten minutes. A cursory look around the room and one more check of the dyings’ vital signs, turn up the State Penn Bar Codes tattooed on these asshole’s forearms. This is turning out to be my lucky day. I can turn these codes in for a reward if they’re dead. The skinny thug that was bleeding out finally finished one task to completion, he was gone. And Rocco, a few feet away was damn near close to being judged himself.
A Neon Rattrap - Part 4
I’ve been the unwilling recipient of sobering hands to the face before. There is just something about the sudden shock of being jarred that makes your senses go into overdrive. Right now my ears are ringing and my fingertips tingling with static as the thug brothers hold my hands behind my back and Rocco pounds the side of my head with his baby leg of a penis.
My captors are silent while the abuser does a River Dance on my face. The stinky meat stick that I assume hasn’t gotten its yearly washing in a good decade does its best to knock some of my teeth loose. With another swift slap from the left side of my face, Rocco exhales a loud laugh and thrusts the end of the salami at my mouth. With clenched teeth I hear him change his tone to a delightful hum as if he were imitating the tune he was trying to play on my xylophone of teeth.
A Neon Rattrap - Part 3
I didn’t give The Pimp a return smile, or at least not the look he wanted to see. The look that would save my ass from destruction would have signaled that I would have let him violate me personally. My grimace however, unlocked the door to the “back room” where I would meet my fate – the conciliation prize for being a half hour late.
The pristine dust-free great room that I was in before transitioned quickly to a ripe dungeon cell not 50 yards away, to be guarded and mutilated by Rocco, The Pimp’s personal dungeon master. Rocco was a troll of a man stooping taller than me and exploding with steroid inflated arms and torso. He separated himself from the cadaver he had been molesting to come over and say “hi”.
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