Monday, February 23, 2009


Chapter 10...

Chapter 10

Tig was squirming like a worm on a hook, and swinging his tiny fists in the direction of my junk, all the while spewing a string of nonsensical threats. Good thing I had him facing away from me. “Talk shrimp!” I directed. “Fuck you! You over developed sack of shit!,” Tig shouted in a squeaky voice tinged with fear. “Funny you should say shit,” I jerked both of my hands downward about six inches, driving Tig’s face very close to the world’s nastiest toilet. Still yelling, Tig stopped swinging his arms and grabbed the edge of the bowl, in an attempt to keep from getting a bath. I raised him up just enough so he couldn’t touch the bowl and tried again. “Liquor bottles with no tax stamps, talk.” Tig responded with a torrent of high pitched profanity and threats. I drove my hands downward again, harder, anticipating Tig would try to grab the bowl, which he did with one hand, but he missed with the other and I drove his head against the opposite side of the bowl with enough force to draw blood.

I was running out of time. The bathroom was a dead end, and although the goons and the bar hag were down, I was sure they would regroup and try to even the score. Again I raised him out of reach of the bowl. “Tig if you think Vance is gonna lose sleep over killing another dwarf, you’re wrong. Vance’ll stuff you right into that shitter and all the way back to the sewer you crawled out of. If you want to live, talk!” I punctuated the ‘talk’ with another jerk of my hands, this time Tig put his hands in the center of the bowl, and sank up to his little forearms into the swill. “Chill big man, chill,” Tig was seeing the light.

“Liquor.” I said as I again raised him above the bowl. “A guy comes in every week or so and drops it off.” “This guy a Samoan?” “Nah, a cracker.” “Cracker have a name?” I said lowering Tig a bit. “Pauly.” “Pauly the cracker? You think Vance is joking?” as I drove Tig down again. “Nah, nah, nah,” Tig yelled, I stopped and allowed him to grab the bowl. “No foolin’ the guy is Pauly.” “How does Vance find Pauly?” “I think he hangs at an old mine up north.” “Have to do better Tig?” “Sierra Minerals.” “Much better. Pauly have any friends?” “Sometimes.” “Black, brown, white, red, yellow what?” “Brown, white.” “You’ve been real good Tig, but if you want to live, you gotta play nice.”

Tig was muttering to himself as I backed out of the stall and walked to the sink. There was an old style endless towel dispenser on the wall, amazingly it had a towel, although one end was pulled loose. In one quick move I dropped Tig onto the floor face down, and drove the toe of my boot into the middle of his back and my leg across his waist. I let go of one foot and grabbed the towel. Tig protested and started kicking with his free foot. I was able to pull about twenty feet of cloth from the roll before the towel tore in two. I tied the end around one ankle then tied his feet together. I then raised him to his feet and instructed him to put his hands in his pants pockets. “This is…” I slammed his head into the wall “hands.” He had to pull is pants up, but he complied, and I ran the towel up his back and around his chest and stomach four times, pinning his arms to his torso. I tied the towel tight behind his back.

“This is torture asshole.” “Didn’t your mother teach you to wash your hands after you use the bathroom?” “Fuck you.”

I grabbed the collar of Tig’s little leather coat, raised him like a shield in front of me, and headed for the door. “Here is how this works, if Vance gets out of here in one piece, Tig gets out of here in one piece.” I paused, pulled the 1911 out of my pants and snagged the door handle using the barrel of the gun. I flipped the door open and yelled “do anything dumb and the runt gets it.” I took a breath and stepped into the bar, quickly scanning the room.

The door was about 30 feet away. Juan was still on the floor, and had dragged himself to the bar and was leaning against it. He started cursing loudly in Spanish and was pointing a .38 revolver with a six inch barrel at me.

Jose was behind the bar drying his face with a rag. When he heard Juan he grabbed the .50 cal and pointed it toward me, hand shaking and eyes blinking, trying to fight off the effects of the pepper facial.

Jose started cursing. Tig started screaming.

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