The Winner: Part Twenty-One

Alley Cat’s used to have one of the biggest xxx movie arcades in the country (or so its sign proclaimed). Aisles upon aisles of video booths for dudes to spank the monkey in. Most of the booths have been removed and in their place a bunch of cheaply built particle board rooms are in their place. One aisle of booths remain, but the TV’s have all been taken out. The sign above them says “Holes of Glory”. Out of one stumbles some fortyish, balding guy wearing a halter top and shorts so high you can see tufts of ass hair growing out the sides. He wipes his thick mustache with the back of his forearm, then gives me a coy grin. I shudder in disgust.

My expression must have registered with him since he flips his wrist at me and mutters “Bitch,” at me in a voice that’s way too high and squeaky. Those shorts must be cutting off the circulation to his balls to make him talk that way.

I take one more step and my foot slides out from under me. I catch myself with my hand before I fall completely to the ground and am disgusted with how sticky the floor is. I look on the bottom of my shoe and see that I slipped on a used condom, covered in fresh semen and dark flecks that look suspiciously like fecal matter. I drop it and wipe my hands off on my pants. The floor is littered with them, and I’m careful not to step on any more as make my way across the room. Used amyl-nitrate poppers crunch under my shoes like hoarfrost. The atmosphere is a humid cauldron of hormones, lubricant, pine-cleaner, and shit. It makes me gag just a little.

I used to think fondly of this place where I must have milked a gallon of jizz out of my dick to the movies of whatever porn-star was hot at the moment. Now, this is taking me to a bad place. I think I’m suffering from PTSD. Sure, I’m unfortunately not a stranger to man-on-man sex, but that was when I was in jail. I hadn’t had sex with a woman in literally months and had to get my rocks off somehow. Plus, the experience of being turned out into a prison bitch must have been much more traumatic than I remembered.

Maybe Chad Van Hertzwelder knew that this is what life would be like after being turned out. Maybe he was right to rip through his skin, veins, and tendons with his own teeth rather than live like this. That, or maybe it was wrong for me to have turned him out in the first place. But I shunt that thought to the back of my mind. Now is no time to think of my moral culpability in my situation. I had things I needed to do.

I look around, trying to ignore the distinctly male grunting all around me with the occasional moan of “Pound my ass hard, fucker!” and look for a fire-exit. There had to be one here. All this shit going on here had to be crazy illegal. They had to have a way to escape if the cops came to raid this place. I glance around, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone and see a door with an exit sign above it. I start going as fast as I can while avoiding the used condoms on the floor at the same time.

Just then, I hear the jarring buzz of the entrance to the Man Hole being unlocked. I turn around and see the goatee guy walking inside. Our eyes meet, and this time, he doesn’t turn away. He wants me to know I’m being followed. Burke’s men are right on me today. Maybe they know about the FBI meeting? Shit! There’s gotta be some way to I can throw him off here.

I turn around and look for the first room I can duck into. None of them have doors on them though. Maybe I can pretend like I’m there to screw guys and goatee guy will go away long enough for me to slip away. I just need a little time to think of something.

“Oh hey boys, looks like we got a new playmate today…”

I turn around and there’s three other men packed into one of these small rooms. They are all dressed up like the fucking biker from the Village People. There’s a fourth, hanging naked from the ceiling from some nylon sling with a ball-gag in his mouth. His hands are chained to the straps, and smaller chains are pulling on his nipple rings so hard it looks like they are gonna be yanked out. Another cord from the ceiling is tied around his balls, yanking them upwards so hard they were turning purple from lack of circulation. Whatever these fags were into, it was some hardcore S&M shit for sure.

“Hi,” I stutter. “Can I hang out here for bit? Is that okay?”

“No one gets to watch for free,” the biggest biker dude says in his girly voice. He gets so close to me that the brim of his leather captain’s hat touches my forehead. “You gotta participate if you’re gonna be in here.”

I glance over my shoulder. Goatee guy is just outside the room, fending off some queer in a leather thong whose trying to grab at his balls. He’s positioned himself so he can see me inside the room. Dammit, it’s fight or fuck time. I look back at the biker guy.

“Umm, okay. I’ll participate.”

He give off a great big smile, showing a mouth full of chipped teeth under his thick mustache. “Terrific! You can be the gimp!”

Before I can even ask what being “the gimp” entails here, he’s got a leather S&M mask over my head. I start to spit out, “What the fuh…” when he zips the mouth hole shut, muffling my protest. He pats me on my now leather clad cheek and says, “Stay here, we’ll be back to you shortly.”

I do as he says and stay with my back against the flimsy wall of this room. I turn again and still see goatee guy outside the room. He’s talking to someone on his cell phone. He looks to be a medium build and someone who could hold his own in a fight. I might be able to knock him down if I can get a sucker punch in, and that’s exactly what I plan to do if being the gimp means I gotta get buttfucked by these leather bound, macho HIV factories.

The leather biker who stuffed the mask on my face goes back over the man swinging from the ceiling. “Did you hear that? We got a new bitch to punish you. You’ve been a bad bitch, and you’re gonna get it real bad from him.”

After issuing his ridiculous threats, the leather gets on his knees and starts licking the swinging guy’s butthole. I really wish I wasn’t watching this. In the meantime, one of his buddies comes over to me with something under his arm.

“Time for you to get greased up,” he says. He plops a big tub of Crisco into my hands. “Oh, and undo your cufflinks and do your whole arm. Bitch-boy here likes it elbow-deep.”

It takes me a second before I realize what they want me to do. I unzip the mouth hole on the mask. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve never done this before. Will it even fit?” I say, even though I’ve seen enough video-clips on the internet to know that, yes, it will fit.

“Well, you either do this or you get out. Your choice.”

Goatee guy is still watching me from outside the room with his cell phone glued to his ear. I have to go through with it or else my whole plan is blown, so I take off my Rolex, stick it in my pocket, and then start to roll up my shirtsleeve. All in all, I guess this beats being gang raped by these faggots. I peel the lid off the tub of Crisco and start slathering it all over my hand and up and down my forearm. I try not to think of when my mother used this stuff to keep cookies from sticking on the pan.

The swinging bitch-boy is moaning with pleasure through his ball-gag as the leather biker tosses his salad. Once my arm is all greased up, he looks up, and mutters, “Now yer gonna get it. This is what ya really want, ain’t it?” He gets up and looks over at me. “On yer knees gimp. Give it to him.”

I get positioned so I’m almost eye level with bitch-boy’s hairy butthole. I take my Crisco slicked hand, make it into a fist and give him a good punch in the ass. My hand doesn’t go in. Instead, bitch-boy grunts through his gag as the momentum tugs at the chains on his nipples and around his balls.

“Dammit, gimp! That’s not how you do it!”

“Give me a fucking break! I told you, I’ve never fisted anyone before.”

The guy who gave me the Crisco comes over. “Look, just stick one finger at a time in there. Once they’re all inside, then your hand will naturally curl up into a fist.”

I sigh. “Okay, take two…” I stick my index finger in bitch-boy’s butt, then my middle and so forth. One finger at a time, it all seems to go in quite easily. This may be my first time fisting, but this obviously wasn’t bitch-boy’s first time being fisted. His distended butt hole spread open quite easily. Before I know it, my whole hand up to my wrist has been swallowed up this guy’s sphincter.

“Now go slow. Move your arm back and forth and slowly go deeper.”

It feels disgustingly mushy in there. I slowly start to go deeper in there. My knuckles rub up against the ring shaped muscle that leads into the lower intestine, but it quickly loosens and my hand slides farther in. The side of my hand is rubbing against something hard, probably his pelvic bone. I’m glad I have this mask on, so the leather bikers can’t see the disgusted grimace I have in my face.

“You like that bitch, don’t’cha? Don’t’cha?” the first leather man coos in bitch-boy’s ear. He lets off an anguished grunt of agreement through the gag. “Give him some more, gimp! Don’t stop till yer up to your armpit!”

I’m already close to vomiting and my arm is only mid-forearm deep into this sicko’s anus. I keep pressing and feel something soft streaming over my fingers as I go deeper. I get even sicker when I realize it’s bitch-boy’s undigested shit I’m packing into the back on his lower intestine. Jesus Christ, how can doing this not completely fuck up a person’s digestive tract for life?

Bitch-boy is squirming all around and I can’t tell if he’s in massive pain or if he’s getting off on this (I suspect it’s a little of both). “Deeper…deeper…” the leathermen chant as I work my arm up his ass. I hit a knot which must be the point where bitch-boy’s large intestine ends and his small intestine begins. My elbow gets swallowed up by his anus without too much pressure. Goddamn, this guys butthole must be more stretched out than the fucking Goatse man’s.

My arm is so deep in there I can’t keep my balance anymore. I stumble forward before I can get a knee under me and bitch-boy grunts in surprise I slide further inside him. His butthole is tightens around my bicep in twitches. It’s almost like I’ve got my arm in one of those blood pressure cuffs they have at the drugstore.

“Yeah bitch,” the leathermen lisp. “You like it deep like that, dontcha?”

Though I’m sure this has to hurt worse for him, I can’t say that fisting is particularly pleasant for me either. Fuck…it’s creepy to have your arm up another man’s guts. Even if I wanted to go deeper I couldn’t since the angle my arm is at, bitch-boy’s pelvic bone is blocking my elbow from going any further. The shit smell is horrible and I turn my face away in disgust. From the way my head is turned, I can get a look at the door. Goatee guy is still watching, but his expression has turned from cool and disinterested to visibly disgusted. If it looks that bad watching, just think what it’s like actually doing this shit…

Bitch-boy is flailing his head in ecstacy. I can’t fathom how this can feel good to anyone. One of the leathermen comes behind me and touches my shoulder. “Alright gimp, that’s enough. Time to give another one of us a chance to mine in this sweet little ass.”

Thank god! I start the process of trying to extricate my arm from this guy’s butt. It’s not coming though. Oh shit. I’m stuck. My elbow is caught up on some ridge of pelvic bone. This is a rather embarrassing way for my plans to all go to shit. God help me if they have to call a doctor to get my arm removed.

“I’m stuck,” I say. The leathermen don’t hear me, so I repeat. Finally one hears me and kneels down to instruct me.

“Just keep working it out. Just be sure not to go too fast. There’s no rush.”

Great advice you sick fucking homo. I keep doing as he says, but my arm hasn’t slid out even an inch. I try wiggling my fingers, but that does nothing to loosen things up. I get off my knees and get my feet under me so I’m squatting. I start to pivot my shoulders and I can feel my arm coming out little by little. There must be a ton of suction up in there. There’s a horrible splorting noise just to get about four inches of arm out.

Goatee guy is still watching, disgusted. This is great. I go through all this disgusting weird sex acts and I couldn’t even shake my tail. I guess I’m gonna have to go with plan B and try and get the jump on him…

“Come on, nice and easy does it.” The leatherman comes behind me and grips my bicep, trying to help me wiggle my arm out of bitch-boy’s ass. Unfortunately, this has the effect of throwing off my balance. I almost catch myself, but my shoe lands in a dab of Crisco that’s on the floor and fall backwards all the way onto my butt, hitting my head against the bed with rubber sheets that’s been bolted to the corner. I black out for a moment, but shake off the stars soon enough. The leathermen are in a frenzy, mincing around the small bathhouse room in a panic.

“Ohmygod, Sean…. SOMEBODY CALL AND AMBULANCE NOW!”

The good news is my arm is now free of bitch-boy’s guts. The bad news is that his rectum prolapsed in the process and about three feet of his lower intestine are now hanging out of him, all still attached to my arm like a sock. Bitch-boy is flailing all around in his leather swing in great pain. There’s a ploink as one of the chains attached to his nipple rings pulls free from his chest, a little chunk of pink meat still attached.

“WE NEED A DOCTOR! OH PLEASE SOMEBODY CALL A DOCTOR NOW!”

I start to panic when I see the length of prolapsed intestine hanging on my arm. The purple veins on it are beginning to break and blood is seeping out and turning bright red when it hits the air. With my free hand, I start to peel it off, inside-out. It feels like a fucking sausage casing. I finally remove it completely. My arm is covered in a slime of shit, blood, and Crisco.

The leathermen are so wrapped up in their panic over their “bitch” that they forget me for a moment. The other people in the bathhouse are coming to the door to see what the commotion is. Through them, I see my goateed surveillance finally start to lose his lunch. He cups his mouth trying to hold it in and rushes off. Through all the yelling, I think I hear the buzzing and clicking of the latch of the bathhouse being opened. That’s probably him. Thank providence, here’s my chance to get away…

I stand up and almost pass out again from a rush of blood to the head. Once I’ve finally get my senses back, I turn and head towards the door of the room. One of the leathermen grabs my shoulder roughly, trying to stop me.

“Where do you think you’re…”

I stick my blood and shit slimed hand in his face and rub the mixture all over. This makes him gag and loosen his grip on my shoulder. I push my way through the crowd of concerned faggots congregating there. I look around quickly and don’t see goatee guy there at all. With any luck he’s doing exactly what I think he’s doing and blowing chunks all over the sidewalk out front.

I spot the fire exit door in the back and literally charge it. I bust out into the alleyway and sunlight and fresh air and almost trip over some wino sprawled out next to a dumpster. There’s no time to even be traumatized by all that has just happened. I only have thirty minutes to get across town to meet with the FBI.

The Winner: Part Twenty

The next day, I’m sitting in my destroyed living room eating a sandwich from Subway that I had left over from a few days ago. I barely enjoy it. All I can think about is all the things I used to do to the sandwiches when I worked there. I half expect to get a clump of pubic hair in my mouth every time I bite down on it. I force myself to eat it anyway, if not for enjoyment, then at least for sustenance.

“Poopy,” I hear Apple whispering from the bedroom. “Wuz, goin’ on…here?”

I toss the last bit of stale bread from the sandwich on the floor where all the rest of the trash is piling up. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway. I stand up, brush the crumbs off my pants and walk into the bedroom.

I moved Apple from the chair into the bed last night and replaced the sheet with some zip ties I bought last night at the hardware store. Both her wrists and her ankles are secured to the bedposts. There are red marks where the plastic has chafed her skin.

Right now, she’s in a daze. I pet her hair and take a Kleenex to wipe away some of the drool that is running out of her mouth. I cleaned most of the blood off her face, but there’s still dried flecks of it in the creases of her face.

“Poopy, I feel cold,” she mumbles. “My bones hurt.”

“It’s okay,” I say, petting her hair some more. I reach under the bed and grab a black leather pouch from under the bed. I set it on my lap and unzip it and pull out a tangled length of rubber tubing and a hypodermic needle. “You’ll feel better soon.”

I set the rest of the contents of the pouch on the cardboard box I’m using as a nightstand for the time being. This idea came to me last night when I was thinking of ways to keep Apple quiet while I kept her tied up in my house. I’d shoot her full of heroin.

I went out to Baker Street, where all the homeless people, druggies, and prostitutes hung out. On my way there, I kept my eye out for the black car and those guys who had been following me. I didn’t always see them, but every once in awhile a black car would pass me, or I got a strange sense of deja-vu from some person who passed me on the street. This had been going on for the past week, but tonight, I tried to pay attention to exactly what the guys who were following me looked like; what make and model their cars were.

When I got to Baker Street, I paid some junkie three-hundred dollars to find me some heroin, as well as sell me his “works”, which included a couple of hypodermics wrapped in plastic from the city needle exchange program, a bent up, discolored spoon, and a small bag of cotton balls. He also found me a three day’s supply of heroin. “’Dis is da good shit right here,” the junkie told me. “You could smoke this shit and be flyin’. But if you mainline it, you’ll be out for the count. I guarantee.”

We went into an alley and I let him shoot up from my stash, just so he could run me through how it’s done, seeing as I have no fucking clue how to shoot heroin. Sure enough, after he injected a syringe full of this stuff into a puss filled sore on top of one of his rotted veins, he nodded off and didn’t say another word. A piano could have fallen down next to him and he probably would flinch, and this guy is a hardened user. I’m sure it would be enough to shut Apple the fuck up.

Of course, the thought of reaching into the junkie’s pocket and taking my three-hundred bucks back occurred to me. In his state, he probably would even care and I’m sure he overcharged me for this stuff. Still, I didn’t want to burn any bridges in case I needed more of this stuff.

As I left him in the alley, I noticed a guy watching us out of the corner of his eye, smoking a cigarette and trying to act nonchalant. At first, I figured it was just another junkie in this shooting gallery, but I got that sense of deja-vu from him that I’d been feeling tonight. I’m sure it was one of Burke’s men who was tailing me. I stood up, acting like I didn’t notice him and headed back to my loft.

I didn’t hear anything as I approached the door to my place, so I must have had her gagged well enough to keep the neighbors from hearing. I quickly went inside and to the bedroom. Apple had managed to knock the chair she was in over and scooch herself about a foot across the carpet despite being tied down. When she sees me, she tries yelling through the gag again, pleading this time. Her grunts sounded like something to the effect of “let me go” but it could have been “you sonofabitch”.

It didn’t matter. I went back to the living room where I could prepare a shot out of her eyesight, just like the junkie showed me. I palmed the needle, doing my best not to stick myself, then I went back into the bedroom and walked over next to Apple. She started grunting again, then let out a surprisingly loud scream when I stuck the hypodermic into the meaty part of her shoulder. Of course, this was a pretty ineffective place to inject heroin, so it took about ten minutes before it started to work on her. I paid close attention to her as she started to wind down, hoping I hadn’t given her too much. This fear was got even worse when she started to wretch. I knelt down and started tearing the duct tape from around her head, taking off large clumps of her blonde hair as I did it. When I pulled the washcloth from her mouth, a stream of gray vomit followed it. Then I grabbed the chair and set her upright so she wouldn’t drown on her own puke. A couple more heaves pretty much emptied the rest of the contents of her stomach onto her blouse. I cleaned off her chin and got her a cup of water from my Brita filter to wash out her mouth. Her eyes were rolling into the back of her head.

“Poo-py….what did…you…give to me?” she moaned.

I dabbed more of the vomit away from her mouth with some napkins. “Just relax. Everything is gonna be okay. Don’t you worry about your babies. I’ll get them back in just a little bit.”

Apple kept moaning, but it became increasingly incoherent as the heroin got absorbed into her bloodstream. Finally, when she was knocked out, I transferred her over to the bed and sat down on a clean place on the carpet. Now that Apple was taken care of, I had time to concentrate on my other problem, which was getting to my meeting with the FBI without Burke’s men knowing.

I was only able to think about it for about half an hour before I fell asleep on the carpet, but the more I thought about it, the bigger the problem became. I had to lose them without looking like I was trying to lose them. I’m pretty sure that they were aware that I was aware I was being followed and who was following me. If I was too obvious about trying to lose them, I’d open myself up to all sorts of retribution.

So I kept thinking about it all morning, until I had a loose semblance of a plan. The rest of the afternoon I spent trying to work up the nerve to actually do it, which is a lot different than the cerebral plotting I’d been doing before.

Anyway, I cook up another shot of heroin for Apple. I tie the rubber tubing around her forearm, tap out a vein and carefully stick the needle in roughly the same spot I stuck her the night before. She lets out a small yelp when I slide the needle in a pull the plunger back, drawing some blood into the syringe to make sure I hit a vein. Then I slowly pushed the solution into her bloodstream and undid the tourniquet. Apple gasped, and then seemed to melt into the bed. I pulled the needle from her vein and a small ribbon of blood leaked out of her arm. I dabbed at it with a corner of the bedspread until it the hole clotted.

“Cotton…” she moaned. “I feel like…cotton.”

“Just sit tight here, everything’s gonna be okay.”

I stayed with her for a little longer, just to make sure she was breathing okay. I looked at my 32 karat gold Rolex watch. It was two-thirty. If was gonna lose Burke’s men in time to make it to the meeting, I had to leave now.

After making sure my door was locked, I got into the elevator, took it to the ground floor, exited the lobby. The black car was right there across the street like it always is. I pretended not to notice it. Did they know that I knew they were following me? I was curious, though it wouldn’t really make much of a difference with my plan.

I walked out of downtown towards Downing Street. There was a porno video store slash-xxx arcade, live dancer booth type place down there called Alley Cat’s that I used to frequent back in the days before I could easily score porn on the Internet. It wasn’t a place that would be unusual for a porno-junkie like me to stop in, so hopefully it wouldn’t trigger any alarms with my followers. I figured I’d pay the ten bucks it cost to see a video in it’s entirety in one of the booths, then slip out the back door before anyone could follow me in. I’d have to pick a long, compilation video to give me enough time to make it to the FBI and back before they noticed. Alley Cat’s has one of the largest porno arcades in the state, and it did seem like these guys used some discretion in their surveillance. It would probably take them at least a half-hour before they even checked to see what I was doing in there.

As I made the long trek to the porno store, I mentally checked off all the ways my plan could fall through. If they immediately watched the fire exit on any place I went to, I’d be screwed. If the adult bookstore laws had changed since I last frequented the places and they made them take the doors off the booths so dudes couldn’t jerk off with privacy inside, I’d also be fucked. This could be likely since the neighborhood around Downing Street was rapidly being gentrified in the last few years. It used to be just your average, lower class, downtown crack neighborhood. Then it became popular with the typical, lazy, bohemian expressionist painter and noise band types. Now it was becoming popular with yuppies who were being priced out of downtown, where only people with money like me could afford a place any more. Just a couple months ago, they ran a report on the news about how the police were cracking down on vice in the area because they just opened an exclusive private school down there. Hopefully, the neighborhood hadn’t changed too much. I did know at least that Alley Cat’s was still there, thanks to a quick Google search I did the other night.

I crossed my fingers, hoping that things wouldn’t go wrong but fully prepared to improvise should something go sideways. Fuck, my whole life has gone out of control in just the last year and a half. I should be used to this shit by now.

Anyway, I get to Downing Street and the corner that Alley Cat’s Adult Book and Video Emporium was located and was relieved to see that the crusty old yellow and red sign was still there. They must not have changed it since the fucking seventies or something. I open the opaque that says MUST BE 18 OR OLDER TO ENTER ABSOLUTELY NO DRUGS ON THE PREMISES and step inside. I’m immediately greeted with the familiar dull glow of florescent light and smell of antiseptic cleaner from the jizz buckets I used to remember. The smell brings me back more than anything. They say that smell unlocks memory more effectively than almost any other sense.

The cashier desk is right by the turnstile. Some bored guy flipping through US Weekly doesn’t even look up to tell me: “Five dollars to browse. Entrance fee refundable if you buy something.”

I take out my wallet and flip through the bills until I found a five and put it on the counter. Without looking up from his magazine, the clerk sticks it in his register, then presses the buzzer to let me through the turnstile. It must have been a long time since I’ve been in here. It used to be only two bucks to browse. Fucking inflation…

Still, while I’d love to go through memory lane in this place, I had dire business to attend to. I immediately pass the glass case filled with leather straps, paddles, and enormous dildos and head over to the videos to start looking for one that has a lengthy running time. The first section I come to ends up being the gay section. I pass it by, after I look around for a little bit, I come to the realization that the entire store is a gay section. Dammit! I want to scream “No!” like Darth Vader when he learns that Natalie Portman is dead. Is nothing holy anymore? This used to be a respectable heterosexual porno store. The fucking fags want marriage, now this? What is the world coming to?

I stay cool though and remind myself that I’m not here to hang out. This isn’t really a crink in my plan since Van Hertzwelder already thinks I’m gay for what I did to his son when I was in jail. Being in here shouldn’t raise any red flags. So I start looking through the videos again, trying to look for the longest one I can find and ignoring all the extremely gay box art.

“Five dollars to browse. Entrance fee refundable if you buy something.”

I look up from the copy of “Stud Ranch 14” I have in my hand to see who is coming in. Shit! It looks like the guy who I saw in the alley last night. I recognize his goatee and everything. He hands the cashier his money, then starts looking over at me. I turn away quickly and try to act like I haven’t noticed him. Dammit! These fuckers are on me like a goddamn tick on a mangy dog. I thought I’d have a few minutes before they’d even come in here. I’m gonna need ninja skills to get out of here without them noticing.

“Stud Ranch 14” only has three scenes. Probably not long enough to cover me. The goatee guy walks around to the opposite end of the video stacks and starts acting like he’s browsing for videos too. I start to look through them desperately. Finally, I find one: “Dick Stretchy: The Compendium”. The cover is nothing but a picture of some impossibly buff gym rat with a penis that hangs halfway down his thigh, but that’s not the part that interests me. The dialogue box above Dick’s head saying: “Check this out guyz! Over three hours of footage from all my greatest scenes!” does. I nonchalantly take the video up to the counter. The clerk puts down his US Weekly and starts tapping numbers into the register.

“That’ll be twenty-six thirty two.”

“I don’t want to buy it,” I say quietly, hoping that the goatee guy can’t hear me. “I just want to view it in one of the booths.”

The clerk rolls his eyes. “We don’t have video booths here. Our DVDs are only for purchase.”

Okay, I’ve officially come to problem with my plan.

“Didn’t you used to?”

“Yes, but we had to get rid of them. Too many homeless people were using them to sleep in at night.”

I glance over to the door that used to lead to the movie arcade. There’s a big wooden door on it now with a sign that says “NO DRUGS OR NO SEXUAL ACTIVITY PERMITTED BY STATE LAW. SEE CASHIER FOR ENTRY.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“That’s the Man Hole,” the clerk says. “It’s twenty dollars to go in, forty per hour for your own private room.”

A light of hope here. I pull out my wallet, “I’ll take a private room for three hours.”

“I’m sorry, unfortunately all our rooms are occupied until five o’clock. I can put on a waiting list though if someone finishes up early.”

“No! I can’t wait!” I almost yell. Then I say five words that I never thought I’d say and never hope to repeat: “I need gay dick now.”

The clerk shrugs, “Well, just pay the entrance fee then. It shouldn’t be too hard to get an invitation into someone’s room. Those boys in there are always looking for smooth bottoms, cocksocket.”

I scratch the graft on my cheek, then pull out a twenty and hand it to him. “Okay, let’s do it.”

He puts the bill into the register then hands me a five back. “Your refund for the entrance fee. Go over to the door and I’ll buzz you in.”

I walk over there, feeling more than a little dirty. I try to glance over at the goatee man, but he’s across all the stacks of videos. I see him touch his ear and mumble something to no one. No doubt, he’s been listening to everything that’s been said. Still, I don’t think he knows my intentions just yet.

I stand by the door and there’s suddenly a jarring buzzing noise. The heavy lock on the door comes unlatched and I step inside. There is a neon sign on the inside that gaudly states:

“WELCOME TO MAN HOLES”.

The Winner: Part Nineteen

Five-days later and the rash on my ass still burns. I’ve tried every sort of cream and ointment I can find in the drug store, but it does nothing but numb it. Note to self, quit walking around with soiled pants for hours at a time. I’d make the time to see a dermatologist if I even thought I had a future anymore.

My house is destroyed. It looks as bad as my mother’s house was, maybe worse. I haven’t taken the trash out in ages. There is a mountain of empty takeout boxes piling up in my kitchen, all filled with rotting food since I only seem to be able to keep down maybe half of the food I order before I feel nauseous. I feel like I’ve lost ten pounds in just the last week. Then again, I could stand to lose about twenty more. Perhaps it’s a side benefit of being followed by a vast conspiracy.

Besides the mountains of trash, building up in my loft, every bit of furniture is destroyed. I hacked through the cushions of my Italian leather sofa with the largest of my set of Japanese steel kitchen knives, searching for bugs, cameras, anything that could be watching or listening to me. I’ve pulled up the carpet and hacked up the floorboards with an axe to see if anything had been placed there. I used a metal pole to poke holes in my ceiling, looking for cameras. Every nightstand or dresser or hutch is in a pile of splinters. I know they are watching me in here, I just know it. Why wouldn’t they be? I do it just to be safe. Fuck it, it’s one of the advantages of owning over renting that I can tear the place up so much and not worry about losing my deposit.

Of course, I don’t find anything resembling a microphone or a camera in the piles of splinters and plaster all over my house, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Those things are fucking tiny now. I could be being watched by a camera the size of a pinhole or a piece of wire and I wouldn’t know it. Even after literally destroying my house, I’m sure the bugs and cameras are still there, I just missed them. I try to find every possible blind spot there could be in my house. I sleep in my closet, figuring that it’s one of the more unlikely places that would be under surveillance. I realize that all this is doing me no good. After all, after destroying my house, they can just sneak back in and replace a bug and it would be harder to find with my place being so trashed.

But it isn’t just unfounded paranoia. I know for a fact they are watching me, at least when I’m outside. The black car I noticed on the curb the night Hirsch dropped me off hasn’t moved. Occasionally, it’s a replaced by a black SUV, but I still see the ubiquitous silhouettes of two men in it each time. Every time I leave my building (usually just to the drugstore where I can stock up on industrial sized bottles of Advil which I’ve been eating like Tic-Tacs lately now that I always seem to have a headache), the same black cars are always in the parking lot. I see them pass me as I walk down the street. I walk everywhere now. I haven’t even bothered to get my Mercedes out of the impound yard, even though I can afford it. A car is just another thing that they can bug or track.

Yes, I’m thinking in terms of “they” now. “They” are always watching. “They” are everywhere. This must be what schizophrenia feels like. I’m never alone. I must always be on guard. The people who have planned this have far too much at stake to not know where I am or what I’m doing at all times. I must presume that they have left nothing to chance.

Still, I try to bring some optimism to all this. After all, “they” cannot be totally omniscient. If they knew that I was having Hirsch try and get me in touch with the FBI, I can only assume that they would have killed either me or him by now. I call Hirsch every day much to his annoyance, usually on the pretext of the arrest I had last weekend, but mostly just to make sure he’s still alive. The fucker hits me up for more money every time, telling me the “complexities” of my case are taking more billable hours than he expected. I don’t care. If he can’t do what I asked him to do then I’ll be dead anyway. I can only assume that if “they” knew what the two of us were up to that we’d both be dead.

The cellphone that Burke left in my apartment hasn’t rung the entire time I’ve had it. That’s even more maddening. I don’t know what is going on, what plans are in the works that I have no idea about but will end with me killing the president. I guess it would be stupid to let me in on more than I needed to know. To me, “their” entire plan sounds kind of stupid.

Anyway, I’m in the bathroom, trying to apply more ointment to the rash on my ass. It doesn’t make the burning go away, but does reduce it to the level of just a bad sunburn. I’ve gone through two tubes of the stuff in the past week. I’ve just squirted a fresh line of it on my index finger when I hear my doorbell go off. I don’t answer it, I just continue to apply my ointment. But whoever is at the door keeps hitting the buzzer and won’t go away. Dammit. I wipe the remaining ointment off on some toilet paper, pull up my pants and hobble with my ointment slicked buttcheeks over to the door. If someone let a Jehovah’s Witness into the building, I’m gonna be fucking pissed.

I yank the door open, ready to yell, but I stop when I see Apple standing outside.

“Poopy, are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fucking fine,” I sneer. I’m still kind of pissed at her over the scene she made at the police station.

“Can I come in?”

“If you want to,” I say. I stand back from the door and let her inside. The swelling in her face has gone away. The bruises are changing from purple to yellow. She’s taken the bandages off her cuts, which are scabbing over. Still, it doesn’t look like Burke and his crew did any permanent damage to her besides her teeth. She looks officially like some hillbilly chick now, and not in a good Daisy Duke way either. Why the fuck did I get myself into such a mess over her?

“What happened here?” she asks, surveying the trash heap my apartment has become.

“It’s a long and unimportant story. Why are you here?”

But of course, I know why she’s here. She tells me anyway.

“Poopy, I want my babies back.”

“I’ll get them back for you, I promise. Just lay off me.”

Apple just nods. She backs up, opens up her purse and pulls out a Walther PPK, which she aims at my face.

“I’m through laying off you. Where are my kids?”

“Chill out,” I say, putting my hands up as if that will help. “I don’t know where they are right now. I’m working on it, I swear.”

“I covered for you with the police,” she says. “I told them I made up the whole kidnapping story for you. Now I’m in trouble with them and they’ve sent social workers to my trailer looking for my children. I told them they’re with Luke, but I don’t think they buy it. I’m in deep shit because of you and I want some answers.”

“Look,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything that’s going on, I just can’t tell you here. Let’s go someplace else, like the park or something. It’ll be safer.”

Apple shakes her head. “Someplace where I can’t keep a gun on you, huh? That’s convenient. Where else can you tell me what’s going on Poopy?”

“Not…here,” I repeat. “’They’re listening.” I cup one hand to my ear and wave my finger at the ceiling, but she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m pantomiming.

“No more games. Start talking or I’ll blow your head off.”

I smirk. “You won’t kill me. That gun you’re holding is nothing but a bluff—“

BANG! I feel a searing heat and pain in the side of my neck. I fall to the ground and land on a splinter that digs into my thigh. That fucking bitch shot me!

I clasp my hand to my neck and I feel blood running through my fingers. I can still breathe though, and there’s not too much blood (I figure if she hit me in the jugular, it would be coming out like a firehose), so she must have just grazed me. Still, if that bullet had been just a couple centimeters to the right, well then this story is over. I look up and she still has the gun trained on me.

“Start talking or I’ll shoot you again you sonofabitch!”

“I can’t! I swear!” I say. Dammit, one of my neighbors must have heard that shot. Then again, it’s one o’clock on a weekday and they all have to work. Besides, I’ve been making such a commotion tearing this place apart that even if they did hear it, they probably think it’s just me destroying another piece of furniture looking for microphones.

Apple orders me to get up, which I do. “Turn around,” she says. “Now go to the bathroom,” she says. I’m about to turn around and ask her why, when she prods me between the shoulder blades with the barrel of the Walther. “Move.”

I step over the piles of rubble and go into the master bathroom where I’d been applying my ointment just a few minutes earlier. Once inside, she shuts the door. “Lay down on your back in the tub you bastard.”

I do as she says. It only occurs to me after I’ve complied that she’s probably doing this to make it easier to clean up the blood if she decides to kill me.

But that’s not what she has in mind. As soon as I’m in the tub, she gets in with me, standing over my head. I can look up her skirt and I see she’s not wearing any panties. She’s let her pubic hair grow out into a wild and wooly bush since she stopped working at the strip club. She hikes up her skirt and squats down over my face. Sensing this is my best chance to overpower, I start to sit up. I stop when she jams the barrel of her gun against my crotch, digging it into my balls.

“Where the fuck are my babies, Poopy?”

“I’ll tell you! I just can’t tell you here! Please!”

Her butthole starts undulate and she lets out a mini-fart. A tiny squirt of liquid shit comes out. The smell is horrible.

“I’ve been wanting to pay you back for the time you did this to me for weeks now you sick fucker. Tell me what happened to my children and I’ll take a raincheck.”

“I’m serious! I can’t! They’ll kill us both if I tell you!”

Apple lets fly another fart; a louder one this time. There’s something nasty up in there. I start to gag at the smell.

“I think I should tell you that I’ve been eating off the value menu at Taco Bell all afternoon to get my shit smelling nice and stinky. Gave me kind of a tummy ache. But that’s the way you like it, right Poopy?”

I’m about to open my mouth and say something when a geyser of liquid shit hits me in the face. Some of it gets in my mouth and my nostrils. The stench is so overwhelming that I literally can’t smell anything anymore. My mind just shuts that part of the five senses off. Unfortunately, my sense of touch is still very active and I can feel the diarehea drip all over my face. I try to sit up, but a Apple just squashes the gun against my balls even harder. They feel like they’re gonna burst like grapes. I’m able to move my wrist up to wipe some of the shit out of my eyes. All that does is make it so I can see the snake of solid fecal matter coming at me. I’m able to shake my head enough so the initial bit of it just slides off my face, but the rest settles on my upper lip and balls up on my upper lip like warm, soft serve ice cream.

“For the last time! Tell me where my kids are or I’ll blow your balls off!” I hear the ominous click of her turning off the safety on the Walther. I don’t even open my mouth to protest, for fear of the any more of the shit getting in my mouth. I do grunt a bit though.

Then there’s a dinging sound. It’s my doorbell. I start grunting louder, but Apple barks at me: “Shut up.” I lay there, perfectly still. The doorbell rings again. Apple prods me with the gun again, to make sure I stay quiet, but whoever is there rings it again. They aren’t going away.

Apple jumps off me and turns around, keeping the gun on me. “Are you expecting someone?”

I don’t answer her, I just push off the pile of shit off my face and try to start spitting the taste of fecal matter out of my mouth.

She tosses me a towel. “Answer the door and make them go away. We aren’t done here…”

I take the towel and frantically try and wipe as much of the crap off my face as I can. I get up slowly since my balls are aching terribly. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and despite the little bit of clean-up I was able to get done, I still look like something a dog shat out…so to speak.

“Don’t do or say anything stupid,” Apple says. She keeps the gun on me as we head towards the door. She stands next to the entrance where she can’t be seen from the outside.

The doorbell rings once more before I unlatch it. Outside is some Mexican teenager whose face scrunches up when he gets a look (or just as likely, a whiff) of me.

“Uh…sir, is your name Poopy Peanutz?”

A bit of liquid shit I missed with the towel trickles from my forehead and into my eye. I wipe it off using the back of my wrist.

“What do you think?” I sneer.

The kid backs away from the door some. “Hey, I was told to give you a message.”

“Who told you?”

“Some old dude. Said he’s give me twenty bucks to tell you personally,” the kid says. “He told me to tell you ‘The meeting you wanted will happen at four tomorrow in a gray van behind the Wilshire Apartments on sixth. Don’t be late.’”

“You positive?”

“Yeah. The guy made me repeat it a bunch of times to make sure I remembered.” The kid fidgets around. “Say, am I supposed to get my twenty bucks from you or from him, ‘cause he didn’t really explain—“

I shut the door in his face. After a second, I hear him mutter “Pendejo” on the other side and his sneakers clop off down the hall. I keep my head close to the door until I can hear that he’s completely gone. Apple moves in closer, aiming the gun at me from her hip.

“This ‘meeting’ has to do with my kids, doesn’t it? Are they gonna be there, ‘cause if they are I’m going along—“

I yank the door back open and it connects with her face with a solid CLUMP. Apple falls to the ground and I jump on her, grabbing her gun and trying to pry it from her fingers before she can pop off another shot. She’s dazed, but not unconscious. I manage to bend her wrist back far enough to yank the Walther out of her hand.

“Poopy!” she screams. “I just want my…” I bring the butt of the pistol down on her face twice and she’s knocked out cold. Blood streams from her nose. At least she’s still breathing.

I keep the gun trained on her until I’m certain she’s not gonna get up. Then I tuck it in the back of my pants, then start dragging her across the apartment into my bedroom, where the one chair I haven’t destroyed (mostly because it’s made of some fairly strudy stainless steel) and do my best to prop her dead weight onto it. She lets out a groan. I pull the pistol out, ready to knock her unconscious again, but she’s still not really awake.

I yank the sheets off my bed and tie her wrists, legs, and torso to the chair. She groans again as I pull it tight around her chest. When I’m done, it looks like she’s wrapped in some thousand-threadcount toga. Not really artful, but it looks like it will keep her down. I find a washcloth from my bathroom that hasn’t been soiled and stuff it in her mouth, then I grab a roll of duct tape and wrap it around her head to keep it in place. Blood starts bubbling from her nose. Fuck, I hope she can breathe since I’m pretty sure I broke her nose when I hit her. I watch her for a few minutes, making she I didn’t strangle her. When I’m convinced this won’t kill her, I go back into the bathroom to wash myself up a bit better and throw on some clean (or at least, cleaner) clothes.

After I’ve freshened up, I go and sit by the balcony window and look down to the street, Walther PPK in hand. The ubiquitous black car is still stationed down there in the same spot it’s been almost every day this week. These guys aren’t being particularly subtle about keeping me under surveillance. I have half a mind to take the gun, go down there and shoot every person in that car in their fucking face, get sent to jail again and be done with this whole thing. Or, maybe I should just put this gun in my mouth and blow my brains out. But then I’d be condemning Apple, her children, and my mother to death. For some reason, that bothers me now.

I shouldn’t despair though. Hirsch came through for me. If I can only convince the FBI I’m not full of shit tomorrow, perhaps I’ll pull through this. Maybe I can get them to give me witness protection and I can leave this whole life behind me. Start fresh and maybe become a better person. I don’t want to be me any more. I hate myself more than anything else in this world.

The Winner: Part Eighteen

I spend the next two hours sitting in the interrogation room, bored out of my mind until the lawyer Sergei got for me arrives. A short, fat, sweaty Jewish guy storms in with Agent D’anci in tow.

“Sir, I must implore you to give us at least one more hour with Mr. Peanutz. The lives of two children might be at stake.”

The lawyer sticks his hand out to me, “Mr. Peanutz, I’m Simon Hirsch, your attorney.” He gives my hand one firm pump, then turns to back to Agent D’anci. “If you want any more time with my client, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to charge him. That is, if a crime was even committed. Didn’t Ms. Clements just give a statement to the affect that this kidnapping did not even occur and was just a way to seek revenge from my client because of some personal redress?”

“She told one of the officers that,” Agent D’anci says. “But we suspect that it was given under duress. Until we have actually seen that the babies are safe, we’re going proceeding as if they are still in danger.”

Hirsch shakes his head, “Mr. D’anci, the only proof that this crime even happened came from Ms. Clements statement. Now that Ms. Clements is backing down from it, what makes you think her inconsistent statements are more valid than my client’s inconsistent statements. Mr. Peanutz, please get up. We’re leaving.”

“We are permitted to detain Mr. Peanutz for at least four more hours.”

“For a crime that may not have even been committed? Unless you let me and my client out of this station now, I will file a formal complaint with the Justice Department in the morning before I go do twelve holes on the links with this district’s federal prosecutor. He owes me ten-grand on our last golf game and I’ll see if there’s a different way he’d like to fulfill his debt to me. Good day.”

Hirsch grabs my hand and starts leading me out of the police station. My fucking angel, swooping down and rescuing me from the cops. At least I now know that Apple did like I told her to do and tell the cops she was lying. They don’t believe her, but it gunks up their case enough that they don’t know what to do now.

After stopping at the window to sign out the rest of my belongings (basically my car and house keys and the receipt for the BB gun from Wal-Mart), Hirsch takes me out to his car, a late model BMW sedan.

“Get in here, Peanutz. I’ll give you a lift home.”

He unlocks the doors with his remote. I hop in the passenger side. “Thanks for giving me a lift home. Goddamn I’m tired.”

“Don’t thank me,” Hirsch says, jamming his keys in the ignition and gunning the engine on. “Because when I get you home, you’re gonna march right upstairs and cut me a check for four-thousand dollars.”

“Four thousand?” I gasp. “Sergei told me this would only be two grand.”

“Two grand is for waking up in the middle of the night when I’m home asleep with my wife to get some schlmeil out of jail for a DUI. Four grand is for when I go to the jail and find out he’s not there for a fuckin’ DUI but that he’s caught up in a federal kidnapping investigation!”

To punctuate his displeasure with me, he takes the next corner hard to the left, pushing me up against the door.

“You stupid fuck,” Hirsch goes on. “When I found out what you were really in there for, I nearly turned around and walked out the door. Your lucky I’m fuckin’ brilliant, otherwise those feds would keep you detained long enough to charge you. They still might unless I start preparing a half dozen motions to drop off in the federal prosecutor’s office first thing Monday morning…”

“Well, I appreciate the effort…”

“Fuck the effort!” he screams. “Tomorrow is the Sabbath. There’s only two things I do on the Sabbath; synagogue and golf! My wife is gonna kill me! She’s gotten on this orthodox kick lately. She’s making me fuck her through a sheet for the last six months! A fucking sheet! She won’t even let me do that if she finds out I’m working on the fucking Sabbath!”

I’ve had enough of this hebe. “Hirsch, would you do me a favor?”

“What now?”

“Shut the fuck up. I could care less about your wife or whatever Jew problems your having. I’m your client now and you’ll spend whatever time it takes to get your paperwork done.”

Hirsch hocks a wad of phlegm out the window of the Bimmer. “I’ll wait until I have a check that I’m sure won’t bounce in my hand before I consider you a ‘client’.”

“Did Sergei tell you who I am?” I snap back. “I got all the cash I’ll ever need.”

“As a matter of fact he did. You’re that guy who won the lottery a couple months ago. So fucking what? I’ve been an attorney for twenty years. I’m sure my net worth is at least three times what yours is. Your just a flash in the pan who’ll be broke and working some shit fast-food job this time next year.”

Hirsch is really starting to piss me off. “Well excuse me for arguing with a Jew over money…”

“Shut the fuck up you Hitler-loving cunt before I strangle you and leave your body in a fucking dumpster.”

I roll my eyes. Whatever. Hirsch looks like he’s gonna have a heart attack behind the wheel of the car, but at least he shuts up so I do the same. As we drive along, I suddenly have an idea. It’s probably a bad idea, but it can’t be worse than any of the other ideas I’ve had in my life.

When we pull up to my building, Hirsh looks at me scowling. “Peanutz, I’m waiting here until you come back with my check made out to four thousand dollars. If I have to come up there to get it, I will beat your ass to a fuckin’ paste and let the FBI have you.”

I’m exasperated, “Relax, I’ll get your money you…” I was about to add something like “Christ Killer” but I bite my tongue. Part of my bad idea does involve making nice with this tempermental jerk off.

Anyway, I step out of his Nazi-sled and unlock the front door of building’s entrance. I go up to my apartment, write out Hirsch’s check, then come back downstairs to his car. He’s left the engine running, I lean in the window and hand him the check.

“Here you go,” I say.

Hirsch looks over it, then his eyes widen. “Whoa, Peanutz. I said four thousand dollars. This check is for ten thousand. What gives?”

“Besides being fucked over by them, I haven’t had much experience with lawyers. Is six-thousand dollars enough of a retainer so I can take you on as my attorney?”

“Yeah. Six thousand is good start. For six thousand, I won’t only file with the prosecutors. I’ll try and get your record expunged.”

“Actually, I have something else in mind,” I say. “Do you mind if I we go for a quick ride around the block so we can talk?”

“Why can’t we talk here?” Hirsch asks.

“I don’t feel safe talking here. It’s better to do it elsewhere, if you get my drift.” After all, I’m pretty sure Burke has some guys if not following me 24/7, at least staked out and doing surveillance on my place.

“Whatever you want. Get in.”

I get back into his car and Hirsh starts to drive around with no real purpose. I lean over and turn the radio on just high enough that it might screw up any bugs that might have been put in the car. I also keep an eye out for cars that might be following us.

“So, what’s going on here?” Hirsch asks. “First off, are you involved with this kidnapping? We’re under attorney client privilege now and I really don’t care whether or not you are. I work cases for the Russians all the time. I got fucking Boris Davidovitch cleared off a RICO case for christssake.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not involved in the kidnapping. Or at least, I’m not involved in that I didn’t kidnap the children myself or have anyone do it on my behalf.”

“So how are you involved?”

“I can’t tell you. And believe me, you wouldn’t want to know. The less you know, the better.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I need you to arrange a discreet meeting between me and the FBI in the next couple of days.”

“What the fuck?” Hirsch yells. “I just spent all night getting you away from the FBI. If you wanted to talk to them, why didn’t you do it at the police station when they were questioning you?”

“I can’t tell you why, but I couldn’t talk to them there,” I say. “Listen, just believe me that it’s important that I talk to them and that it will help get Apple’s children back as well as prevent a whole bunch of other shit from going down.”

Hirsch looks at me suspiciously, then takes another corner just a bit too quickly (for which I’m glad, it should be easier to spot someone following us if he turns often and suddenly). “What are you supposed to be, Peanutz? Some sort of spy or informant or some shit?”

I roll my eyes. On the other hand, giving that impression might make it easier for him to handle this with some discretion. “Sir, the less you know the better off you are. Just make sure this is handled as anonymously as possible. I don’t even want to know where I’m meeting these people until the last minute. You don’t realize, I’m being watched all the time.”

“Watched by who? This doesn’t have to do with the Russian mob does it? I’m their lawyer, I can’t go against them.”

“Look shithead, use your head. If I was trying to bring down the Russian mob, would I have called Sergei?”

“You and I both know Sergei isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. You could be using him…”

I groan. “This has nothing to do with the Russian mob. I’ve got nothing against them.”

“Well, then who is it? I know you don’t want to tell me but if you think the FBI is gonna meet an alleged informant just because he says he’s got supposedly got something important to say, you’re on crack. For all I know, you’re gonna give them a copy of Loose Change or claim to know about the alien landings at Roswell or some sort of conspiracy crap.”

I sit, staring out the window for a moment. Hirsch is right; I gotta tell them something to make them believe a meeting with me is worthwhile. “Do you know who Carl Van Hertzwelder is?”

This seems to wake him up. “Carl Van Hertzwelder? Of course I know him. The guy is the ultimate shyster of the rich and powerful. The guy makes me look like fucking Thurgood Marshall for chrissake.”

“Well, I have information that implicates him and several high level government officials in crimes against the United States. I’m talking shit that goes all the way up to Oval Office, you understand?”

Hirsch doesn’t say anything.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“I think someone is following us,” Hirsch says.

“SHIT!” I mutter. I start turning around to look for myself, but Hirsch shoves me back in my seat.

“Don’t turn around, just look in your window. Black car. It’s been following us for the last three turns. I’m gonna try to lose him.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “If they know enough to be tailing you, then there’s no point in trying to hide now. But do you believe what I’m saying to you now? I’m in some serious shit here and I have to talk to the FBI.”

Hirsch nods. “I believe you. Just promise me two things, you’re not gonna spout off some 9/11 conspiracy bullshit when you meet these people and two, you won’t implicate the Russians.”

“Done and done,” I say. “And you promise me you’ll be as discreet as possible.”

“Yeah, I can do this quietly. I know a few people at the Bureau that can fasttrack a request. It’s not like I haven’t fed them info in the past.”

Hirsch makes another turn and try to look out the side mirror to see if I can spot the car following us, but I can’t. I’ll just have to take his word.

“What should I do now? Should I just drop you off back at home?”

“Yeah, might as well. No point in trying to shake them, though you might want to if you don’t want them to know where you live.”

“If they have enough resources to put a tail on you, then they can probably find out where I live. Luckily, my neighborhood has a gate and some pretty good security so I’m not too worried.”

We haven’t driven too far away from where I live, so it only takes about ten minutes to get back there. I get out of his car, then poke my head back through the window. “When you contact me with the time and the place of the meet, don’t do it by phone. I think they have my phones tapped. And no emails either. Write it on a piece of paper and leave it some place I’ll find it.”

“No problem,” he says. I start to walk away and he calls out, “Oh and fuck you Peanutz. If this shit you’re into ends up blowing back on me, I’ll fuckin’ turn on you like that.”

I don’t say or do anything. Fuckin’ asshole. I just handed him ten-thousand dollars and he’s gonna talk shit to me like that. I deserve a little bit of respect. Well, maybe not. Fuck it.

I go back into my building, take the elevator up to my floor and go to my door. I go inside my loft and turn on the light. There’s something on the floor in front of me. It’s a cellphone, just like the one that Burke gave to me. Under it is a typed note:

I see you lost your phone Mr. Peanutz, after I told you not to. Well, here’s a replacement. Lose this one and there will be dire consequences. We hope you haven’t done or said anything stupid.

B.

I pick up the phone a quickly check each room, every closet, under the fucking bed to make sure there is no one in the house. My paranoia has just shot up another notch. While I’m sure that it’s probably a trivial thing to break into my loft (I suspect they’ve probably done it before today if they are watching me this closely) it still doesn’t make me feel good. This invasion is putting me off kilter. They are sending me a message, they can get to me any time, any where.

When I’m fairly certain that I’m alone, I turn off the lights and look out my balcony window. I’m four-stories up, but my balcony faces the street. I get on my hands and knees and peer down.

I’m upset to see exactly what I expected to see: a black car, windows tinted almost opaque. It hadn’t been there when Hirsch dropped me off. I’m almost certain this is the same car that was following us earlier. I’d never noticed it before. Had it been following since before even today? Fuck. All this is really screwing with my head.

I lay on the floor, watching this black car for hours until I fall asleep. I don’t wake up again for almost twenty hours.