The Winner: The End?

“Good afternoon. Account services. My name is Peter, how may I assist you?”

The voice on the other end of the headset has a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Well, Peter, how you can assist me is to tell me why I suddenly have a seventy dollar charge on my credit card statement from your company.”

I clear my throat and read from the script in front of me. “If you are referring to the bill for services for 69.95 from Hoffman Travel Services, it is our monthly membership charge for our service. Surely you received our information packet in the mail.”

“I vaguely remember receiving something from you people with some coupons for hotels and car rentals. I threw it out like the junk mail it is. You’re telling me you charge seventy dollars a month for that?”

“It is included as a service with the new Citibank Visa you opened on April 12th of this year,” I say. “The membership in Hoffman Travel Services is listed on paragraph thirty of the terms and conditions pamphlet you received with your card, clearly stating that you have up until a month after instatement of your card to decline being enrolled in the service.”

“Look, Peter. I signed up for a credit card, not some fucking travel club or whatever you are. And you will take this charge off my card…right…now.”

“Sir, profanity is not necessary…”

“The fuck it is. I don’t know anything about your club and have never used it so take it the fuck off my bill right fucking now you stupid fucking cunt.”

Stupid fucking cunt? Okay, I’ve tried to keep it civil up to this point. Really, I don’t care whether we refund this guy back his money since we end up doing it for about seventy percent of the people that call here. But he doesn’t have to be such an asshole about it.

“What did you just call me?”

“A stupid fucking cunt. Now take this charge off my card now. You’re lucky if I don’t sue you and you’re whole fucking company.”

Unfortunately, they have disabled the button to hang up on people on my phone console (probably because we get so many of these types of people we’d be hanging up on the majority of them) so instead I say, “Fuck you. I ain’t refunding shit until you apologize for calling me a cunt.”

“What the hell did you say to me?” the caller suddenly screams.

But I’m on a roll here. “I said apologize for calling me a cunt or not only am I not going to refund your money, I’m gonna sign you up for our platinum membership which is a hundred and fifty dollar charge recurring monthly, then I’ll flag your account for possible identity theft which will fuck with your credit rating, how do you like that?”

“You don’t have the balls you fuckin’ pissant,” the voice says. “Now put your supervisor on the phone so I can get this charge taken off and get you fired for fraud.”

“My supervisor is at lunch,” I lie. It looks like my supervisor Ray has actually been listening into my call. In fact, I see that fat fuck waddling from his office over to my cubicle after hearing all the commotion.

“What’s your name then, I’ll call back when he’s done with his lunch. Hell, I’ll call the president of your damn company.”

“My name is Peter. Peter Paulson you stupid piece of shit. Write it down so you don’t forget when you call them.”

“Oh, I won’t forget,” he sneers. “Where you live pussy? Maybe I’ll just show up there and kick your ass in person.”

“Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Come find me motherfucker. You sound really tough over the phone. So does my fucking mother.”

Ray has finally dragged his whole fat ass from down the hall. He yanks the headset off my head sticks it on his own. “Hello sir, my name is Ray, I’m the supervisor at this call center. What seems to be the problem?…Yes, yes, I apologize for his behavior…I will refund the membership fee immediately, the money should be back on your account within two to three days…no, you will not see any more charges from our company on your card…yes, I will be having a serious talk with Peter regarding his conduct on the phone…again, I apologize profusely for his behavior…have a good day sir…”

Profusely? For some reason, that word makes me laugh. Ray leans over so he can reach my computer. The sweat stains under his armpits are inches away from my face, so close I can practically smell the apeish odor of his bacteria. He punches in the reversal of charges on his account, then takes off my headset and places it on the desk. “Peter, can I talk with you for a minute.”

“For you, Ray, I’ve got five.”

Ray is pissed, but he’s trying to keep it bottled in. This is probably the tenth time he’s talked to me about cursing at the customers.

“Listen, Peter. I know that often the people that call in here are tempermental. But you can’t use swear words at them over the phone.”

“Why not?” I say. “You heard him. He was swearing at me.”

“I know he was, but…you still just can’t talk with people on the phone like that.”

“Whatever,” I say.

“Also, what did I tell you about covering up that tattoo on your face. Some of the ladies here have mentioned to me today.”

“Hey, it’s not a tattoo. It’s a disfigurement. Just like this is,” I say, waving my thumbless left hand in his face. “Of course, if you’ve got a problem with it, I could always go contact my lawyer.”

Ray growls. “Listen, why don’t you go take a fifteen minute break and cool off and when you come back, try not to swear at the people on the phone. Seriously.

I stand up and give him a pat on the shoulder. “You’re the boss, tons of fun. Be back in a few.” Then I head off to the break room, leaving Ray to stew.

On one level, this call center job is just as crappy as any other job I’ve ever had. It’s just as shitty except for the crucial difference that I can never get fired from this place. The government set me up with this job as part of my cover, as well as a thousand dollar a month stipend. They also provided me with a house to live in. Unfortunately, the house they gave me was seized by the DEA because it was being used as a meth lab. They assured me it was safe, but the place still stinks of chemicals no matter how much Glade I spray around the place.

It’s well after lunchtime, so there is no one inside the break room. Just me, the refrigerator, the television set to Judge Judy with the closed captioning on, and pile of empty thimbles of half and half and used plastic stirrer sticks next to the coffee maker since the low class trash they employ at this call center can’t even be bothered with tossing them into the trashcan just three feet away from the counter. The half-cup worth of scorched java in the carafe looks about as appealing as drinking hot dog piss, and I’ve got some change in my pocket so I decide to get a Dr. Pepper from the soda machine in the corner.

I walk up to it and dig through my pocket for the dollar worth of quarters I know is in there. I feel it, but I just can’t get it into my hand for some reason…no, I know the reason. I’m using my thumbless hand. It’s strange, but I often forget that it’s even missing. It’s that “phantom limb” syndrome, where the nerves still believe my hand is whole. I make that mistake all the time when I try to reach for stuff with my left hand. It’s the weirdest feeling, especially when it gets an itch. Well, at least I jerk off with my right hand. I don’t think I could get it up if I had to beat off using this scarred old flipper.

I finally get the coins out and drop them down the slot. I press the button Dr. Pepper button, but the LCD screen tells me to “please make another selection” so I end up just getting a Cherry Coke. I lean over to pick the plastic bottle out of the tray and when I stand up, I get a rush of blood to the head. I feel dizzy. I pull up one of the plastic chairs and sit down in it until I can get my bearings…

2.

…I’ve been staring at the heart monitor next to the bed for what seems like forever now. I’ve been on the verge of consciousness for a while now, but I can’t quite make the leap into being fully awake. I don’t think I want to. I need a break from everything and this is it, just staring for minutes, hours, days at the electronic line and the spikes that correspond to my heartbeat. It’s really hypnotic.

However, even as much as I try to keep my consciousness buried down, awareness of my surroundings slowly begins to creep in. I blame the doctor that came in an indeterminate time ago who shined a penlight into my eyes as the starting point to where I began to crawl out of the mind hole. I’m in some sort of hospital room. There is a TV hanging from a rack on the ceiling, but it hasn’t been turned on for as long as I’ve noticed it. I’ve got IV tubes in both of my arms, oxygen being fed into a tube in my nose. I had an itch on my ass and I shifted my hips and that’s when I became painfully aware of the catheter that’s jammed up into my bladder through my pisshole. I try to put that out my mind as best as I can.

At some point, another doctor comes into the room. He pulls out his flashlight and shines it into my eyes again. I squint and turn my head as far as the plastic tubes in my face will allow me.

“Hello, sir,” the doctor says. “Do you know you’re name?”

“Yeah,” I croak. My mouth is practically plastered shut with dried saliva.

“What is it?”

“Poopy Peanutz,” I say. “Get that light out of my eyes motherfucker.”

The doctor puts his penlight back into his breast pocket, then goes back to the door and opens it up. Outside, I see a pair of Marines patrolling the hallway decked out in full body armor and M-4’s. I hear the doctor say something to some men just out of my sight line.

“The subject is awake now. I just checked him out. No obvious signs of brain damage but there’s no way to tell without a full battery of tests.”

The person I can’t see says curtly, “Can he talk?”

“Well…yes. I mean, he knows his name and he did call me a ‘motherfucker’, but that doesn’t mean his motor skills are—“

“As long as he can talk, that’s all we need,” the unseen person says.

“The man just woke up,” the doctor protests, then reconsiders. “You don’t plan on speaking with him for very long.”

“No,” he says. “We just need to speak with him briefly for now.”

The doctor steps aside and two men in the bland suits of government suits step inside. The first one pulls up a chair and sits next to the bed. “Mr. Peanutz, do you remember us?”

The two of them look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place them. Fuck, maybe I am brain damaged.

“No.”

“I’m Agent D’anci and that’s Agent Johnson. We spoke several weeks ago at the police station over the alleged kidnapping of some children.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, you guys…Where the hell am I?”

“You’re at Bethesda Hospital, Maryland.”

I figured as much, then suddenly a freeze. Adrenaline starts coursing through my veins. “You guys need to get me out of here. I’m a sitting duck. Please get me out of here.”

“Peanutz, you’re in no physical condition to even go to the bathroom on your own, much less out of this hospital,” Agent Johnson says. “Please be calm. The FBI has you in protective custody.”

“Wow, that’s reassuring,” I say. “Last time I tried to contact you guys, my lawyer got killed, a baby got mutilated, and I had to stick my arm up another man’s asshole. So forgive me if I don’t exactly feel safe at the prospect of being in your custody.”

Both Agents Johnson and D’anci grimace simultaneously. “Please, Mr. Peanutz. Lay back down and relax. You are being very well protected. Access to you is very tightly guarded. After all, you are at the center of one of the biggest conspiracies in this nation’s history.”

I flop back down on the pillow, since they are right. I am in no physical condition to move. Just the exertion of trying to sit up has left me exhausted. “Look, I’m not at the center of any conspiracy. I’m a fucking patsy. They were forcing me to carry that bomb.”

“Who forced you?” Agent D’anci asks, pulling out a notebook.

“Some Secret Service agent named Burke and that lawyer, Carl Van Hertzwelder.”

“Yes, we know all about them,” he says. “Did they give any indication of who they were working for?”

I shake my head. “No. Besides a few other men who worked for them, I didn’t meet anyone else and they didn’t tell me about anyone else. I’m certain there were others involved though. They couldn’t have done this by themselves.”

Agent D’anci scribbles some more in his notepad.

“You’ve arrested them right?”

“We’ve arrested Carl Van Hertzwelder,” Agent Johnson says. “A member of the Secret Service detail found the tape recorder you used and based on the information on it, we arrested him at the scene. Right now, he’s in a cell somewhere in Pakistan, being interrogated by some people who may or may not be affiliated with our government, you know, to keep the human rights people off our backs.”

“What about Burke?”

“We were about to arrest Julian Burke shortly after we picked up Van Hertzwelder, but he was already put on an ambulance heading towards the hospital from the gun shot wound you gave him. That ambulance never reached the hospital. We found it a few days later abandoned on the street. Both of the EMT’s were dead inside it. One’s neck was broken, the other was strangled to death. Burke is still missing. Just this morning we promoted him to number two on the FBI’s most wanted list behind Osama Bin Laden.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan. “You can see why I don’t exactly feel safe here seeing as Burke is still at large. Besides, he insinuated that the people he worked for were in almost every branch of the government. They can still get to me.”

“That concerns us a great deal,” Agent D’anci says. “You have been in a coma for four days though. I think that if they were going to get you, they would have gotten you by now.”

“What about my mother?” I ask. “What about Apple? Where are they?”

“Who is Apple?”

“She was the woman whose kids were kidnapped, remember?” I say. “It was Burke and Van Hertzwelder who took them. I couldn’t tell you it was them because they said they’d kill them if I did. That’s why I was acting so…so…”

“Evasive,” Johnson finishes for me.

“Yeah. They were gonna kill them, that’s why I couldn’t tell you. Anyway, listen, this is important. The men who took her children promised to return them to her if I went through with assassinating the president. She went with some of Burke’s men to get her kids back right before I left to go to the country club. Since I didn’t end up killing the president, we’ve got to find them before…you know…the worst happens.”

Agent Johnson walks over to Agent D’anci, whispers something in his ear, then walks out the door. Agent D’anci looks concerned, “After the botched assassination, we did try to contact Ms. Clements since she was a known associate of yours. We were unable to contact her, but finding her was never a priority since we did not believe she had any involvement with the actual attack.”

“She didn’t,” I explain. “She’s an innocent bystander who got caught up in my mess.”

“But let’s be clear, you believe she is in the hands of people who were behind the attack?”

“Yeah. Or, at least, I hope she still is. Has it really been four days?”

D’anci doesn’t answer me. He’s writing something in his notes. “Do you have any idea where Burke’s men took her?”

“No. But the last time she contacted me was at the Greyhound Station downtown. I gave her a bus ticket to Oklahoma and told her to call me from the station. I put the number in my phone so I’d know she’d gotten away. I think they followed her there though. At least, that’s the impression I got on the phone.”

D’anci writes that down. “It’s very likely they did. That’s standard black-ops tradecraft. At least if you say she made it to the bus station, that’s a good lead for us to follow. There are likely several cameras in the facility and many possible witnesses.”

The doctor comes back into the room. “Please, I must insist that you leave so that the patient can rest. He’s just come out of a coma and we need to do a thorough examination of him.”

Agent D’anci puts his notebook away. “That’s okay. I was just about to leave. He’s given us plenty to work on for now. Keep this fellow healthy, doctor. He’s probably the most important man in America right now.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” the doctor says. “Especially considering the number of people you have here to protect him.”

He’s about to leave when I remember something. “My mother, what happened to my mother?”

He turns around. “Your mother is safe and being debriefed at an undisclosed location.”

I sigh. “Good. I was afraid you guys would kill her over that suitcase nuke stunt.”

“We were close,” Agent D’anci says. “From the report I read, a sniper was able to sneak up close enough to her to get a perfect CNS shot to her upper lip, even with her face being obscured by the traditional Muslim outfit. Luckily, the sniper had done a tour in Iraq and when he realized that your mother was pronouncing ‘allahu ackbar’ as ‘all to the snackbar’ he stood down. He figured it was some leftist protest art thing and used his beanbag rounds instead.”

I smile. My mom’s retardedness not only ended up saving my life and the President’s life, but her own. I knew this would happen. “I knew that fake suitcase nuke thing would work like a charm. Christ, I’m so fucking brilliant.”

“Not really,” Agent D’anci says. “I mean, in addition to bomb sensors, Secret Service protocol makes sure there are radiological sensors all over any area the President is expected to be in. I mean, within minutes they were able to tell there wasn’t even an X-ray in that briefcase…”

“So why did they…”

“…as well as the fact that all know configurations of a suitcase nuke are still much too large to fit inside a commercial briefcase. And besides, suitcase nukes are mostly theoretical and that while designs and a few non-working prototypes have been found, there are no instances where…”

I’m feeling deflated enough for right now. “Hey, get out of here and go find Apple and her kids. You heard the doctor, I’m in a weakened state here.”

Agent D’anci leaves and I stare at the ceiling. I have a nagging feeling in my gut that this is all not over with…

3.

I get home a little after seven and the house smells like tomatoes and a rusty air conditioner. Again. I put my jacket in the closet and head towards the living room and nearly trip on a large yellow toy truck one of the brats has left conveniently in the hallway like I’ve told them not to a million times. I guess tonight will be a million and one.

Amy is facing the stove when I walk into the kitchen, stirring a huge pot of something. She’s wearing a orange dress with tacky green flowers all over it and some flip flops she bought at the swap meet when we when went last week. I walk up behind her, put my hands around her waist and kiss the back of her neck. She jumps when I touch her.

“Shit, Peter. You startled me.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I thought you heard me come in.”

She turns around, looking pissed. “How could I hear you over this racket?” She points her wooden spoon towards the living room, where the kids are watching Barney at high volume. I shrug and she turns around to keep stirring the pot. Considering what she’s been through, I guess I can’t blame her for being kinda jumpy.

“What are you making?”

“It’s called ‘Cheesy Beany Pasta Casserole’. I saw Rachael Ray make something like it the other day.”

“Smells good,” I lie. If it’s anything like what she usually makes for dinner, then it’s some combination of stewed tomatoes, kidney beans, egg noodles, cheap hamburger and Velveeta. I love Amy, but she can’t cook a damn.

I go to the fridge, get a can of store brand cola and go sit in the recliner in front of the TV, which the boys are sitting way too close to. Barney has always made my skin crawl, so I change the channel to some news. The boys begin to whine almost immediately.

“Peeeeter…”

“Shut up,” I say. “You two have probably been watching TV all day. Go read a book or something.”

Johnny, the older of the two gets up and mobs me on the couch. “No we haven’t! We haven’t watched any TV today! Change it back! Change it back!”

“It’s my TV dammit,” I say, keeping the remote control out of his reach. “Now, go wash your hands. Dinner’s gonna be ready in a few minutes.”

Johnny pouts and says, “You’re a jerky-face!” before he stomps off to the bathroom.

“Yeah, well fuck you too!” I shoot back at him before I realize how stupid it must look to be arguing with a four year old. Larry, the other younger kid doesn’t move. He stays planted in front of the TV while I channel surf which is fine by me as long as he doesn’t complain. Larry never complains though. He never cries either. Amy and I have been taking him to a psychiatrist that specializes in severe early childhood trauma but he can’t make any headway with him. Considering the terror that Johnny is growing up into, I hope that little Larry stays traumatized as long as being traumatized means he stays quiet. Then again, it does mean I’m gonna have to keep shelling out five hundred bucks a month to keep him seeing the psychiatrist, on top of the ungodly amounts of money I’ve got to spend on prosthetic arms for him, especially since he’s already grown out of one of them in the year since we’ve all been living together.

Amy comes out of the kitchen and says “Dinner’s ready.”

I turn down the sound on the TV, pick up little Larry and take him to his high seat. Amy calls down the hall for Johnny, who stomps over to the table and gives me the evil eye as he sits down. Amy goes around the table and gives the three of us a heaping ladleful of her overcooked, mushy pasta before sitting down herself.

“So how was your day, honey?”

“Same bullshit, different day,” I say through a mouthful of her food, which actually isn’t as bad as I feared (she must have discovered we have salt in cupboard). “My boss is still a fucking cunt.”

Amy winces. “Peter, don’t curse in front of the boys.”

“Gimme a break,” I say, dropping my fork on the plate. “They’re gonna learn curse words someday anyway. Might as well be sooner than later.”

Larry makes my point by saying the first word I’ve heard him speak in days: “Cunt.”

Amy sighs. “Don’t say that word Larry. It’s bad.”

Everyone is silent while they eat for the next few minutes. I polish off my plate and slop some seconds on it. It might not be gourmet, but I’m hungry. Finally, Amy breaks the silence.

“I was looking online on the computer today—“

“The computer being the only way you can get online,” I snap back. I’m in kind of a foul mood now.

Amy ignores me and goes on. “I was looking for hotels down in the Keys we can stay at next week. I think I found one that looks nice and doesn’t cost too much money. You remembered to get time off from work, right?”

“Yes. I put in my request last week,” I say. “I’m happy to take a few days off from that fu…friggin place. You find a place the boys can stay at?”

“Yeah. Tamika who lives down on the corner says she can stay with them while we’re gone.”

“Tamika…great,” I say. “When we come back, Johnny and Luke will either be smoking crack or selling it.”

“Hey, Tamika is nice,” Amy protests. “We’re friends. She’s the only friend I’ve made since we’ve moved here. And she’s doing us a favor. She’s only asking for a hundred bucks to help pay for the boys food for the week. You have any idea what it costs to have a professional nursery look after them for a week?”

I quietly shovel another mouthful of pasta casserole in my mouth. “You’re right. Sorry. Guess I’m just stressed today. I don’t know why.”

Amy puts her hand on my arm. “It’ll be good for us to get away, just the two of us. We haven’t had any time alone together since…you know, we moved.”

I put down my spoon and touch her hand and feel strangely relieved at the prospect of taking a vacation. The past year has been such a blur. First there was the shock of having to completely change our identities, and then try to blend our lives seamlessly into them. And even though I feel like we’ve slipped into the routine of our new lives, there is still something stressful about no longer being myself any more. Yes. This will be good for us.

Johnny takes a drink of milk and sets his glass down on the table with a clump. “Mommy, what’s crack?”

4.

I spent another five days in that hospital bed at Bethesda. The doctors said that though I suffered a severe concussion, they couldn’t detect any permanent brain damage. That was the good news. The bad news was that there was no way they could reattach my thumb. Hell, they couldn’t even find my thumb anywhere at the scene. The bomb blast must have sent it flying deep into the woods and now some squirrel was probably gnawing on the thing. Oh well, it could have been worse. I could have been born left-handed.

I was under heavy guard while I was in my hospital room. The only visitors I had were either FBI agents or doctors, and all of them had to have some high end security clearance to get anywhere close to me. Needless to say, their security precautions didn’t do much to calm me. After all, Burke warned me that the conspiracy had operatives at all levels of government and I had no reason not to believe him after I got burned trying to contact the FBI. If they could get as close as they did to the President, then wiping a flea like me off the map wouldn’t be especially hard.

However, my paranoia began to ease after a few days. Well that, and the doctor started pumping me full of anti-anxiety drugs after he got sick of me insinuating he was trying to poison me every time he changed my IV. And damn was that stuff strong. When I was on that stuff someone could have smashed my face in with a hammer and I wouldn’t have twitched. And seeing as no one actually did when I was in that state led me to believe that I was pretty much safe. I mean, if they were going to risk exposing themselves long enough to kill me, they probably would have done it before I’d told the FBI pretty much everything I knew about their conspiracy.

After the five days of tests and surgery were up, the FBI moved me to a safehouse out in the countryside. I was still pretty weak and spent most of my time in bed watching cable TV. I wasn’t allowed to use the internet, since the agents were worried I might compromise my location. So I convinced one of them to get me a bunch of porno DVDs I could watch to whittle the time away.

Besides that just fucking around, I had to give interviews to all sorts of agents from alphabet soup agencies or special prosecutors. FBI, NSA, ONI, CIA all made the rounds to interview me and I usually had to repeat the same stuff over and over again. At best, they would have me go through photos to identify the different conspirators I came across. It was all incredibly boring, but I did it without complaint since despite the VIP treatment I was getting, I feared that I’d say the wrong thing and be immediately whisked away to some secret prison where I’d never be heard from again.

While watching TV, I never noticed any mention of the assassination attempt on the news. I mentioned this when some agent from Homeland Security had me help him construct a timeline of the events (again). He told me he didn’t have clearance to tell me about that, but later that day, Agent D’anci came to see me and laid it all out on the table.

“Since the majority of press corp was kept away from the golf course, we were able to contain the event to a great extent. Since we were able to exert so much control on this information, it was determined that we would keep the events classified.”

“Why?” I said, munching on some cheddar Bugles.

“One reason was so we might possibly be able to smoke out some more of the people involved with the conspiracy. Secondly, we also feared that making it public might undermine the public’s faith in the personal safety of their leaders. Is that satisfactory for you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really give a shit either way.”

Agent D’anci nodded, then opened up his briefcase. “Now, there’s another matter I must talk to you about. Namely, what happens to you from here on out.”

I tossed the half empty bag of Bugles on the carpet and sat up. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about that? What does happen to me now?”

He pulled out a letter from the briefcases and handed it to me. “This is an outline of an agreement being drawn up by the Attorney General that grants you full immunity from prosecution if you agree to testify against Carl Van Hertzwelder.”

“Absolutely,” I said right off the bat. “No problem. I’ll say whatever you want if it puts that fucker away for good. Shit, I thought for something like this you guys wouldn’t even bother with trials. Besides, aren’t trials public record?”

“Not this one,” D’anci said. “It will be conducted under a secret tribunal authorized in one of the classified provisions of the Patriot Act. No one in the public will know it exists, and in reality, it’s mostly just a formality. After what’s happened, even if Carl Van Hertzwelder was innocent—which, by the way, he’s already admitted he’s not—there would be no way of releasing him without there being some outcry from knee jerk liberal organizations like the ACLU. It is mostly just a formality in order to wrap things up.”

“And maybe to get the other people who were involved in it, right?”

Agent D’anci shrugs. “Maybe. We have made several arrests based on information you’ve given us, and that which was given to us by Van Hertzwelder through coercive interrogation. However, like most terrorist organizations, they are heavily compartmentalized. There is no guarantee that you would be safe, that is why if you agree to this deal, you will also be put into the FBI Witness Protection program. You will be relocated to a different city under a new name, provided with housing, a job, and small stipend for living expenses. Now, I know this all might sound harsh—“

“Not really,” I said. “Sign me up.”

He shakes his head. “What you have to realize is that you can never be yourself again. You will never again be referred to by your real name except for when you appear before a secret grand jury. You can never have contact again with any of your friends or acquaintances…”

“I don’t like my name. I don’t have any friends, I don’t care about my acquaintances. It’s really not a problem for me.”

Agent D’anci nodded. “Well, I there is one other stipulation if you enter witness protection. It has to do with Angela Clements…”

The name sounds familiar, “You mean Apple? You found her? Is she all right? What about her children?”

“We found Ms. Clements a few weeks ago. It was fairly easy using your information. She had been arrested in Oklahoma City for prostitution. Apparently, she needed to get money for a motel room for her and her children. When they ran her through the FBI database, her name came up and we took her and her children into custody within hours. Apparently, the people you sent her off with did what they said they were going to do: they returned her children and let her go.”

“You’ve had her for a week? Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

“Frankly, because we were using her to corroborate parts of your story. Poopy, you’re part of one of the biggest conspiracies in American history. You don’t think we trusted you without verifying everything you said ten times over?”

“You trust me now though, right?”

He nodded. “Most of the information you’ve provided us has beared out so you are officially considered a reliable witness.”

“Then what’s this ‘stipulation’?”

“Well, Poopy, we went to Ms. Clements with the same deal we gave you. She agreed to testify and go into witness protection, but only if she could go into the program with you.”

“With me?”

“Yes,” Agent D’anci said. “Now, normally we only do that for married couples. However, Ms. Clements had information that led to the capture of many members of the group, and since she’s a victim in this whole situation we did not have the threat of charges to hold over her, so the FBI is willing to give into the request to secure her testimony. That is, if you’re willing to go through with it.”

What he was saying was so weird, it was making my head spin. “Why would she even want to see me again after what I put her through?”

“I have no idea, Poopy,” he said. “I got the impression from her that she was quite madly in love with you.”

“So we will be going into witness protection as a married couple?”

“Yes, that’s the plan. That’s what I’ve been saying here.”

“Well, can I get a divorce later?”

He looks perplexed, “Not immediately. In fact, there’s likely no chance of it, at least until the trials are over and that might be years.”

I sigh. “Let me think this through. I’ll let you know by tonight.”

“Okay, Poopy. Just call the number on my card there and I’ll get the ball rolling on this.” Then he snapped his briefcase shut and walked out of the room.

I didn’t know what to think. My immediate reaction was that this was a bad idea. After all, how could I expect Apple to forgive me after everything I’d done to her? When she told me she loved me the last time I saw her, I took it as the incoherent ranting of a woman who had just been put through the ringer, both physically and psychologically. I figured that after she had had a few days off the drugs and with her kids in relative safety, she would come to curse the night I happened into her life.

So I laid back down on the bed and took a nap. It wasn’t long, maybe forty minutes at the most and if I dreamed, I didn’t recall it. However, that little morsel of REM sleep seemed to alter my perspective on the whole thing. After all, for everything I’d done to harm Apple, deep down I think I still loved her too. If anything, the ordeal we’d gone through might have brought us closer. After such an intense event, it would feel truly lonely to have no one else in the world you could share that with.

I had no problem with the notion of giving up my name or my identity because, let’s face it, my name sucks and any time I spend reflecting on my life usually ends with me wanting to stick a gun in my mouth. Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to put that life behind me and start fresh. It would be for Apple too. We could have the life that circumstance had denied to us. In the end, we had no one else in this world than each other.

So I made my decision then, but didn’t do anything about it until after dinner. When I was done wolfing down a soggy club sandwich and some barbeque kettle chips, I picked up Agent D’anci’s card and asked one of my guards for the secure phone.

“I made my decision,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

5.

The air is warm but the twilight breeze is cooling on my sun burnt skin (I neglected to slather myself up in sunscreen earlier when I we were on the beach, as Amy had thoughtfully done). The two of us landed at Marathon Airport that morning, checked in at the hotel that turned out to be under renovations, so they upgraded us to a private bungalow with a kitchenette. We unpacked our swimsuits and immediately went to the beach and when we got sick of the beach, we went for a walk around the town. We did all the clichéd touristy things. We ate greasy Cuban sandwiches for lunch, watched some skinny island kid play the steel drum. Then we went shopping for T-shirts and other souvenirs.

Now, we had just been seated at a beachside table at some restaurant called Hemingway’s Crab Shack. This has got to be fifth business I’ve seen today that uses the name “Hemingway”. Earlier, I got an iced coffee at the local Starbucks knock-off called Hemingway’s Coffee. We got bottled water and mosquito repellent at a convenience store called Hemingway’s Gifts and Sundries. I’m beginning to think that if Ernest Hemingway took a shit on any given block, then every business there got to use his name. I can only drool when I think of how much money his estate must get just by licensing out his name.

Anyway, the waiter (who was black but spoke with a Spanish accent) took our order. We got the Hills Like Scallops in White Cream Sauce appetizer; Amy got The Shrimp Also Rises plate while I settled on The Old Man and the Seafood Platter, and a bottle of the cheapest white wine on the list. It was surprisingly hard to break out of my free spending ways, even a year after I’d been able to dole out money hand over fist. Still, I’d saved up some money for the trip, so I could splurge a little.

After the waiter pours us glasses of wine, Amy holds her glass up. “Cheers, honey.”

We clink glasses and I gulp down a mouthful of slightly sour Chardonnay. I look out over the beach to watch the sun setting on the edge of the ocean. “Wow. That is so beautiful.”

Amy smiles. “So you’re having a good time?”

I nod. “Yes. Most definitely.”

“Good. I was worried you wouldn’t after how stressed you seemed when we were at home,” she says. “I know you really don’t like to talk about yourself much, but was there anything in particular getting you down?”

I think about it, then shake my head. “No. It’s just life and all the daily frustrations of it and you know, settling into a routine after…you know.”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s been hard for me to adjust too. And the boys, though they don’t remember as much as I do. But they’re young, so it’s easier for them to forget.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Sometimes the things that happen to us when we’re young, we may forget them, but they’re still a part of us,” I say. The breeze picks up a bit and blows a strand of Amy’s blonde hair over her eyes, which she brushes away with the back of her hand. “Still, I am having a good time here. It’s good to break out of the routine. Most of all, it’s relaxing. I feel like I can let loose for the first time since we were relocated. Thanks for suggesting this.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, and we hold hands like a loving couple and both watch the last bright sliver of sun fade under the horizon.

The patio lights slowly come up and the way the light casts on Amy’s face makes her look beautiful, almost angelic. I pour myself another half glass of this disappointing Chardonnay and say, “Apple…”

Her eyes get large and she quickly looks around to see if anyone is looking. “Peter, you know we’re not supposed to use our real names.”

“I know,” I say, drinking my freshly poured wine all in one gulp. In fact, using your real name or referring to your real past any time you’re in public is considered one of the cardinal no-no’s of being in the program, but I feel free right now. “I don’t care. Just indulge me. I think we’re safe from any conspiracies for the time being.”

“What is it?” she asks in a hushed tone.

“I just want to tell you, as myself, that I love you too now. I know I’ve told that before, and while I meant it I said it more as a matter of routine; because it’s what you’re supposed to do. But right now I mean it so much. I love you. I love as much as I did when I first met you that Thanksgiving I wandered into your strip club. I wanted you so much then, and now that I have you, I want you just as much.”

She looks into my eyes and stays quiet. “I love you too, Poopy. For me, it was more of a…process. But I’ve seen your heart and I know that it’s essentially good and it makes me love you.”

I sigh with relief. That’s what I wanted her to say, but for some reason, I was afraid she wouldn’t. That this was all show and that after being with me for just under a year she wouldn’t feel the same as when she requested she go into witness protection with me.

“Hey, honey,” I say. “What do you want to do after dinner?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Maybe we can have a drink somewhere. See some more of this town or something. What did you want to do?”

“Well,” I say coyly. “When we were waiting for the table and I went to the bathroom, I took a Viagra. I heard it takes about four hours for it to kick in.” Though I had never had a problem getting an erection before, ever since we had been relocated I’ve been having problems getting an erection. In fact, I can count the number of times Amy and I had had sex on my mutilated hand.”

Amy grins. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that tonight, won’t we?

Then she rubs her bare foot across my calf. Yes, we most certainly will have to do something about that.

7.

“Where are we going now?” I whined from beneath the shroud. “Can’t we go back to the safehouse yet?”

“Not yet, Mr. Peanutz,” Agent Johnson said. My arm was locked into his like we were walking down a wedding aisle, and though I’m sure it looked totally fucking gay, it really was the easiest way to walk when you can’t see a fucking thing.

“Well, can wherever we’re going, you think we can make a pit stop in the restroom. I’m gonna need to drop a load pretty soon, and you know how well I hold it in.”

I couldn’t see Agent Johnson, but I thought I could feel him sigh. “We’ll take a bathroom break soon, but right now we’ve got people waiting.”

“Can’t they wait until after I take a dump?”

“No, we’re on a tight schedule,” Agent Johnson said. “You’re in for a surprise. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I sneer, though the word “surprise” doesn’t sit right with me. Personally, I’m through with being surprised. Being dragged around from place to place blindly had been the story of my life for that entire week. I’d have to wake around seven-thirty, dress, eat a quick breakfast. After that, the shroud goes over my head and I’m in for an hour long ride in either an armored motorcade or a helicopter (which really sucks when you can’t see anything). I take led around like an invalid to some office where they take the shroud off and I’m given a passive response polygraph test, or maybe to some cement room with one-way glass where I’m questioned by people who I can’t see and who use creepy sounding voice modulators. Then the shroud goes back and I’m taken to another room, maybe an office that’s bland and non-descript where I talk with some government attorney. All these places rarely have windows, and besides the sliver of daybreak I see each morning when I wake up, I hardly ever see the sun since it’s dark by the time we return to the safehouse.

Which is why the word “surprise” from Agent Johnson worried me. For one, since it’s my life that’s in danger, I don’t see why it’s necessary to keep me from being able to see where I’m going. It’s not like I’m gonna do something that’s gonna make it easier for me to get killed. And of course, it occurs to me that this is some larger deception. What if these people who are taking me around aren’t government agents? Jesus fuck, I might be in the hands of the conspiracy that Van Hertzwelder and Burke were a part of. Why they would be going to such lengths to keep me in the dark, I have no idea (since, rationally it would be much easier for them just to kill me and be done with it). But I can’t figure half this shit out any more.

Agent Johnson stopped and I heard him open a latch and lead me inside some room. It’s amazing that being deprived of my sight, I sense so much more. From the ambient sound of the room, it’s much larger than the ones I’ve been in so far. And while they’re all being quiet, there’s a lot of people in here too. The room temperature is a few degrees higher from their body heat. What the fuck is this surprise?

“Just a moment, Mr. Peanutz,” Agent Johnson said. He works the snap on the back of my neck and lifts the shroud off my head. I was on the stage of some windowless, presumably underground amphitheater. The seats in front of me were filled with about twenty important looking men and women. In the front row were five men in full military dress. I don’t know shit about how ranks go, but they were all covered in medals, ribbons, and salad clusters that covered half their breasts so I could only assume they were generals. There was a table and a podium with three seats on the front of the stage.

Just then, I nearly get tackled from the side. Startled, I was about ready to punch the shit out of whoever grabbed me, but it’s my mother. “Poopy!” she cried. “Oh my dear Jesus in Heaven, you brought him through his tribulations. Praise be!”

“Fuck, mom,” I said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Don’t swear, praise be.”

I hug her back just long enough for me to break free from her. She’s crying, but from what I could see they were tears of joy. There’s a big yellow blotch across her cheek which looked like a week old bruise. She was wearing a nice, clean blue business suit with an American flag pinned to her lapel, and her hair done up in some tacky beehive. Other than the bruise and the hair, she looks…well. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to her minus the hundreds of pounds worth of fat.

I was about to say something to her, like “what the fuck is going on here?” when everybody in the room stands up at once and starts applauding. I saw movement at the opposite end of the stage and I see George Bush walk on and give a quick wave to everybody in the room, before walking up to my mother and I. He grabs my hand and gives it a couple good pumps.

“Good to see you, Poopy,” he said as he smiled effusively. “I hope this wasn’t too much of a shock.”

“Yes, it is…” I said, “I mean, no it isn’t…I’m mean…it’s fine. This is cool. Real cool.” I struggle to find the words to say mostly because I could feel my sphincter start to loosen up again and I use as much will as I can muster to keep from crapping myself yet again. I thought I kept most of it in. Still, the sight of the President calms me, since if this was all some mindfuck by the conspiracy, I’m sure it wouldn’t involve him.

The President lets go of my hand and motions for my mother and I to sit down next to the podium. I did so (and that’s when I became aware that I must have left a pretty sizable Hershey squirt in my pants. Those fuckers! I told them I had to take a crap). My mother looked giddy as we sat down.

Bush quickly coughs into the microphone to see if it’s working then begins to speak: “Ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished guests; I know most of you went through great pains in order to attend today and I thank you for respecting the confidential nature of this ceremony. I will keep my comments brief and there will be a small reception afterwards for those who wish to talk afterwards.

“I think that every now and then, as Americans, we need a reminder that freedom isn’t free. Most of you have served this country in ways that will never make the news, but do so with a glad heart to keep our Homeland safe. Since I’ve taken office and since the lessons of September the eleventh, I’ve challenged the American people…”

…and he went on like that for another three minutes, a cut and paste of half-truths and vapid patriotic homilies that could have been spat out by the Random Bush Speech Generator they probably have on his speech writer’s computer. I was starting to wonder what the point of this was until…

“…and that’s why we come here today to honor a son and mother. Though few outside this room will ever know it, this country owes a great debt to these two people; Poopy and Petunia Peanutz.”

The room erupts in applause, which blunted my cynicism from listening to the first part of Bush’s speech. The President lets it go on for a few seconds, then pats his hand to quiet everybody down.

“We can learn a lesson as Americans from these two. They were put in a situation that was grave, forced by the enemies of this country, who used all the dastardly means at their disposal to subvert the government of this country and the will of the American people.

“However, even when things were darkest, these two understood the implications. And when their country called for them, they did not hesitate. They knew right from wrong and with their help, they saved not only my life but they exposed one of the most dangerous attempts at a coup d’etat (he pronounced it ‘coop de tat’) our nation has ever faced. And they did so without the hope of even surviving. Like the passengers of United 93, they put their country before their own lives and they fulfilled the spirit of their fateful words, ‘let’s roll’.”

Now, normally I wouldn’t let George W. Bush drink the sweat from my balls if he was dying of thirst, but I’ll admit his speech had me feeling flattered (at least up to that last cornball line…the only thing I wanted to ‘let roll’ was my eyes). But fuck it; the sentiment was nice.

“…and that is why we are here today, to present Poopy Peanutz and his mother, Petunia, with the Presidential Medal of Freedom. This is the second highest honor that can be awarded to an American citizen, and no one has ever deserved it more.”

He holds up the medal which was in a glass case with a blue velvet backing, then he looked down at me. “Mr. Peanutz, thank you for your service to your country. Your actions define what it means to be an American.”

There’s some more applause, and the President motions for me to stand up. My butt cheeks squish together as I get up. I shake Bush’s hand and take the medal case from him. He whispered to me, “Would you like to say something to the audience?”

The audience hushed up and it was almost dead silent. I had no idea what I was supposed to say, so I just said:

“Um…you’re welcome. Where’s the restroom in this place?”

One of the President’s aides came and pointed it out to me and offered to hold my medal while I go. I rushed inside, dropped my pants and let the bottom fall out of the geyser of shit I was holding inside me. Between that the award, that was the more satisfying experience for me. Cathartic almost.

It took me a few minutes to clean up. My briefs were a loss, so I stripped them off and dropped them in the wastebasket, figuring it would be less uncomfortable to just go commando for the rest of the day. By the time I was finished, the President had already presented my mother her medal and had been whisked away by a squad of Marines (guess Dub ain’t trusting the Secret Service so much nowadays…) Everyone was at the reception, which, considering this was some sort of government VIP function, you’d think they could have shelled out for something better than a bowl of fruit punch and supermarket deli tray.

Still, I was starving so I loaded a small paper plate with a bunch of cheddar cheese cubes and a couple slices of ham and dove into it. My mother found me. She was carrying her medal case tucked into her arms and had a huge beaming smile on her face.

“Isn’t this incredible, Poopy? Look at this medal, it’s so beautiful…”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” I said. “What I don’t get is, why we only get the second highest award. What do you gotta do to get the first highest award? Do you have to give the President a handjob in addition to saving his life or something?”

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Agent Johnson.

“The highest civilian award is the Congressional Medal of Freedom,” he explains. “And if you want to keep something secret, you don’t let congress know anything about it. In fact, I’m afraid you won’t even be able to keep your medals. They will have to be stored in a secure vault at Langley and the record of you receiving it will be classified.”

“Then what was the point of all this if we don’t get to keep it?” I asked. I had been thinking about how much a Presidential Medal of Freedom would get on eBay, but I guess that plan was shot to shit.

Agent Johnson nodded with fake empathy. “I understand your concerns, but unfortunately, allowing you to keep the award might compromise your identity once you’re inside the witness protection program. We are doing it for your safety.”

“You’re going into the program too?” my mother asked (as if I wouldn’t after fucking with a great big government conspiracy). “They’re gonna give me a new identity too Poopy. Guess where they’re going to be putting me?”

She looked at me as if she really wanted me to guess. “I don’t know. Hawaii?”

“I get to live in Virginia Beach!”

“So?”

“That’s where they tape the 700 Club! I might be able to even be on their show.”

Agent Johnson coughs. “Ma’am, I’m afraid the witness protection program strongly advises that you do not appear on any nationally broadcast television programs. And in fact, we must advise you don’t tell each other about which city you’re going to be placed. You will not be allowed to contact each other directly from now on.”

“But what about his birthday? Can’t I see my dear sweet Poopy on his birthday?”

Agent Johnson shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We can forward correspondence, such as birthday card onto him. And maybe once every few years we can arrange a meeting between you two in a secure location, but other than that you are to have no contact with each other.”

My mother looked disappointed. She looked at me, “I guess this is gonna be the last time we’ll get to see each other for awhile. You promise you’ll write to me and tell me you’re okay?”

“Yes, mom. All the time.”

Her eyes started welling up with tears. “Give me a hug, Poopy.”

I embrace her and she tries to crush my ribcage.

“I love you Poopy,” she whispers. “Go with Jesus for the rest of your days.”

“I will mom. I love you.”

She finally let go after about minute. I looked over at Agent Johnson. “So, are we done for the rest of the day?”

“Yes,” he said. “This is the last thing we had scheduled.”

“I’m feeling kinda exhausted. You think we could go back to the safehouse so I can take a nap.”

“Certainly, Mr. Peanutz.” He pulls out the shroud. “I’m afraid that you’re still going to have to wear this while we leave.”

“I figured I’d have to,” I said, tossing my paper plate on the floor.

Agent Johnson pulled the shroud over my head and snapped the button shut, then he led me arm in arm out of the amphitheater.

But I felt happy. Once my face was obscured, suddenly, a huge, shit-eating grin came over my face when I realized I’d never have to see my mother ever again.

8.

Two hours and three mojitos later, Amy and I are back at the bungalow and I’m fumbling around trying to get the key to the door out of my pocket while she nibbles on my ear. We made out like teenagers in the cab we took to get back here. We just can’t keep our hands off each other.

After a couple of tries, I finally get the door open and we burst inside. Amy is pushing me up against the wall, her face planted on mine. It’s almost like she’s trying to suck my tongue out of my face. She moves her body sexily against the bulge in my crotch. That Viagra I took has really kicked in.

Amy takes her mouth off my face and whispers, “You know what I really want?”

I shake my head.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says. She takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. She flips on the light and tells me, sexily, “Lay down.”

I kick my shoes off and do what she says. Once I’m on my back, she gets on top of me and peels off the top of her dress, exposing her only slightly sagging boobs. I sit up and clamp my mouth on her left nipple while kneading her right one with my hand.

She moans. “Down boy. I’ve got something else in mind.”

I whisper in her ear. “What do you want me to do?”

“You just have to lay back,” she says, pushing me back down on my back. “Since we’re on a holiday, we’re gonna do something kinky…”

She reaches over to the bedstand and pulls out a silk scarf and dangles it between her breasts. “Put your hands above your head and grab the headboard, big boy.”

I do like she says and she leans down and starts tying my hands down to the bedposts. I lap at her nipples while she does this and she coos in pleasure. “You’ve had such a rough time lately, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Real rough. Let’s get it on.”

“Well, you don’t have to do anything for the rest of the night. I’m gonna do it all to you.”

She sits up and pulls my fully erect and bulging dick out of my shorts and starts massaging it. I’m so turned on that it only takes a couple strokes before a dot of precum starts oozing out. The great thing about Viagra is that I’ll be able to bust my nut a million times tonight and still be able to keep it up. Why didn’t I learn about this shit before?

“Let’s watch a movie,” she says, getting off the bed.

“Fuck movies. Let’s fuck,” I say desperately.

She smiles. “This is one you’ll like,” she says. “And I’m gonna suck you off while you watch it. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Oh hell yeah,” I grunt. She goes up and turns on the TV/DVD player combo that’s in front of the bed. “Is it Campus Confessions Six? That one’s pretty hot. Kinda tame for my tastes, but the chicks are hot in it.”

Amy sticks a disc in the tray and presses play. “Just watch, honey. You’ll like this…”

…and without another word, she’s back at the bed, her mouth lapping at my schlong. Goddamn, it’s almost too much as she laps at the sensitive part on the top of my dick, but she doesn’t do it for long. Quickly, she takes the whole thing in her mouth, and I mean the whole thing. I can fucking feel her tonsils with the head of my cock. Jesus Fucking Christ, I’m on the verge of blowing an entire geyser of come down her esophagus. It’s mind blowing. I’m seeing stars. I’m hearing gunshots. It’s ecstacy. It’s…

No. Wait, I really am hearing gunshots. They’re coming from the TV. What the fuck is this? This isn’t a porno movie. This looks like a home movie shot outside a Wendy’s or something, with someone screaming “Get the fuck off me man! Do you know who the fuck I am?”

And as soon as I realize what this movie is, that’s when I suddenly feel the muscles in my jaw convulse and hear the electric crackle of a taser being rammed against my neck.

“How you like this honey?” Amy says, jumping on top of me, straddling my chest. “Isn’t this hot?”

She presses the taser against my sternum and I flop around like a fish, screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK? STOP IT! PLEASE STOP IT!”

She stops tasing me for a second, and I try to kick her off me, but with my hands bound it’s close to impossible. She reaches over to the bedstand and I see her grab a syringe. “Hold still, you motherfucker,” she hisses, then she jams the needle deep in my neck and presses the plunger home. Almost immediately I start to have trouble breathing. It feels like someone just sat an anvil on my chest. My vision blurs up and the last thing I see before I pass out are Apple’s tits swinging above my face while she keeps her hand clamped over my mouth.

I have no idea what she injected me with, or how long it is before I swim back into consciousness. I’m still laying on the bed and for a moment, I wonder if it was all just a bad dream.

Then I try to move, but I’m still tied down. Only instead of a silk scarf, now my hands are bound to the bedposts with plastic zip ties. My legs are tied down now too, with two leather straps across my shins and thighs. My briefs are gone but I still happen to have a hard on, my erect dick poking defiantly into the air which is strange since sex is now the last thing I have on my mind. Viva Viagra. This shit really works.

From where I’m laying on the bed, I don’t see Apple anywhere. The television is still on and still playing the video of her boyfriend Luke being tortured and killed. The volume is turned all the way up. His screams are like knives being driven into my still groggy brain.

After a few minutes, I’m conscious enough to scream. “Help me! Someone help me! Some crazy bitch has me tied up in here! Someone help!” Unfortunately, I can barely hear my own shouting over the noise of the television, so I doubt anyone else can hear me either.

I hear footsteps outside the door, then a creak as someone undoes the latch. Apple walks inside. Her dress is back on, and she’s carrying a kettle and coffee cup.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she says. She sets the kettle down on the nightstand and it whistles just a little as the boiling water sloshes on the inside. She turns the volume on the television down. “There, that’s better. Now we can talk.”

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” I start screaming again, hoping with the volume down that will help me. Apple puts a finger up to her mouth.

“Shush,” she says. “No one can hear you. The best thing about these romantic private beach bungalows is that you don’t have to hear your fucking neighbors.”

She picks up the kettle and the cup and pours some of the boiling water. “I made some tea. Would you like some?”

I’m hyperventilating from screaming so much, “What…the…fuck? What are you doing? What is your fucking problem?”

Apple takes a sip of her tea and grimaces. “Ew. It’s still too hot. Better let it sit for a moment.” She puts the cup on top of the TV, then looks at the screen. “How is this movie? Is it any good?”

On the screen, her they are showing her boyfriend being slowly gutted while hanging upside down from a couple of meat hooks. Apple doesn’t even flinch. “What is this?”

“DON’T!” Apple snaps. “Do not even fucking try to tell you don’t know what this is! We both know the truth.”

“I swear I’ve never seen this before in my life. What on earth are you talking about?”

Apple’s eyes screw up into little balls of flaming hell. She picks the kettle up off the nightstand and starts tipping it over me. “Please don’t!” I yell just as she starts pouring the boiling water over my chest, down my belly and onto my exposed penis. I let out an inhuman scream as my skin scalds and turns bright red. I pull at the zip ties until my wrists bleed, but I’m still no closer to getting free. Jesus Christ, I feel like a human lobster. I look down and the last thing I think before I go unconscious is amazement at how I can maintain an erection after my junk is pretty much boiled.

I don’t stay unconscious long though. Apple cracks some smelling salts under my nose and I’m yanked back awake immediately.

“Don’t bother lying to me any more Poopy. These are your last minutes on earth. Why don’t you make them truthful at least.”

“But…I,” I start to say, but it’s really no use. “What do you want me to say? I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

Apple shakes her head in disappointment. She drops the empty kettle on the floor. “You know your ‘friends’? The ones you sent me to to get my children back. They’re the ones that showed me this. And when I first saw it, I didn’t believe you were behind it either…”

“Yes, that’s right! I didn’t do it! Go with that idea!”

“…then they played me a tape of you talking with some Russian. You were talking about having the father of my children murdered in the most painful way possible. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was all right there.”

Fuuuuck…my mind is racing, trying to think through all the pain. How the fuck do I get out of this one? “Listen, how can trust those people? They kidnapped your children! They cut one of your baby’s arms off! You can’t trust people who do that!”

“BULLSHIT!” she screams. “You know what else they told me? They took my children in order to protect them from you! You were the one who cut off little Larry’s arm!” She slaps the television screen and it rocks on its stand. “After all, if you’re capable of doing something like THAT to another human being, what would be stopping you from mutilating a child?”

“I never hurt your kids!” I yell, and this time, I’m telling the truth. “They’re full of shit! Why would I do hurt your kids?”

Apple smiles. She starts taking off her dress again.

“Because you’re a sick man, Poopy. Because you’re a sick, psychotic, sexual deviant who can only feel relevant in this world as you’re inflicting pain or disgust on another person.”

She’s completely naked now and she kicks her dress in the corner. Then, kneels down next to her bag and pulls out a huge bowie knife. “We’re through talking now. Nothing you say is going to change what you’ve done and nothing you say is going to change what’s going to happen to you…”

“What are you going to do?”

“Cut your cock off,” she says. “I’ve read that if a man gets their dick cut off while having an erection, it only takes a few minutes to bleed to death.”

I start to hyperventilate again. I look at Apple and see that she’s calm. She’s not just trying to scare me. She’s dead serious about it. Dammit, maybe I can appeal to her logic.

“Listen, you won’t get away with this,” I stammer. “We’re in witness protection. The FBI will know right away if I go missing and it won’t take them much to find out it was you who killed me. You’ll never see your children again if you do this.”

“I’m not planning on getting away with this,” Apple says, pouring a bottle of rubbing alcohol over the blade. “My children are being driven down here as we speak, and in a few hours all of us will be on a boat. Your ‘friends’ who you alleged kidnapped my children let me know that if I did this for them, they would give us safe passage to Cuba.”

“The only part of Cuba you’re going to is Guantanamo Bay!”

Apple takes goes the bathroom and starts tucking her hair into a shower cap. “I doubt that. We’re not supposed to be back home for a couple of days, so no one will even know you’re missing by the time I’m long gone.”

She gets on bed, straddling my knees. My testicles have successfully crawled almost all the way into my pelvic bone, but my cock is still erect. I can feel the blood pulsing through it as she pushes it back and puts the blade right against the base of my dick.

“Apple! Apple! Please, please wait! Listen, all right! I admit it! I did pay to have Luke killed! I don’t know why I did it! No, I do know why I did! It was because I loved you and I was angry at him for not treating you well!”

She stops for a second. “How do you know how he treated me?”

“I don’t know! But I was stupid! And I was wrong! I was so fucked up when I thought about doing that! I’m sorry! I was sorry even before this! Even before I knew you knew! That’s why I tried to save your kids! I swear I didn’t do anything with hurting your kids!”

“So, you were lying to me about that before,” she says coolly. “Why would I trust you about this?”

“You can trust me or you don’t. But listen to me, Apple. Having Luke murdered changed me. And if you kill me, it’s gonna change you. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. Nothing made me happy. I probably would have ended up killing myself I couldn’t handle it. Don’t do this to yourself, Apple. Please. Sweet Apple, please don’t do this!”

She pulls the knife back from my dick and my chest heaves with relief that she seems to be at least considering it. “Poopy…”

“Yes?”

“MY NAME IS NOT APPLE!”

She picks up the knife again and I feel it digging into the skin under my dick and before I can even gather enough breathe to scream in pain, she’s sawed halfway through it. She yells again, “MY NAME IS NOT FUCKING APPLE!” and a geyser of blood burst out from the hole where my dick used to be and splatters all over her naked body. She holds her hand, filled with wet gore and flesh in front of my face and screams it again as she takes my severed cock and shoves it into my mouth and I can’t even scream anymore because there’s blood everywhere in my mouth on apple in my eyes and I start to convulse and everything is getting darker and things don’t hurt so much and maybe I can just fall asleep and this will all be over yes it’s all over I can feel it…