Gregory John Helman was born on the 6th of July in a quiet, country hospital in Westberg, Connecticut. His mother had been in labour for 42 hours before Greg extracted his blood streaked head from between his mother’s legs. He would never know his mother. She would die minutes after his birth. Had the hospital known of the boy’s father, they still could not have given the newborn into his father’s custody as his father was in the custody of the state. It was unfortunate business all around but luck would follow Greg all his life – usually arriving weeks after Greg had departed to somewhere else.
Today was his 28th birthday.
Rivets of blood ran down his eyes and pooled on the hard steel table on which he lay. His arms lay slightly outstretched at his sides and bound by leather restraints. His feet were likewise restrained. For some reason his pants had been removed and his soiled boxers were the only clothing he wore. He knew they were soiled because the of squishy goo that squeezed between his upper thighs and allowed his buttocks to slide inside their cotton prison. His tormenters had believed he had lost control of his bodily functions through the pain but he had actually done it on purpose to give himself a reprieve from their insatiable pokes and prods.
They returned.
“Can you at least hose him down or something?” came a baritone voice. It’s pitch rose slightly. “I can’t work under these conditions” it whined. “Seeing that blood and shit mix together reminds me of my mom’s refried beans. And it’s all over the goddamn floor for Chrissakes! One of us might slip or…”
“Stop talking you whiny bitch. I’ve had enough” a gruffer voice replied. “I can’t very well ask one of the maids upstairs to clean him up now can I? Just grab a bucket and try and wash some of it away. Then start again.”
Some swearing and cursing was the only response. Footsteps receded. Despite his pain, Greg felt some small sense of satisfaction. His plan had worked perfectly. Now if only he could get off this table and away from these torturing fiends.
“Alright Greg. You with me?” came the first voice coupled with a few slaps to the face. We need the location of the girl. I don’t know why you’re protecting her. She’s just a whore who’s played you. She’s got all the cash and you’re the one left holding the bag.”
“Fuck you Peterson” Greg spat. “She’s not a whore. Let me off this table and I’ll show you what being a whore is really like!”
“You and your homosexual references Gregory” responded ‘Peterson’ patronizingly. “I don’t swing that way.” he chuckled. “You know, it’s a funny phrase don’t you think? “Left holding the bag I mean.”
These monologues always had a point. And it was never good for Greg. “You see people would buy piglets from the market. These pigs would be sold in bags that the buyer could not see inside. But the animal inside would squeal all the way home and the buyer would assume they had their supper on their shoulder. Well certain shrewd farmers would put a cat in the bag instead because they would squeal like a pig. The buyer wouldn’t be any wiser until he got home. Well once he was home they’d open the bag and the cat would jump out – hence the phrase let the cat out of the bag. At this point the buyer would finally know he had been cheated. But the person who let the cat out of the bag? Well that was the person left holding the bag. See the two phrases are tied together. The farmer holding the bag is responsible. He’s the one who brings home the bacon and he’s the one who gets the punishment. And Greg – today you’re the farmer.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. I’ve always thought I was cut out for the simple life” he said sardonically. The longer Peterson was willing to talk the longer Greg was willing to listen.
“Well Greg, you could still be a farmer. If you gave us what we wanted we might just buy you a farm. You could continue your little Mary Jane operation and we could go back to being partners. We know you didn’t play a big part in this. We know that little cunt gives the best damn blow job in town and that can make any guy’s mind get a little squirrely.”
“Fuck you. We both know I’m a dead man. I heard you talking to the Snowman outside. And he’s not here to discuss my love life.”
“Careful Greg. You know he doesn’t like that nickname. He was drugged in Vegas and wasn’t an active participant in that. He’s threatened to cut the cock off any man who brings it up so you’re lucky he’s far away in the next room.”
“Tell him my cock won’t work unless I’m attached.”
“Clever.” A short pause. “Greg, you remember my little cat Peppy? I found her in the alley just behind Vinnie’s – that same bar where you met your little whore.” Another pause. “Now Peppy isn’t real friendly-like. I pretty much have to keep her caged. You might even wonder why I keep the little feisty feline around but she and I have a common joy.”
A low growl rose from a burlap sack near the table. Greg knew Peppy. She and he had occasionally had their differences. Peppy had always won.
“The mean part of Peppy comes out because she doesn’t like to be held by her tail. And being swung around by her tail – oh boy does that make her mad.” Another short pause. “What I’m going to do Greg, is to swing her by her tail on to your chest. She’s probably not going to like that so she’s going to latch on to whatever she can hold – like your skin for instance – and then I’m going to pull her off of you (forcibly if necessary). Every five successful swings will result in a slight reprieve while I ask you where your little missus is. If you refuse to answer, we do it again and again and again. Do you understand?”
Greg didn’t reply. Instead, he wet himself. And this time, it wasn’t intentional. The bag writhed in anticipation of what was to come. Greg could see Petersons gold rolex. He hadn’t even bothered to take it off for this. It was specked with blood and read just before midnight. In a explosive movement Peppy jumped inside the bag aiming for the hand that held it. Peterson held on. Greg felt ill.
“I… I don’t know where she is. She has the money. She could be anywhere.”
Peterson liked progress we he saw it. “Maybe you were going to meet up somewhere. Like on a Carribean island perhaps?” he prodded gently. Peppy scratched and snarled.
“She said we should go to Seattle. She said she has family there and you guys didn’t have a presence there.” The words were flowing faster now. And the cat seemed to be calmer in response. “I don’t know if she was lying. She could have been. But we were supposed to meet at Minstrels in New Jersey tonight if everything went well. She’d have the tickets she’d said. That was the plan.”
“The whole plan?” Peterson asked? Maxwell ‘the Snowman’ and a couple other ’strongmen’ were already heading out the door. They had been quietly listening to everything. He was glad that the Snowman had shown such restraint with Greg’s mention of Vegas. Max was a good man for a closet homosexual with a penchant for sodomy and circle jerks.
Besides the one guard left in the other room Greg and Peterson were alone. “Well there is one other thing” said Greg slowly, very much aware of the cursing cat in a bag now on the floor. “I’ve been taking acting lessons as part of a community college program.”
“Uh huh” responded his tormentor.
An metallic explosion rang out in the next room. Then a thud as something heavy dropped to the floor. “I think my forte is dungeon scenes. I was maybe hoping to get a part like that movie Reservoir Dogs – I could be that cop who gets gasoline poured on him” continued Greg as Peterson ignored him while looking at the door.
The door opened. The silhouette of young shapely woman with her arms outstretched lined the doorway. She held a magnum .44 aimed directly at Petersen. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding?” were his last words before he too fell to the floor. His head landed next to the bag and Peppy latched on through the burlap in a violent attempt to gouge out his eyes.
“Baby you okay?”
“I’m having a little trouble getting up” Greg replied with a hint of sarcasm.
“My hero” she grinned, glad that he still had the strength to be a dick. She released the restraints and Greg slowly slid of the table, careful not to put too much weight before he was sure of his ability to stand.
“Is the money safe?” It was his way of saying thanks.
“Taken care of sweety. Let’s get out of here before they come back.”
The couple walked, she holding him up slightly, towards the door. “WAIT!” He tried to turn around and they both almost fell. “Give me the gun.”
With an odd glance she handed him the cannon. Shaking slightly he lifted the gun up to shoulder height. The burlap sack was now atop Peterson’s dead carcass scratching at his face. Greg squeezed out a shot. The gun roared. The bag instantly exploded with blood, launched off the dead man below and slid along the floor to finally rest against the wall. Greg fired a second shot just to be sure and handed the gun back to the girl.
She rolled her eyes and together they left the room.
