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edited by Richard Labonte
[Lethe Press, 06.2009]

Originally published in Of the Flesh: Dangerous New Fiction [Suspect Thoughts Press, 06.2004]

Marking Territory

The trunk rises and you are blinded by sharp daylight.  Red pops a cherry into his mouth, bites down hard, spits the pit out into your face.  “Awake, shitbag?”  He smiles, his mustache riding up under his thin nose.  This was the same guy who’d taken you to Havana a year ago claiming you’d make a mint, a fuckin’ pile of dough.  “Old man’s gonna skin you alive, asshole,” he says now.  Red unzips his fly and sends a fragrant thick stream into your upturned face.  You turn away as your eyes and mouth are invaded by his salty piss.  “Baste that piglet,” his partner says.  Old Vix44.  They said his name came from the width of his cock, and having seen the size of his hands, you’d believe it.

Vix steps up to the trunk and smiles down at your pathetic figure.  “Gonna marinate the pork,” he snorts and pulls out his hose to wash you down.  Before he shoots his squirt, he makes sure you get a full eye of the weapon he’s got in his hand.  Even soft it looks like the arm and fist of a child, and he nods his head and pisses on you as the reality sinks in.  You’d rather be shot that split open by that thing.  “Have me a pork chop on a plate.  You bacon, boy?”

Beyond Vix44 you can see blue sky and trees, fresh air, and they seem as unreal as your plans for escape.  Vix drops a glob of spit down on your head and slams the trunk closed, trapping you in the stink of their fresh piss.  You wonder how long you’d been stuck there, an unwilling toilet, and how much longer they could drive around before they put a slug in your head and dump you on the street; an advertisement of Havana’s power.

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