Vice(7)

It’s academic at this point. The job’s done.

The next door is locked. I take a step back and kick the wood, just below the lock. I’m ready to shoot, when I lay eyes on the lifeless figure sprawled-out on the bed. A girl, young and blonde, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two? She’s unconscious, naked, her legs spread wide open, and there’s a needle sticking out of her arm, the plunger pressed down to the hilt. I can’t stop to check her pulse. If she’s dead, it’s already too late. If she’s dying, I won’t truly be able to help her until every single threat inside this farmhouse is neutralized. I duck out of the room and try the next handle. It opens, the door creaking loudly—no one inside. The final room on the right, then. I turn the doorknob and step quickly into the room, gun raised, finger on the trigger. The curtains are drawn and for a second I think there’s no one here, but then I hear it, the sound of soft, gentle snoring, and I finally make out the large, bulky shape lying in the bed.

It’s Julio.

I was wrong. He is upstairs, after all, and he’s passed the f*ck out in bed. Apparently it doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of the day. I watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he really is asleep and he’s not just faking, and then I stick my head out into the hallway, listening, trying to figure out if the four guys downstairs might be on their way up here any time soon.

The music is still raging, though, thumping hard. They’re probably so coked out of their minds, they didn’t even hear me shoot the dude trying to get dressed. I retreat into Julio’s room, closing the door behind me.

Hmm. How to approach this situation. I slip my bag from my shoulders, quickly hunting inside it until I find what I need, and then I climb carefully up onto the bed, collecting up the piece of clothing he’s left on top of the covers in my hand. Julio’s stomach hasn’t shrunk any in the months since I’ve seen him. If anything it’s gotten bigger. The f*cker probably hasn’t seen his own dick in years. I throw my leg over his bulging waist, scowling as I straddle him, not enjoying the close proximity of my own dick to his swollen midriff. I feed out a length of duct tape and snap it off with my front teeth, and then I tap Julio on the shoulder.

Nothing.

I prod him a little harder, driving the tip of my finger into his fat.

Still nothing.

For f*ck’s sake.

I slap him. Hard. Julio’s eyelids spring open, his mouth already forming a shout, but I stuff the material I found on his bed into his mouth, smirking a little when I realize they’re his own underwear. I slap the duct tape over his mouth, forcing it closed, and then I sit back on his belly. The balisong comes back out. Julio’s eyes follow the glint and glimmer of the metal as it flashes in the dark.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Perez,” I say cordially. “I was wondering if I might be able to buy some peaches?”

Julio lifts his hands, but I cut him off before he can try anything. More accurately, I grab hold of his right hand and cut off his pinkie finger before he can do anything. Cutting off someone’s finger is no easy task. It’s not like slicing a hot knife through butter. It’s more like trying to cut through a raw chicken breast with a soupspoon. Julio bucks, screaming through his own soiled underwear as I get down to business. If I was covered in blood before, I am seriously drenched in the stuff now. Julio screams through his gag, and I finish the job with one final sawing motion. I hold the severed finger up for Julio to see, and his face turns a sickly shade of white.

“I’m not really here to buy peaches,” I say, tossing his finger over my shoulder. It hits the floor somewhere behind me, and I hear it roll on the floorboards. “I need some help with something, and I believe you’re just the man who can help me, Mr. Perez. So I’ll ask nice and we’ll see how far we get, shall we?”

Julio’s still screaming through his gag, his eyes bugging out of his head; he’s trying over and over again to jerk his hand free from mine, but I have a tight hold of his wrist and I ain’t f*cking letting go. His other hand is no use to him either, since it’s pinned underneath my knee. I’m not beyond kneeling on his forearm until it breaks, should he come close to wrestling that one free.

“Quit screaming so we can talk, Julio.”

He doesn’t quit screaming.

“God damn it.” I suppose this one’s on me. I should have told him what I want before cutting off his pinkie. Sighing, I fold the balisong up and put it in my pocket. Pulling back my fist to build up some momentum, I bring it down on Julio’s heavily jowled face with a sick sense of satisfaction. His nose pops under the impact, and another shower of blood sprays up at me as he huffs heavily out of his nose.

His eyes are watering like crazy, already swelling up, but he’s gotten the picture and stopped screaming.

“There we go. That’s more like it.” I rip the duct tape from his mouth, and Julio draws in a ragged, pained breath that sounds like a broken vacuum cleaner, on its last legs.

“You…f*cking….psycho!” He’s too mad to manage more than one word at a time. “You cut off my finger! You cut off my f*cking finger!”

“I hope you’re not going to spend too long stating the obvious, man. I get bored very easily, and every wasted minute is another wasted finger. Once we’ve run out of digits, I’ll have to move onto other appendages, and trust me…that would really f*cking suck. The last thing I want to do is pop your fly and go rooting to find your tiny, shrivelled up dick, Julio. Gross.”