Untitled Novel: Chapters 1 and 2

                                      CHAPTER I

                              Sleep or Die, Whatever

           I didn't want to answer their questions.

         No matter what I said they were going to kill me.  I didn't want

         to give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd gotten what they

         wanted.  If they were going to kill me it would be out of sheer

         frustration .

         No one was coming to rescue me.  I knew that much for certain.  I

         was alone in this and I had failed but at least I was going to go

         out fighting.  I sure as shit wasn't going to give these two

         douche's the chance to pull any information out of me. 

         Even if I had wanted to talk I wouldn't have been able to.  The

         two pair of duds that kidnapped me and tied me up had stuffed a

         pair of dirty boxers into my mouth. Black electrical tape was

         stretched over the boxers and was wrapped around my head several


         times to hold the boxers in place and prevent me from doing

         anything but moaning and shaking my head.  I did a lot of that,

         especially when they took turns punching me in the ribs.

         All the possible pain and all I could focus on were those damn

         boxers in my mouth.  They weren't my boxers.  I wasn't positive

         but I was pretty sure they belonged to the heavier of my two

         torturers.  If that was so then it made sense to reason that we

         were in his apartment.  Not that any of that information would do

         me any good when they shot me in the head and left me tied to

         this chair.

         Impending death aside, why couldn't they have gagged me with

         something normal?  Or even if they had taped my mouth shut.  I

         can feel the boxers tickle the back of my throat and soak up the

         saliva that floods my mouth in response to the tickle.

         That's all I thought about as  they continued their ridiculous

         questioning, not about the blood flowing from the stab wound in

         my thigh, not about the way the rope around my wrists was cutting

         into my skin and grinding against the bone, only the boxers. They

         aren't clean and they're at least an extra large or bigger.

         “Where is she?” 

         PUNCH.  That time it was a head shot.  The skinny guy has a mean

         right hook and the hit was wide, clipping my ear.  This added a

         nice ringing sound to the buzzing in my head.  I'd have a full

         orchestra in my brain if this kept up much longer.

         Fatty pulled Skinny aside and they discussed something in hushed

         tones.  They keep their backs to me in order to further prevent

         my overhearing.  I don't mind because it's the first breather


         I've had since they nabbed me near the club.

         These guys were looking more familiar as my head stopped swimming

         and I realized I must know them somehow because they were going

         through an awful lot of trouble to hide their identities, the ski

         masks were enough but they were also masking their voices, dropping

         down an octave or two.  I tried to listen to them talking amongst

         themselves but I must have been falling in and out of consciousness

         because I don't remember hearing anything.

         Next thing I do remember is Fatty standing over me.  He and Skinny

         must've decided that they'd get better answers out of my if I

         didn't have shitty-boxers shoved down my throat.  He yanked off

         the tape (which hurts worse than the knife wound in my thigh,

         especially as it pulled on my facial stubble) and pulled out the

         boxer shorts.

         I vomited everywhere. The puke and bile splashed my chest and my

         legs and stung the open wound in my thigh. Some of the spew landed

         on the two hundred dollar wing-tipped shoes the fat guy was

         wearing. This made me laugh. The laughing made me burp and that

         made me laugh some more. Maybe it’s my nerves or maybe I was just

         delirious from lack of sleep, whatever the reason the result was

         the same: I laughed. For a moment I actually forgot the events of

         the past three days, I forgot the two idiots who had been torturing

         me for the past twenty minutes, I forgot the reason this whole

         thing started, I forgot my fear and I laughed.

         Skinny  took out his pistol and pressed it to my eye, “Stop fucking

         laughing and answer the fucking question.  You've gotten annoying

         and way to gross for my tastes. I'm done.  Talk.” I pissed myself


         a little bit and then all the blood rushed to my ears and everyone

         sounds muffled, as if they are talking through a mouthful of dirty

         underwear. Fat Guy and Tall Guy were starting to argue but I

         couldn't understand what they were saying.  Then Tall Guy kicked

         the chair I was sitting in and the world went sideways. I passed

         out.

         I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s not really how this story

         begins. It’s not how it ends either, I mean Christ, I wouldn’t

         tell you the end of the story in the beginning. I may be an asshole

         but I still know how to tell a good story.  That was the hook. 

         Now let me start at the beginning.


                                    CHAPTER II

                         A mass grave for the living dead

         Three days earlier I didn't have the knife wound yet or the shitty

         boxers in my mouth. I didn't have the bruises on my face or body

         and my pinkie finger wasn't broken. Considering how I would end

         up I should have been in a great mood that day but like many of

         the days before I was miserable. Miserable and broke. Emphasis on

         the broke.

         Not having any money was a big concern because of several factors:

         1.I had nothing to eat in many days. 

         2.I owed a few debts to some not so nice people.

         3.I had less than a quarter tank of gas in my car.

         This third option was the most pressing issue at the moment because

         in order to make money I needed the car and in order for the car

         to drive it needed gas and in order for me to get the gas I needed

         the money.  In other words, I was fuuuucked.

         Strangely enough situations like this  force me to do some of my

         best thinking. I'm inspired by chaos and disorder. The fear of

         starvation and possible death make my brain work faster than it

         usually does forcing it to produce some fantastic results. When

         asked to solve a problem I react with a limp, “Meh.” When forced

         to solve a problem I react with unusual tenacity.

         Starting with the most pressing issue, the lack of gas, I followed

         the road from my small efficiency in the nice part of town and

         headed to the small ghetto on the outskirts of the suburban

         wonderland known as Coral Springs, Fl.

         If you ever find yourself in similar circumstances here is an


         important bit of advice to keep in mind: always formulate a plan

         before you leave the house.  The last thing you want to do with

         little gas and even less money is drive around aimlessly trying

         to score a few dollars or figure out where you're going to get

         free gas.

         Let me be clear on the use of the word “ghetto”; the city I live

         in, Coral Springs, is a small community just east of the swampy

         everglades, twenty minutes west of the beach, an hour north of

         Miami and three hours south of Disney World. It is a wasteland of

         upper-middle class and regular middle-class yuppies and old people.

         Coral Springs used to be just as hoity-toity but resent economic

         depression and a general passing of time have made this a middle-

         class town. When I say ghetto I'm talking about the least of the

         three income brackets that make up the city of  Coral Springs,

         twenty grand a year or less.

         These neighborhoods tend to be dirtier than the others, less

         vigilantly patrolled by the local police. It's that last bit that

         enticed me to enact the first part of my plan in this area and as

         I pulled off the main road I glanced around for any black and

         white squad cars and saw none.

         It was the middle of the day at the end of the week which meant

         most people are at school or work. I cruised past a lot of houses

         with vacant driveways. If any of these people were home I couldn't

         tell because they would have their cars parked in the garage. I

         turned left at the end of the street and found myself looking at

         a strip of duplex homes. The second to last house from the corner

         had a 1971 Super Beetle in the driveway. A sticker on the bumper


         said the owner is the proud grandmother of an honor student. Middle

         of the day on a Friday, most people are at work or school, except

         the old people.  Florida, especially South Florida, has plenty of

         old people. My friend Kevin,  calls South Florida a “mass grave

         for the living dead.” I pulled into the driveway, right next to

         the VW, and put the car in park but left the engine running. I

         also had an old car, a beat up Corolla, and the two cars looked

         natural parked next to each other. I gave a quick look around and

         then popped the trunk.

         First I took out the red gas can and placed it on the ground next

         to my feet. Next I reached in and pulled out the black rubber

         hose that was coiled next to the can. Pulling out this long black

         rubber tube is the most suspicious part of what I was about to do

         and as I did it I stole a quick glance at the duplex just to make

         sure Honor Student Grandma wasn't staring out the front curtains

         at me describing me to the police dispatcher on the phone. She's

         wasn't.

         Moving fast now I popped my gas cap off and then pried off the

         VW's. I fed one end of the rubber hose down into the gas tank of

         the VW, praying Grandma had filled up that week. Most people from

         movies and TV think you have to suck on the end of the hose, get

         a mouthful of gasoline and then you're good to go. Most people,

         are idiots.

         The truth is you don't have to suck on the hose at all nor do you

         have to fill your mouth with gasoline. There is a very simple

         tool called a squeeze bulb which does all the sucking for you.

         Once the gas is up through the hose I  pulled my end out of the


         bulb and stuck it into the gas can.  The squeeze bulb is available

         at Wal-Mart and a worthy investment if you plan on spending your

         life as a common thief or shiftless vagabond.

         The gas flowed freely from the VW into the red gas can and I

         scannned the street for police or approaching riffraff. I must've

         been distracted a moment to long because all of the sudden I

         smelled gas and looked down to see the can was overflowing.

         “Shit,” I said as I pulled the hose out of the can and the other

         end out of the VW. I tossed the rubber hose into my open trunk

         and slammed it closed. I picked up the gas can poured the contents

         into my car's tank. When the gas can was empty I closed my gas

         cap and tossed the empty gas can into the backseat of my Corolla. 

         Everything smelled like gas as I got into the drivers seat and

         started my car. I looked at the gage on the dash, a little over

         half a tank, well worth the stink on my hands.

         Pulling out of the ghetto, with gas in my car and no incidents to

         speak of, I was just about considering this the start of a lucky

         day when my cell phone rang. Not my cell  phone actually, don't

         think I'm one of those assholes walking around with a Blackberry

         and nothing to eat. There's nothing worse than some broke-ass bum

         checking his texts while he waits for his food stamps.

         I dug for the phone in my old brown Dickies. The pockets were

         deep and filled with a variety of items making it easy for the

         tiny phone to disappear. I'm just starting to panic and think I'm

         going to miss the call when my index finger wrapped around the

         tiny Nokia. I flipped open the top and pressed the phone to my

         ear, “Hello?”


         “Hello? Miles? Is this Miles?”

         “I'm sorry I,” but before I could finish she's talking again.

         “Shit. Did I call the wrong number?”

         “You got the right number,” I answered.

         “Miles?” She paused, unsure if she's called me by the right name

         or not. Obviously Joy had told this girl my name and that there

         was a possibility I could answer when she called.

         “Yeah, this is Miles and you are?” I must have caught her off

         guard with my cavalier tone because she didn't answer for a full

         minute. “Hello?”

         “Joy...your sister gave me this number, she said I could call...”

         she trailed off at the end of her sentence, she was starting to

         calm down but still sounded a wreck. “I'm Amanda. We work at the

         club together.” She said her name like I would know who she was,

         maybe I met her at the club once or twice, it's possible we slept

         together but I don't remember.

         “Hi Amanda.”

         “You don't remember me do you?” defeat in her voice.

         I don't know why but I decided not to bullshit this girl and

         answered her honestly. “To be honest, I really don't,” I trailed

         off, hoping the silence would force her to spew forth some details. 

         When you're talking on a stolen cell phone every minute could be

         your last and I was hoping she would get to the point before that

         happened.

         “Joy told me to call you. She said if anything happened I should

         call Miles.  I have something she told me to give you. I never

         thought...I never thought anything would happen....oh GOD...” she


         started to sob.

         I waited a few seconds and let her collect herself but her mention

         of my sister put me on edge. I wanted to know what was wrong. I

         wanted to know if it involved my sister and if it did would there

         be someone for me to punch...I wanted this fucking crying broad

         to shut the fuck up already and get to the fucking point. I want--

         “I'm sorry. I'm scared and I'm...something happened.” She stopped

         talking. Who stops talking after saying, “something happened”?

         Silence.

         “Hello?” That's was me trying not to sound annoyed and scared,

         even though I was equal parts of both.  I was also out of the

         neighborhoods now and back on the main street. I made a quick

         left and stepped on the gas to make the light which went from

         Amber to Red right as I passed through the intersection.

         She sniffled and I heard her take a deep breath in and then slowly

         exhale.

         I realized she's going to need more coaching than I'm providing

         and I force myself to take a deep breath. If I scared her or yelled

         at her I might have had to listen to her sobbing for another twenty

         minutes. “Listen, Amanda, I need you to calm down and tell me

         what happened. Take some deep breaths and tell me what's wrong

         with my sister...”

         “She's missing.”