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I Am the Game: Pt.8: Japanese Tentacle Porn with a Crucifixion Fetish

6/28/2014

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Most people at the end of their lives won't say something like:  "I'm glad I went down that porno rabbit hole, and saw the octopus go at the fisherman's wife."  However, those who can't say as much would be hard pressed to describe what emerged from the dark river.  


Writhing tentacles erupted out of the murky water.  Of the six wriggling, squid like arms, two wore dangling wooden crosses with water rotted corpses nailed to them.  A head like a vulture trying to birth its own skull from between its eyes emerged from the pulpy mass that seemed to be the thing's body.  The monstrosity appeared to be swimming and slithering along the riverbed at the same time; its body large enough to touch the bottom yet spongy enough to float.  One tentacle plunged into the water, picked up the sharkodile, and flung it onto shore.  The lesser beast smashed through a line of trees before landing with a solid thump.  It then scurried off into the jungle, well aware of its place in the food chain.  

"Give me a hand,"  Joyce hollered.

I turned to find her dragging a dead guard to the side of the boat.  From behind I heard a sound like a dozen angry barn owls.  I decided not to glance back thereby reducing the risk of shitting myself. 

Grabbing hold of the guard's arm I asked, "What are we doing?"

Joyce said, "Feeding time."

Grunting, we hoisted the dead man over the side into the river.  Joyce immediately jumped to the controls.  Pushing the throttle to full she told me to pitch the other two bodies as well.  I didn't ask why.  I just did as I was told.  

I heard a hum, and glanced at the sky.  A triangular drone, not unlike the one I saw earlier, hovered above us.  Recalling what Joyce told me, I imagined a dim room full of pasty white anime fans drooling over the video feed as this tentacle nightmare tore us to pieces... or worse, fashioned a fresh set of crucifixion charm bracelets.  Shaking off such thoughts I focused on dumping chum.  

The last body in the drink, I watched as the beast reached the first.  Without even pausing the monster picked up the corpse, ripped it in half, then poured the innards into its mouth.  Viscera and blood slopped across its face before it downed the halves.  It repeated this gruesome process with the other bodies, but after the third helping of dead guard the creature slowed.

For a second I assumed maybe it'd had its fill.  The tentacle obscenity then swam face first into a rather large obvious rock.  The creature -- I feel certain there's one word or simple term for swam in a disoriented state, though I don't know what it is, maybe I can just slap a couple root words together -- swimman-désorienter.  It slammed into another noticeable outcropping.  The tentacles sagged, and eventually the monster stopped surging towards us.  Instead of advancing it just floated in place, its body occasionally convulsing as if it might puke. 

Rounding a bend in the river Joyce asked, "Is it still after us?"

"No," I said.

"I wasn't sure that would work."

"What?"

"The poison we used on the guards.  I didn't think there was enough in their system to kill it, but I felt maybe I could make it sick enough to give up the chase."

Good thinking.  I certainly wouldn't've come up with that plan.  Maybe with some time, a few calm minutes to assess the situation...  and that started to make wonder, or perhaps I should say worry, how much blind luck alone had kept me alive this far.  At least Joyce was with me.  What's the old saying?  Behind every great man is a woman he stole credit from.

She steered the boat to shore.  According to Joyce we were already dangerously close to Caliban's territory.  We couldn't go back the way we'd come.  Shokushu goukan notwithstanding, the Oakland Raiders lurked behind us.  Our only option appeared to be taking our chances in the jungle.

We took the guards' weapons, of course, as well as what little extra ammo the trio had, and the one canteen.  Then we set off.  The instant the jungle closed in around us I realized that for all I'd survived so far I was still trapped.  I'd climbed out of the fire just to get back in the frying pan.  I needed information.

I asked Joyce, "Has anyone ever gotten out of here?"

She let out a mirthless chuckle, "Not that I know of."

"How long you been here?"

She sighed, "Two, maybe three years.  It's hard to say how long I was in the Raider's camp."

"But you weren't always their prisoner."

"I wouldn't call myself a prisoner.  More like a plaything.  But yeah, I wasn't always there."  I started to ask more, and she cut me off, "Look, everything I've heard and learned has only amounted to one reality.  Survive or die, those are the only options."

I felt a real need for whiskey, "Sounds grim."

Joyce said, "I'm just saying you'll go insane hoping to escape this.  I've seen it."

The sound of her voice, the utter defeat when she said that last part told me to change the subject.

"You ever hear the song Detachable Penis?"

#

I've been camping a few times in my life, but for all the sense of wilderness such trips may have inspired, they're safe.  It's a manufactured wild with obvious trails to prevent getting lost.  If things get weird, with animals or other campers, a person can either call for a ranger or just pack up and leave.  Civilization is always a few minutes away.  Fuck-all I had full cell phone service the last time I went camping.  So I feel safe saying nothing compares to real wilderness.

Blame it on our circumstances, but every sound felt hostile, especially bird calls.  The vegetation did nothing to alleviate the sense of menace.  In addition to cutting off visibility, it provided hiding places in every direction.  When I met Nigel we were in an area relatively spaced out and clear.  In the middle of the jungle the plants grew thick enough to be nearly impenetrable walls.  And on occasion I felt sure vines tried to grab hold on purpose.  We walked for a few hours, but I swear it felt like a thousand year death march.  

The humidity got so thick it kept our sweat from evaporating, preventing the natural cooling process -- the little good that would've done anyway.  In a matter of minutes the two of us looked as if we'd taken a dip in the river.  At one point I collapsed from the heat.  

Joyce poured a little water on my head.  She got me back on my feet by telling me Caliban's followers were notorious for patrolling the riverbanks keeping an eye out for potential gifts, stray people they could offer to their leader.  Joyce didn't doubt for a second we'd been spotted escaping.  She even went so far as to say:

"Why do I think I landed us on this side of the river?"

"You saw something."

"Three of them."

"Maybe they weren't Caliban's."

"Faces painted like skulls.  They're Caliban's."

"Think they swam across?"

She shook her head, "No one is that crazy."

I got to my feet.  It was only a matter of time before Caliban's people were combing the jungle in search of us.  So we kept on until sunset.

While Joyce built a small fire she said, "Traveling at night is too risky."

"Forget about the risk.  I need to rest."  I laid down using a rock as the best pillow ever.  No sarcasm.  You get tired enough it's amazing what becomes comfortable.  I tried not to think about how tomorrow we'd have to resume the death march.  For now I just wanted to sink into sleep.  It took all of a nanosecond for me to pass out.  

I awoke to the sensation of a large thick hose being dragged slowly across my chest.  Popping open an eye I saw the circular scaly body of a python slithering over me.  

"That seems about right," I said to myself.  The snake slithered away, and I have to admit, I've never felt better about being ignored.  That said, the second the tail disappeared into the brush I jumped to my feet, shivering in what can only be called an extreme attack of the willies.   

Settling down, I looked around and couldn't find Joyce.  Panic griped me.  Images of lunatics in skull face paint flooded my head.  I saw Caliban's followers sweeping through our camp like tropical ninjas, snatching Joyce in her sleep.  Suspecting they left me as part of some fiendish cat and mouse game I hesitantly turned my eyes up into the trees.  I expected to find a dozen maniacs waiting to pounce.  

Instead I saw Joyce asleep in the branches of a mangrove tree.  I made a mental note to do the same in the future.  She looked so peaceful I hated the fact she'd have to wake up at some point.  Dreams seemed to be our only escape from reality.  Yet, I refused to accept that.  

Above the canopy I heard the low hum signaling a passing camera drone, and a plan started to form.  

COMING SOON!

Part 9:  It's Not a Bad Plan Just Because Someone Died. 



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Books & Shit:  No Need to be a Dick About Things

6/20/2014

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On this episode we take a look at why it's not such a good idea to slap people around for reading so-called shitty books.  Enjoy, and as always, thanks for watching.

P.S.  If there are any topics you'd like to see feel free to mention them in the comments here or on Youtube.


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I Am the Game: Part 7: A Woman’s Pocket – On the River, Cry Freedom – WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!

6/14/2014

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I don't know how, but I managed to fall asleep.  Only to find myself being gang raped by Disney characters who then fed me to a massive toothed penis.  I woke up with a start, flailing in my blanket in an attempt to escape the digestive nut sack.  Needless to say, that morning I felt a little less than rested.  

I flopped out of my bunk to find the others gathered around George's corpse.  Before I could step over, feign my surprise at his murder, Nigel jumped down from the rafters.  He glared at me a moment.

Nigel said, "I assume you had your reasons."

I said I did.  He nodded, "Nevertheless, this will not end well."

Lagos kicked open the barrack's door, and Lenny came in barking, "Alright you filthy shitheads, dust ya cunts off we got a whole lot of fun planned for y'all."  -- Spying the group assembled around George he hurried over -- "What's going on there?  Aw fuck."

Lenny stood next to the blood drenched bunk.  He shook his head, "Lagos!  Pig food." 

Lagos entered the barracks stooped.  The arch of his shoulders scraped the ceiling beams as he maneuvered to George's bunk.  Without a word he grabbed George by the arms, and dragged the carcass off to be eaten by pigs.  

"Outside, outside,"  Lenny shouted.  Everyone hurried without running.  The others knew the procedure well enough to act without orders.  As they lined up in rows I followed suit.  Nigel kept close by my side.  

Lenny sent a guard to the boss man's double wide with news of the murder.  While we waited for the reaction Lenny growled at us, going into explicit detail about gutting the culprit with a power sander, grinding the flesh away till the abdomen burst open.  No one seemed worried by the threats until the door to the double wide opened.  Black Mix Hendricks emerged in tattered jeans.  Shirtless, he strolled along with a prison tat skull and crossbones on his chest.   

Standing before his assembled cattle, Mix Hendricks just eyed the group for a minute.  After what felt like an eternity he said, "I'm not going to kill anyone except the person who did this.  However, I am going to hurt all of you until someone tells me who is responsible."

To emphasize his point Mix Hendricks produced a long thin blade.  It resembled a filet knife.  The person next to me, a kid no older than eighteen, started shivering.  I noticed a scar on his forearm as if someone once peeled off a long strip of skin.  The implication hit me, producing a cold sweat in the process.

Nigel spoke up, "It was him."

I looked over to find the simian fucker pointing at me.  What an asshole.  Just because it was the truth didn't mean he had to tell anyone.  

Mix Hendricks narrowed his eyes.  He strolled over, scratching his neck with the knife tip.  Lenny followed close at his heels.  Standing beside Nigel, Mix Hendricks spoke without looking at the anthro, "A lot of people make the mistake of assuming your kind is stupid.  Nothing but walking, talking animals.  I don't think that way.  Especially considering that I can't do anything to this man." -- he gestured at me with the blade -- "He doesn't belong to me anymore, and I would be quite foolish to fuck with Caliban." -- he smiled at Nigel -- "But you already knew that."

Nigel said, "Either way, it doesn't change the truth.  He killed George.  I saw him."

"Fine,"  Mix Hendricks shrugged.  He spun around, and jammed the knife into the stomach of the scarred boy standing next to him.  Staring at me, Mix Hendricks stabbed the boy several times.  When he finished, the teen collapsed at his feet spreading a pool of blood.  Mix Hendricks wiped the blood off on my shirt, "That's on you."

A few guards carried the boy to Doc Elsa's, while Mix Hendricks slithered back to his double wide.  Lenny ordered us to head for the chow tent.  I followed the others, solemn columns marching silently. 

Away from Lenny I hissed back to Nigel, "You're a fucking rat." 

"And the others should get hurt concealing you?  A murderer?  I don't think so my good man." 

"Okay, fair point, but you didn't even give me a chance to do the right thing." 

Nigel said, "Hmmm, quite right."  

"You bet ass quite right." 

"Would you have?  Spoken up I mean." 

Part of me wanted to say yes, of course.  No doubt whatsoever.  Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling at least one person might have been flayed a bit before I said anything.  Selfless people don't tend to survive monsters, though they are remembered fondly for their sacrifices.  

Chow consisted of a dirty metal bowl filled with what I would call curried mud and "rice."  The others made it a point not to sit anywhere near me.  They welcomed Nigel with open arms.  

As I choked down what felt like my last meal, a low hum came from above.  No one else seemed to react to it.  Even the Raiders ignored the sound.  Peering out from under the chow tent I saw a triangular metal object drifting through the sky.  A large black semi-sphere hung from the object's underbelly.  It lazily circled the Raider's camp then flew off, accelerating to an incredible speed.  In a few seconds it bolted clear out of sight.

"Cameras," Joyce said behind me. 

"I always wanted to be on TV." 

"Very few get this station." 

I turned, "Is it a good idea to be seen talking to me?" 

She said, "They think I'm telling you off." 

"I see.  I was told he deserved it."

"He did."  She sighed, "But you haven't been here as long as we have.  The few of us who've lasted, we're all we've got.  Plus, it doesn't help being reminded how easy it is to die."

I understood.  The survivors bonded into family, getting what little peace they could out of the connection.  However, that didn't make the realities of this place any less absolute.  None of them needed the darkness thrust in their face.  It was already all around.  Still, I couldn't help wondering how many of them would slice up ol' George same as me if they felt sure it meant escaping this place.   

"So what now?" I asked. 

"Now this."  She slapped me.  Hard enough to maybe leave a handprint in my face bones.  I had to restrain the instinct to punt her as hard I could in the gash.  

Then she said, "On the river, be ready."

#

A few hours later the Raiders herded Joyce and I onto a rusty, grey PBR MK II.  The riverine patrol boat looked desperate to sink.  If my luck held out, I might get to drown before Caliban's camp.

The others wished Joyce the best.  A few of them spit at me.  Creepy Al gave me the finger.  And to think, just yesterday he wanted to kill me kindly.  I said goodbye to Nigel, told him there were no hard feelings.

He said:  

" 'And Man in portions can foresee

His own funeral destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance...
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a victory.' "  

I said, "Same to you buddy." 

Three Raiders clambered onto the boat.  While one of them tied Joyce and I to a rail at the back of the vessel I saw Dr. Elsa standing in the doorway to the medical shack.  She drank from a jug, every swallow making her grimace.  Joyce stared straight ahead, not risking what a glance might give away.   

The boat grumbled to life.  The pilot cranked up a stereo in order to blast the Oakland Raider's theme song. 

As the boat pulled away from the dock Lenny shouted, "Have fun." 

I hollered back, "We will."  

The sour expression that slapped onto his face made everything up until then almost worthwhile. 

After a few minutes the boat went around a bend leaving the Oakland Raider's behind us.

Farther down river something that can only be described as a cross between a Great White Shark and an alligator trudged from the shore.  It slipped into the murky water then soon swam alongside the boat.  This immediately made me realize there would be no swimming today.  Any chance of escape hinged on Joyce and I taking the boat, although I still had no idea how exactly we were going to pull that off.   

The pilot kept his eyes on the river, steering to avoid rocks and the wreckage of other watercraft.  Meanwhile, his two compatriots took turns firing at the alligark -- two idiots with peashooters poking at a beast.  

Joyce took advantage of the distraction as a chance to reach down, and stick her hand into her vagina.  Well, I shouldn't say whole hand, but she definitely went knuckle deep with at least two fingers, fishing for something.  She looked too grim to be enjoying herself.

I whispered, "Need any help?" 

She grunted, "I got this."

Just as one of the guards turned to check on us Joyce jerked her hand back.  I caught a brief glimpse of a plastic baggie which she deftly tucked into her palm.  The guard went back to harassing the river monster.

Joyce whispered, "We'll only get one chance at this." 

It was then I remembered the powdered death Elsa told me about.  It's funny the things that slip one's mind having to contend with the mental stress of reluctantly murdering a polite stranger as payment for an escape attempt in order to avoid being savagely raped to death by a group of lunatics who practice what could be called necro-sexual-cannibalism.  Fortunately, Joyce still had her whispering eye on the ball. 

"What's the play?" I asked.

She fiddled with the baggie, trying to rip it open without drawing attention, "We lure them over here.  I throw the powder in their face -- don't breathe when I do -- then we take their guns, shoot the pilot, and get out of here." 

"I like it.  Simple and reckless."

"If you have anything better, I'm open to suggestions." 

I thought for a second.  Nothing came to mind.  She asked if I had any idea how to lure the two guards over.  I said maybe, but she would have to trust me, go with whatever happened next.  She said okay. 

So I said, "You guys wanna watch me fuck her?" 

That got everyone's attention.  I think even the sharkigator cocked its head out of the water. 

"Seriously?" Joyce said. 

Ignoring her I addressed the guards, "Come on.  Last request of a dead man." -- I pointed at the pilot -- "This guy knows what I'm talking about.  You can even jerk off.  I don't care.  I'd do the same for you." 

Joyce chimed in, "Yeah." 

The three guards started debating the request.   

I added, "Guys, I've been on river cruises before, and if there's no booze this shit gets boring as hell.  You can only shoot so many times at whatever the fuck that thing is before you need a distraction." 

The pilot said, "What if things get wild?  We're not supposed to touch you." 

I said, "I think that only really applies to me.  I was sold.  She's being punished.  I doubt it matters what condition she arrives in to tell you the truth." 

As Joyce slowly turned to look me.  Her face said it all:  where is this going, and are you fucking serious?

Before I could respond the pilot said, "Okay.  Dying man gets a last nut." 

"Get ready," I said then addressed the two guards, "You fellas get in here.  You do not want to miss this." 

Chuckling, the two guards sauntered over to us.  I started to undo my pants, while Joyce undid a few top buttons on her shirt.

"Slow on there honey, " one of the guards said, "Let me enjoy this." 

He leaned in close, eyes locked on her cleavage, sweat dripping off his stubbly chin.  His buddy sidled up next to him.  The pilot glanced over his shoulder, but had to keep turning back to watch the river ahead. 

Joyce winked at the two guards lusting over her.  They never even saw it coming.  Pretending to be about to rip her shirt open she shot her hand up into their face and blew hard into the baggie.  I held my breath the second she moved.  A cloud of white exploded into the face of the two guards, sending them stumbling.  Blinded by the powder they soon began to have trouble breathing.  Gasping, one held up his rifle to fire at us.  Joyce grabbed it by the barrel, and yanked it from his hands.  The other collapsed into a twitching purple faced heap.  The pilot turned to view the commotion.   

He understand everything in a glance.  He went for his pistol.  Joyce fired, but he ducked.  Meanwhile, unable to reach the other gun because of the rope, I stretched out a foot to try and drag the gun closer.  Banging off a rock, the boat lurched to one side.  Joyce fell against the railing.  The pilot fired wild.  The rifle slipped closer to me.  I snatched it up as a bullet from the pilot whizzed past my head.  Taking careful aim, Joyce put a round right between the pilot's eyes.     

Not wanting to lose a moment she put the barrel against my rope and fired.  She ordered me to the front of the boat.  I throttled back.  The river looked clear enough, so I hurried back to untie Joyce.  

She searched the dead guards, and found a key.  It unlocked our radio collars.  I can't imagine how great it felt for her to be free from the device.  I'd barely worn it a full day, and taking it off seemed like salvation itself.   

That's when I saw it, surging through the water, what can only be described as...  

COMING SOON!

PART 8:  Japanese Tentacle Porn with a Crucifixion Fetish

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I Am the Game: Part 6: Stabby Time for George

6/5/2014

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It’s a disturbingly prevalent belief that hypothetical scenarios are just as valid a test of principles as reality.  In other words, a person can say, “I would never sell my body to pay off a debt,” without ever having been held down by Vietnamese gangsters in a San Francisco alley.  Given the choice between castration and performing in a sex show with a 79 year old French hooker very few men wouldn’t at least compromise their principles – “Can I get wicked drunk first?”  

Sitting in Elsa’s office I found myself conflicted.  On the one hand I didn’t feel much like killing George.  He’d been nothing but nice to me so far.  So it seemed rude to off the gentleman.  Still, he was a total stranger.  It’s not like I had any real emotional investment in the man.  Turn a bug into a pet then see how hard it is to stomp the little fucker.  Yet, this might be my only opportunity to escape the murder-rape awaiting me down river.  


If I was going to do this, I needed at least a little reason.

I asked, “Is there any particular reason you want George dead?”


Else leaned in close, “He’s a rat.”


“Indeed.”   

That certainly counted as reason enough, although it seemed like justification for anyone else already being held captive.  If Elsa could help anyone escape and the price was George’s head then why not recruit one of the other captives? 

I probed, “Why are you asking me?”

She wrapped her arms around herself.  Sighing, Elsa drifted to a window, staring out as she said, “The others already know, and do not care.  They believe it was only a moment of weakness; that George only once gave up information in hopes of bettering his situation.  They understand, and forgive.”

“But you don’t.”

Elsa gritted her teeth.  When she turned her eyes had gone cold, “What he did – Joyce may have escaped.  He prevented that.  And she was whipped.  Beaten.  Gang…”

I felt like it only got worse from there, and told her not to continue.  All the details weren’t necessary to get the picture.  Fuck-all, I understood Elsa’s position.  This wasn’t the place for forgiveness.  Forgiveness is a human characteristic.  George hurt Elsa’s heart, nuff said.

“I’ll do it,” I said, yet still not one hundred percent sure I could.  There’s that hypothetical paradox again:  a sense of capability is not definitive; a daydream is not murder.  However, if this turned out to be some kind of twisted game, I knew I’d be back for the good doctor.

Elsa kissed me on the cheek.  She slipped me a scalpel I secreted in my shoe.  

She said, “You are a good man.”

I nodded, another member of the black soul choir, beautiful voices and gargoyle visages.  I asked about the escape plan.  

Elsa smiled, “There is a plant that grows in the jungle.  It secretes a toxic liquid.”

Great, I thought, one more thing to worry about.  I imagined running for my life only to brush against some poisonous flower and fall own dead.  

She went on, “I have some in powdered form.  It will help subdue the guards when you’re on the boat with Joyce.”

“Since when is Joyce is going too?”  

Elsa winked, “Leave that to me.  Joyce will have the powder.”

I nodded.  It sounded better than my earlier escape attempt.  That left just one thing.  I pressed my foot into the scalpel.  

Elsa stepped over to the door.  She flung it open.  The guard outside flinched.  Elsa commanded him to take me back to the captives' barracks then bring her bitch.  He did as told, the whole while jabbering insults at me in what I assumed to be Ukrainian.  

When I got back the first person to greet me was George.

He shook my hand, “Nice try, friend.”

Motherfucker.  He was making this killing him thing hard for me.  What an asshole.

I said, “Didn’t end well.”

“But it was worth a shot,” George said.

“It always is gentlemen,” Nigel said.  I looked up him.  He sat in the rafters.  I waved.  He smiled weakly.

The guard gestured for Joyce to follow him.  She did.  The others all clustered around a window to watch her march to the doctor’s shack.  I didn’t.

George said, “That German cunt asks for her almost every day.  I feel bad for Joyce.”

“I’m sure,” I said.  

Shuffling to the other side of the shanty barracks I found an empty bunk.  Laying down I stared at the wooden slats supporting the mattress above.  Crude scratches – perhaps made by fingernails, maybe even slivers of metal – left behind the last words of former occupants.  Though many left their names, others deposited symbols in the wood -- a Celtic infinity knot branched the space between a cross and a pot leaf housing the initials D.J. – the various icons turning the bunk slates into a kind of mandala tombstone.  My eyes went around and around wondering if any of the scribes still lived, or if this was the last trace of them.  I wondered if George had made his mark.

A few hours passed.  We could hear a motorboat pop-puttering its way along the river.  

George came over, “Bad news.”

“They’re back from Caliban’s,” I said, still in the bunk.

George said, “Yeah.  Worse than that, they all came back.”

Sitting up but not looking at him, I said, “Let me guess, if no one but the boat came back he’d’ve refused the offer.”

George nodded, “You’ve hit the nail on the head.”  

I stood, pressing the scalpel into my foot, feeling the edge of the blade bite but not quite cut.  I said, “Nothing left to do except get ready to go.”

A commotion came from outside.  Everyone went to the windows.  Out by the doctor’s office Elsa was dragging a half naked Joyce by the hair.  The doctor stormed to Mix Hendrick’s double wide.  Pounding on the door, Elsa shouted for an audience.  The door opened, and she dragged Joyce, kicking and screaming, inside.  The muffled shouts of the doctor drifted to us, indiscernible yet obviously not good.  It didn’t take long before the double wide opened again.  Joyce, a look on her face as if she’d been gutted, shambled outside, Elsa followed with a triumphant expression on her face.

The two women walked to the captives’ barracks.  At the door Joyce spun around.  She fell to her knees, and started begging:

“Kill me now!  Don’t send me to him!  Caliban is the Devil!”

Elsa stroked the side of her face then swiftly brought a vicious backhand down on Joyce.  Falling to the ground Joyce curled up in a shuddering fetal ball.  

Elsa snarled, “This is your own fault.”

The doctor kicked Joyce in the stomach then turned on her heel, and stormed back to her office, slamming the door behind her.  I started worrying I may have made a mistake, especially as I watched Joyce crawling back to the barracks.

George went to help her inside.  He whispered kindness, but Joyce shoved him away.  Straightening up she walked on her own, held up by a self respect some spend their wholes lives trying to find.  When she got near me I asked if she was alright.

Joyce leaned over to whisper, “I have the powder.”

A charade.  Some con to get Mix Hendrick’s to put Joyce on the boat with me.  I saw it all in a blink:  a feigned falling out between the master and her sex slave leads to the good doctor shipping her former plaything to Caliban.  All that remained was me paying my toll.  

George asked me, “What did she say?”

I said, “Pay it in full.”

He furrowed his brow, “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

I said, “Doesn’t have to.”

Soon after the dwarf overlord Lenny arrived.  He came to inform us that come morning Joyce and I would be shipped down river to Caliban.  So it was time to say goodbyes.  I think he expected one of us to beg for mercy -- please kind sir put a bullet between my eyes.  Instead, he got nothing; and it felt good to disappoint him.

I don’t care to think about what came next, so I’m just going to be quick about it. 

The sun went down.  A few hours passed.  When it felt like everyone was asleep I slipped out from under the tombstone slats.  I slipped off my shoes.  Pulling the scalpel from my shoe I crept on naked feet to where George slept, trying the whole while not to think about the two of us playing cards to pass the hours between sunset and sleep, how he sounded like a good man doing his best to make the worst possible situation endurable.  There were no moments of holy shit is someone waking up, about to witness me mid-murder?  Everyone slept like dead children.  I got to George, put the blade to his neck, and cut, leaning with my full weight to put the knife as deep into him as possible.  Blood welled up, spurted as the heart pumped it into flying ribbons.  I clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the frightened gurgle.  He barely reacted.  By the time he understood what was happening it was too late.  

I went back to my bunk.  As I stashed the scalpel back in my shoe I heard a snort.  Glancing up I saw a pair of animal eyes shining in the rafters.  But they turned away, leaving me in the dark with what I’d done.  


COMING SOON!
Part 7:  A Woman’s Pocket – On the River – Cry Freedom – WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!





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    J. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards.

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