Did Jerry put me with a fucking stabber?
Stabber was the nickname given to Jerry's more sadistic clients. They commonly left guys out of the pool for months at a time. Occasionally, they were the reason boys disappeared.
The blade dug deep into his neck muscles. Kid struggled.
“Oh, you like to fight?” Double Chin pulled the knife back and stabbed it into Kid’s triceps.
Kid screamed out. He tried to pull away, but Double Chin had a good grip on his arm.
Kid’s assailant twisted the blade.
“Stop! Stop!” Kid cried. He drove his free hand between his chest and the wall and shoved Double Chin's arm back, freeing himself from his grip. He leapt back, the blade tearing through his flesh.
Blood slid down his forearm and dripped onto the floor.
Double Chin held a glistening red blade. Wide, emerald eyes shimmered over a smile that expanded across a drooping, creased face.
How the fuck am I gonna get out of this?
The door opened.
Robb entered with two more men.
Kid scrambled through the doorway, slipping past Robb and the new guys.
Marzo, who was just a little farther down the hall, jumped in front of him and grabbed his arms. “Kid, get back in there!”
“Are you fucking shitting me? Let me talk to Jerry!” Kid wiggled, struggling to break Marzo’s hold.
“He doesn't want to talk to you.” One of Marzo’s eyes directed his words at Kid. The other directed them to the wall. “You know what you did. Get back in there.”
“This is ridiculous! I don't deserve this! I’ve been doing this too long to—”
“Chain him down!” Robb shouted.
“No!” one of the two new men exclaimed. Though he wasn’t nearly as big as Double Chin, he was heavy enough to crush Kid if he sat on him. He had a full head of brown hair and looked to Kid like he was in his mid-thirties.
The man lifted a hand in gesture. The sleeve of his blue polo revealed flabby arms with splotches of curly hair randomly arranged from his bicep to wrist.
“We want him to be able to fight,” Splotchy Hair said.
These guys could totally kill me.
Zzzz.
Marzo's Taser was at Kid's chest. He vibrated as he fell to the floor.
Robb and Marzo took him by either arm and dragged him back into the room. They abandoned him, leaving him in the hands of the three clients.
As Kid regained some control over his nerves and appendages, he rose to his feet, the blood from his triceps making a path down his forearm, droplets sliding off his fingertips.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m not doing this. Now, please just—”
The last of the clients, nearly a foot taller than Kid—emaciated, the complete opposite of the first client Kid had met—leapt at him, punching him in the face.
Kid fell back. His head slammed against the gray concrete wall. The shock of the blow was so intense it stunned him nearly as much as Marzo’s Taser. He slid down the wall, the rough texture grating at his back.
Emaciated knelt beside him, and like a boxer practicing on a punching bag, laid one punch after another into his torso.
