“This little piggy went to the market.”
The room is dark, lit only by one of those desk lights with the green hood-over top. I can hear some giggling coming from behind me. Sounds like Jamie, that snake fucking bastard. The hiss of phlegm in his lungs gives him away.
“This little piggy went home.”
I can’t make out who’s in front of me—the blindfold drooped down on my cheeks, blood and sweat in my busted eye make it all too blurry.
I can’t recognize the voice of this piss-fuck taunting me with the rhyme either. Must be someone from Jamie’s other crew, that snake fucking bastard. I knew I couldn’t trust him. Doing a job like that though, you need certain skills, skills you can’t find popping in on a few watering holes and dropping in a few leader lines. You can’t leave a printout on a coin laundry cork board with little tear-offs of your number. With a job like that, you have to trust someone like Jamie, just should have got myself an extra set of eyes to make that trust a little easier.
“This little piggy had roast beef.”
I swear to God if I get out of here alive, this asshole, the one in front of me, he’s going to get the worst of it. I might can’t see his face, but that list and roll of the words out of his mouth, like he’s chewing on a lot of bread, that’ll be easy enough to track down.
There’s not a number of zeros going to be big enough to hide either one of these twisted fucks after this.
Three million bucks. One for me. One for Jamie. One for Bobby for setting it up. No way Jamie would go after Bobby, so here we are. Bet he’s not even going to split my cut halfway with the fat prick on my toes. Bet he only told him it was half that.
The pain is gut-wrenching.
I can hear Jamie hissing behind me still. Can’t say I blame him too much. If I’d’ve had half the sense, he’d be the one tied to this chair right now barely conscious from a beating, biting his tongue on where his cut was hidden. Doubt he would keep his mouth shut long as I have though. That little worm. That slug would pop the moment the first grains of salt touched his slimy skin. He’d fold in on himself the first finger I broke. He damn sure wouldn’t have let me break all 10. And this guy in front of me, oh I wouldn’t care how fast he spewed it, I would go the full mile for him. He could tell me the moment I tied the knot. He could tell me the moment he saw my face in the crowd, eyes locked on him from across the room. He’d know why I was there, and he could tell me everything, but it wouldn’t do him any good.
Half a million might keep him quiet for a while—if he’s any sort of a man. I wouldn’t be after the money then, just after his appendages. All 20 of them. Talk or not, they’d be mine.
The mistake they made was only breaking my fingers, should have taken them too.
Those will heal. Those will work again. Soon enough I’ll be able to make a fist. Soon enough I’ll be able to tie a knot. Soon enough I’ll be able to hold gardening shears and show them both the same hospitality I’ve been shown today. Soon enough I’ll be on the mend and they’ll be on the break.
“This little piggy cried wee wee wee all the way home.”
Here’s a hypothetical for you: how many toes would you have to lose before you gave up where you hid a million bucks? Think about it for a second. Would you give in before the first one? The second? It’s a million bucks, a lot of money. The third? It doesn’t get easier with each one either. Five?
Yeah, five is where I stopped too.
There’s not a bullet in my head though, which means soon I’ll be on the mend. Soon, there will be twenty little piggies that I have for mine.
Twenty little piggies and two million bucks.by
The following two tabs change content below.