“Are you pulling my leg?” I laugh and shake a finger at him, like,you got me!“So youdohave a sense of humor! I’m glad. In these trying times, nothing’s more important. Laughteristhe best medicine, after all, and you’re going to need somegoodhealing after this night.” I spin him around on the chains so I can reach his hands, then lob off the tip of a middle finger. Eh, maybe it’s two fingers. Hard to be precise with such a big blade and all those teeny, tiny digits.
More screaming, of course.
Bo-ring.
“Another mental note for the list, Augs,” I say, wincing. “Stock the facility with earplugs.” Then, raising my voice above Jake’s incessant whining, “Time to focus, Jake. Deep breaths. Full Metal Jacket, right? Don’t hold back. I wantallthe salacious details.”
Auggie snaps a few more pictures for the family album.
“I don’t… don’t know anyone called Full Metal J-Jacket. I swear.” Jake blinks against the harsh light of the flash. He’s full-on panting now, covered in sweat and blood and piss, face as pale as paper.
Fairing better than Zo-Zo, though. That motherfucker is passed out cold again, blood drooling out of his slack mouth.
I hate when they conk out early.
No matter. We’ll be sure to wake him up in time for the grand finale.
“You sure about that?” I ask Jake.
“I swear. I… I never heard of him.”
“Hmm. My mistake, then.” I nod to Auggie, and he smashes a big red button on the wall with his fist.
Ancient, rusty gears grind to life, and with the hellacious screech of metal on metal, all the meat hooks start moving down the line, chains clanking as they go. With slow, steady steps, I accompany our guests on the fifty-foot journey to their new destination:
Hovering just above the industrial-strength meat grinder.
“That’s good, Auggie,” I call out.
Auggie hits the stop button.
And I hit the power switch on the grinder.
The thing’s about as loud as an old steamer train, and just as rickety, but all the parts are still in good working order—that was the first thing I checked when we arrived tonight.
I make sure to point this out to Jake, who—in a shocking twist of events—starts balling again.
I’m about to signal to Auggie to lower the hooks when the bastard finally cures himself of his amnesia.
“Conrad Nesterman!” he shouts, clearer than he’s been all night. “That’s Metal’s name. Lives out in Bayside with his girlfriend now. A witch named K-K-Kelly Obrovski.”
I put the grinder on standby. “Keep talking.”
“That’s it. You wanted a name, you got it.”
“I’m still waiting on a confession, Jake. Westlyn Avery, remember? Girl you used to call Wicked?”
Just saying the word sends a poison ache through my gut, the image of her scars flashing behind my eyes. Her tears. Her shame.
“I told you,” he says. “That’s just an urban—”
“Going with the legend bit again? Wow. And here I thought we were building something special together, Jakey.” I turn the grinder on high speed and signal to Auggie, who lowers the hooks until Jake’s head is a mere foot from achieving its destiny.
“Wait!” He screams, his whole body trembling. “Wait! You were right. It wasn’t a s-story. It was us. The g-g-girl on the tracks… We got paid five grand a p-p-piece to—”
“Fivegrand?” I silence the grinder again. “Each?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I swear the arsehole’s lips twitch like he’s about to smile. Like I might actually be impressed with his ability to command such a high price.
