Chapter Twenty
When I woke up I was lying on my back on the floor of a moving van, my right wrist bound and tied to the door handle with a scratchy rope. A huge white hairy dog was sliding around bashing in to me and barking. He was saying, “Don't you just love Stan? Isn't Stan great?” and Stan was shouting from the driver's seat.
“Itchy! Shut the fuck up you stupid fucking dog!”
There was no one else in the vehicle and I had no idea how long I'd been there, how long we'd been driving or where we were going. The side and back windows of the van were whitewashed over and I couldn't see to the front because of the way my head was oriented.
“Itchy! What the fuck's the matter with you? Is the thing awake? Is that's what's up?”
He must've taken a look back and seen somehow that my eyes were open because he started talking to me.
“Candles? Is that what they call you? Why the fuck do they call you Candles? What a stupid fucking name.”
“It's what they call me,” I managed to say before he cut me off.
“Did I tell you you could talk? Did I? Did I say, hey, fuck-face, you can talk? I don't think I did so don't you fucking talk you piece of shit. Marta thinks you're fucking worthless did you know that? She says you're the worst piece of meat she ever transacted for. Her words, transacted for. That's how she talks. Stupid bitch. Don't get me wrong, she's a hot piece of ass but so fucking stupid, you know what I mean? Don't answer that. You don't talk, get it? Not to me, not to anyone. Not now, not ever. She transacted but you're mine now and you know what? She's a stupid bitch. Thinks you're fucking worthless. We only got you in order to fuck with the Olde Country Farms, you know that? Spoiled the whole bunch. They couldn't turn it down, couldn't turn down the hundred kay but why she picked you, fuck if I know. They had a fucking pre-cog in that batch, did you know that? And a half a psychic. Of course a half a psychic is totally fucking useless because you never know which half, you get me? It's always fifty fifty. Of course everything is always fifty fifty you ask ME. Don't you fucking ASK me. Don't be getting ideas.”
Meanwhile the dog kept barking and growling “Don't you just love Stan? Isn't Stan great?” and my head kept bouncing on the hard metal floor and it was hard to think that things could get any worse. Stan kept talking.
“Why she picked you, fuck if I know. Still, I can get ten times more than I paid if I just chop you into pieces and sell you off in Cancun. You want me to do that? I'd love to chop your sorry ass to pieces. I'd do it slowly too but what the fuck. You wouldn't feel anything anyway, and you'd probably enjoy analyzing the fuck out of the whole process. God damn flesh machine. Stupid fucking ape. You know they used to sell your kind wholesale, till the stupid twelve elevens happened. Now it's fucking illegal. I get caught with you in the van my ass is toast. Stupid fucking bitch. Why I get crossed up with her dirty work, fuck if I know. Besides the money, that is. And that ass. And of course because June Lee.”
For some reason the mentioning of June Lee caused Stan to go all quiet, and he drove on in silence for several minutes, before he switched on the radio to some terrible noise station and turned the volume way up.
“That's so you won't think,” he shouted. “So you don't get any ideas.” I don't know how I was going to be able to think anyway, with my head banging around and the big dog crashing into me and barking into my ear, and then my nose was filled with the smell of cigarette smoke so I was choking and gagging as well. The only thought I managed was to tell myself never to tell myself that things could not get any worse. It seems they always can.
Fortunately we didn't drive much longer, and as we came to a stop I managed to roll over slightly and peek up and out the front window of the van. I got the impression that we were still in Surf City, though we were higher up and it looked like there might be the ocean way down below, just a streak of pale blue meeting the gray horizon.
“Itchy, come!” Stan yelled, and the dog bounded onto the front passenger seat. Stan got out of the car on his side. The dog followed and then Stan poked his head back in and looked down at me.
“Don't be getting ideas,” he said again, and then he slammed the door, leaving me alone in there. At least it was finally quiet and still. Outside it was starting to get dark. I rolled back onto my back and inspected the rope tying me to the door handle. I considered whether I would be able to restore it to its current configuration with only one hand if I had to, decided I would not be able to, and then decided I didn't care. With my free hand I untied the knot, wondering if Stan really believed that that half-assed job was going to hold me. My next decision was easy. I crept up to the passenger side door, opened it, and slid out of the van. I didn't know where Stan was, or Itchy, and I realized I might get caught immediately, but the thought of getting chopped into pieces and being sold off in Cancun, whatever that meant, was enough to give me a bit of courage. I got to my feet and took off running.