Diary of a Degenerate 35

Nearly a half hour passed before I heard the sound of heavy boots pounding the stairs outside the door.  The brutish man was back with a cell phone and leather gloves on.  It seems he didn’t think I was going to be able to come up with the money, and he was prepared to finish me off.  Following close behind him was the little girl translator, no doubt tagging along to make sure I didn’t try anything stupid.  But the joke was on them.  Not only had my family disowned me long ago, but I never really had friends.  Especially not friends with the means to save my ass right now.  If I needed drugs or booze then maybe... but not money.

He handed me the phone and I reached out and took it from him, an ancient flip phone from some mexican prepaid phone service, and pawed at the number pad with my broken fingers with utter futility.  “Can you dial for me?”  I asked the little girl, and she walked over with that same level of chilling confidence she had when she told me all about my dubious fate a short time ago.  As soon as she was within arm’s length I had her.

I stood up with ease with a kicking and screaming child in my hands, hands that showed much more strength than even I thought I had.  The look in the man’s eyes was priceless.  Not long ago I couldn’t even stand, let alone leap to my feet.  He was amazed that I was no longer restrained, the bindings dropping to the floor.  My broken hands had easily slipped through the cord he used to tie me up, the only upside to the agonizing beating he gave me.  When I grabbed the child by the throat she stopped struggling.  I was one quick motion away from snapping her neck and she knew it.

“Tell him to bring me some clothes and all the money you took from me.  And a gun.”  I loosened my grip on her neck so she could mutter the words to him.  He shook his head at me and I smiled.  Then I slipped the fingernail of my left index finger into the girl’s eye socket and punctured the orbit.  I am not sure which I heard loudest, her shrieks or the wailing of her father as he dropped to his knees.  The sensation of her wet eyelid gripping my finger like a miniature vagina turned my stomach slightly and made me cough.  If they had fed me anything in the past day I might have thrown up right then and there, but I held eye contact with the man as he regained his feet, sobbing.  “And tequila”  I added, moving my gore-stained finger to the girl’s other eye.  I heard him scramble back up the stairs.  He would either return with a fierce resolve to kill me, or to appease me.  Either way it would end now.