Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Hello, Hector. Been a while.”
Hector, my very good friend, stiffens. He looks back at me in a panic. His squinty eyes widen. “Stellan? What the fuck, bro?”
I press the tip of my knife tighter against his spine and lower my voice. “If you make a scene, I’ll kill you before I leave. We need to have a friendly talk.”
Hector clears his throat. “Yeah, okay, sure. There’s the walk-in right over there.”
I add some pressure on the knife. “I don’t like the cold. Try again.”
“Fuck, bro! The bathroom!”
“Take me.”
He turns and walks at a steady pace. I stay close, smiling casually at the few guys who look over. But I’m guessing they know my good friend Hector pretty well by now. They probably implicitly understand that he’s a lowlife piece of shit and anything he does is inherently trouble. Nobody sticks their neck out for him, despite the terror on his face.
We reach the bathroom. I kick the door shut and lock it. There’s a single toilet and some fancy soap on the sink. Hector whirls on me, hands raised.
“Stellan, bro, I know what this is about, bro, but we don’t gotta be like this. I’m at work, bro.”
“I noticed. Dishwasher? Really?”
“Don’t disrespect a working man, bro.”
“You sell meth.”
“I need steady employment for my parole officer, okay?”
I sigh and shake my head. “You’re such a piece of shit, you know that?”
If I were anyone else, there’s no doubt in my mind Hector would take serious offense to that. Instead, he only grins stupidly. “Yeah, bro, I know. You’re right. I’m a piece of shit, right?”
I tap the knife against my palm, considering. Here’s a guy doing his best. He’s waking up, clocking in, earning a check. Sure, he hits the street at night, slings drugs, beats prostitutes, but even still. A guy’s gotta get his kicks, right?
“Thirty-five hundred,” I tell him simply.
He scoffs a laugh. “What the fuck?”
“You owe me thirty-five hundred dollars. Three thousand five hundred, in case you weren’t sure.”
“I know what that is, but I mean, bro, I don’t got that much. Are you crazy?”
“Thirty-five hundred. That’s two thousand for the drugs you shorted me, plus a thousand for selling on my territory, and another five hundred for my time today. Thirty-five hundred.”
“I can’t, I mean, bro, look at me, you think I got that much lying around?” He sputters, gesturing at his dirty clothes. “I wash fuckin’ dishes and sell gram bags of meth. Come on, give me a break. I’ll work it off, whatever you want, but—”
I move forward. Hector probably knows it’s coming but he’s too slow and too stupid to stop me. I grab one of his flailing hands, turn my body so his elbow is tucked into my armpit, and slam his palm down flat on the vanity. I lock my grip, using my body as leverage, and stomp one foot down to pin his left shoe in place.
“Fuck! Oh, shit, Stellan, what the fuck!”
“Last chance.” I get the knife ready.
“Bro, I don’t have it, I swear, I’m sorry, I’ll do everything, please don’t, just please don’t—” He’s blubbering now. It’s pathetic.
“Five hundred discount for every finger.” I stab the knife down. His pinky pops off like the cork from a bottle of prosecco. Blood spurts out and he screams in agony. “Now it’s three thousand.”
“Oh my god, my finger, my fucking finger!”
“Pay me.”
“Please, Stellan, please—”
I move on to the ring finger. It takes a little more work or maybe I’m just bored. The bone cracks and the finger tumbles into the sink. More blood pours out. “Twenty-five hundred.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Oh my god!”
“Can you pay me now?”
Hector stares at me in the mirror, eyes wild and wide—
And he shakes his head, pale and sweating.
“One more,” he whimpers.
Well, fuck me.
I have to admit, that’s incredible. He knows his financial situation. He’s also smart enough to know that I’m doing him a solid. If I weren’t willing to give him a finger discount, I’d probably just cut his throat and toss him in the river.
I slice off his middle finger as quickly as I can. It’s a mercy, really.
Once I release him, he drops to the floor, cradling his ruined and bloody hand. I toss him some paper towels. He wads them against the wounds.
“Two thousand,” I say, poking at the severed fingers. “You got two thousand?”
“I’ll give it to Frankie tonight.” He’s sobbing and hugging himself. “I swear, I just gotta get it from my apartment.”
“If you try to run, I’ll kill you and I’ll burn your mother’s apartment. I’ll slice off her fingers, make sure she matches her son. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Stellan. I swear, I won’t do it again. I got the money. I’m so sorry, bro.”
“I bet you are.” I toss his fingers to him. “I think these are yours. Tell those rats you work with that I’m watching. I want my cut. Don’t make me come here in person again. You know I hate working hard.”