#39
When Barry slipped out the back door of his pal Joey’s home, still tucking in his shirt and already trying to convince himself he felt bad, he should have looked left. If he had looked left, things might have ended differently, but Barry looked down, worrying at the snap of his jeans, and he didn’t see the two-by-four coming. Joey had played some ball, and he had a good swing. He managed to follow through, and Barry was “outta there.”
He came to lying face down beside the railroad tracks. The city was blanketed in ice – had been for two days. Barry’s hands and feet were numb, and his cheek, resting in the snow, had no feeling at all. He tried to move, but his hands were tied tightly behind him. His legs were bound in duct tape from ankle to ass. He was too cold to put up much of a fight, so he had to settle for glancing around at ground level.
A boot nudged him in the ribs.
“Back with me, bro?”
It was Joey, he’d know the voice anywhere. He tried to speak, but he could barely open his mouth, his face was so cold.
“Got a lot of balls,” Joey continued. “I’m out there making sure the city — your house too, man — has power, and you’re home havin’ a go at my old lady. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Barry tried to speak again, but it was pointless. He doubted he had any circulation left in his hands, or his legs.
There was a crunch in the snow, and Barry saw something large and round…a ball? Christ – a BOWLING ball…being rolled slowly in front of him. What was the crazy fuck going to do, crush him with it? Barry found new life. He tried to shuffle across the ground away from the ball, tried to lift his head, only to have it drop painfully. Joey nudged the ball closer.
“I figured I’d do you one last favor, since we’re friends and all,” Joey said. “Told myself, my buddy Barry, he’s got BIG BALLS doing this. Got me thinking, what could I do as a going away present? What would be appropriate for a friend like you – keeping my old lady warm on such a cold night. Then it came to me. Give him what he likes best.”
Barry managed a whimper of sound and tried again to lift his head. He wanted to speak. If he could find words, get his voice in gear, maybe he could talk Joey out of whatever he planned. He had money. He had a good job.
No sound came out, but he managed — at last — to get his mouth open The second he did, Joey pounced. He rolled that icy bowling ball up against the numb, deadened surface of Barry’s tongue. It stuck. Just like in all the movies, and all the cartoons. The fucking thing stuck tight to his tongue, stretching it painfully.
Joey lifeted the ball then, and lifted Barry at the same time by his hair. He stretched Barry’s tongue tight and the pain was such a bright, hot flash he nearly passed out. Joey laid the bowlling ball in the denter of the railroad tracks, stretching Barry out over the rail.
“There you go, partner,” he said. “Here’s your chance. You get out of there in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll miss your train…or it’ll miss you. I’m bettting on the ice, though.”
Joey backed away a step, and Barry convulsed…he fought, and every motion sent jolts of pain down his tongue, and through his head.
From a distance, he heard Joey call back.
“Don’t worry about the gravestone. I’ve got it covered. I even know what to write. ‘Here Lies what’s left of Barry. Not much of a friend, but he had big balls.”
There was silence, and as Barry started to black out from the pain, he heard Joey laugh.
“Three of them.”
In the distance, the mournful wail of the train wailed a dirge.
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
