Renumeration

This is it. You're outta luck. Outta luck and outta time. The sudden, stifling journey in the boot of an unknown vehicle all but promised you that. You search, frantic for evidence contradicting your guilt, but it's no use. You know. They know. Pretty much the entire town knows. Something has been amiss over the previous week. The air of the room in which you sit has a dreadful smell. A dampness that tickles the throat and behind that, something sinister.

The situation seems unreal to you, as though you're reading a scene set in a book or watching your favorite true crime show, aired weekly, Tuesdays, 9pm EST. You're not sure when the separation of mind and body happened. Most likely sometime after the pain got too much. You recall the twists and turns of the voyage here. How it left you bruised all other and with a thousand snakes slithering inside your stomach. You peer at yourself from above and note the vomit stain on your new, white plaited shirt. The blood on your face paints a clear picture: You need to work out a solution or this is it.

It was a crisp winters morning when you went for a run along the picturesque and quiet canal behind your downtown studio. Approaching a low bridge you noticed a dark mound in the shadows, yet more rubbish dumped by a flytipper. This musing soon proved mistaken in the most wonderful way. You stopped, having realized the pile is not trash, but a smart travel bag. The zip was part open and you saw green and white paper within. Maybe a printed digit or two. Your mouth salivated in excitement as your brain processed what lay before it having opened the bag. 20 big ones. What divine luck. Only thinking of the opportunities opening to you, you huddled the bag close and rushed home.

At home your shower was hurried. The old sponge you used to lather your body with was rough and parts of it broke away as you scrubbed. Patches of mould and fallen tiles which usually poked at your mind during your daily wash no longer bothered you. It could all be fixed now. Everything was looking grand. 20 grand to be precise, you thought, smiling to yourself whilst stepping onto the bath matt and grabbing a wet towel. As usual, the towel rack came loose and clattered onto the floor. Cling-clang-clang. You didn't bend to pick it up, but instead gave the wooden pole a kick into the corner. Cling-Clang-Clang. Having dressed in a set of ill-fitting clothes, you left the apartment with a wad of the notes stuffed in your coat pocket, deciding it was a fine day to treat oneself to a coffee and donut.

You ate a bit too many of those donuts and drank a bit too much coffee for your own good that day, leaving the bustling diner feeling heavy. It seemed as though the Universe was smiling upon you as the Sun shone with an unusual vividness for the time of year. You did not hold back in your spending. New clothes, needed for many months, hung from bright bags on each arm, making you look like an overloaded scale as you waddled down the streets. Friends and acquaintances met, all shook their heads as they walked away from you with the disbelief that you had the money to spend so lavishly.

Birds sang and puppies smiled as you walked to the second hand car dealership a short distance from the town centre. The dealer was surprised to see you. You had met previously in a seedy bar and he was somewhat skeptical your financial situation could allow for this. However, when you flippantly brandished that wad of cash and said you could come back with the little amount owed, all hesitancy ended. Keys were handed over, the engine ignited, purred and then roared as you sped away.

Time and money went fast after that day. A new Rolex, bought on the black market confirmed that. Perhaps if you spent the money wiser and with less delinquent persona you wouldn't be screwed now. How could you think such reckless spending would go unnoticed? Why didn't you stop and wonder where the money came from? You should have invested in that night class you could never afford.

The bruises on your face have multiplied and you mutter something to the man opposite. Some kind of apology. Something along the lines of not knowing, but it's hard to hear oneself with a perforated ear drum and the world spinning. You black out.

Unknown moments pass in serendipitous silence. Then a hard hand slaps you across the face. The body stings. Your eyes feel invaded by the florescent light shining behind a familiar silhouette. A fist slams against the table but you cannot hear the contact. All spoken words seem distant and indistinguishable. The man before you seems to realize this and you just about identify that he is clicking his fingers. Out of the darkness a huge blotted figure appears and places what seems like a glass of water before you. The ropes which bind you loosen, becoming more like weak worms than their formidable predecessors; wrapping pythons which promised broken bones and swollen limbs. Trembling and uncoordinated your hand reaches towards the glass and fails to grip it many times before finally you can lift it to your dry mouth. The water cascades within, reaching it's invigorating fingers throughout your core and bringing you somewhat back to reality.

The room becomes a little sharper. You see the ceiling fan circling like an expectant vulture above. The table before you gains it's true shape and form. You can't help but think of Plato's cave and the ignorance of those who choose to stay below becomes more appealing to you when you notice that what you had thought were darker patterns of the wood are in fact, little blots of dried blood.

The man begins to put his hand into a pocket within the lining of his jacket and you observe the situation in terror. Why don't you do something? Because there is nothing you can do. This is it. You're outta luck. Outta luck and outta..

Instead of the expected pistol, a little black book is withdrawn and held before you. It is frayed at the edges, yet you can see great craftsmanship in it's production. It seems precious to the owner and he gazes at it with a fondness permeating from his soul. Licking his right thumb beforehand, the man proceeds to flick through the book and appears to chuckle on occasion, then pauses and shakes his head on others. Having flicked through the book entirely he places it on the table and pushes it over the spots of blood in an undulating, river-like path towards you. When it is immediately before you, he clicks his fingers abruptly in your face, grabbing your attention. You stare at him as he makes the gesture of a book opening with his hands and then points at you. Unsure as to what is afoot but sure that there isn't an option to do anything else you take the book and open it, somehow eager to read it's contents, though you do not know why.

The scrawl within is, in all honesty, astonishing. The flowing loops and knots of the letters are pure artistry and for a moment you forget yourself. It's funny how even in the darkest of moments, humans can appreciate the joy of experiencing pure beauty. The initial awe is soon overtaken, replaced in a rude and complete manner by the ill omened limericks that traverse page after page. Despite the growing horror you read on somehow enthralled.

There was a young man named Bret

Who grew a substantial debt

Couldn't pay the money

So we blew off a knee

Then sold one of his of his kidney's for the rest

There once was a lady named Karen

Who owed five grand and then some

We got her mulling cocaine

But she got caught in Bombay

So we shanked her 'fore she dropped any names.

There once was a man from Kentucky

Who thought that he was quite lucky

His winning run, it did end

Then he missed three payments

Now his bones lay beneath the cold pavement.

You're not sure whether to laugh or cry. Although kind of bad in execution, the content of the book certainly leaves no room for misinterpretation. This is not a man to upset. The promise of destruction results in a resetting of the senses and you can feel yourself slowly being brought back towards your body. Words are still muffled but you can see clearly how the man takes back the black book and skips to the back. Here, he examines a secret pouch, lifting a small part of the material away from the well bound cover. With his little finger, which you see like the rest of his hand is magnificently manicured, he withdraws a pristine piece of paper. It has been folded in half and then half again. As the man unravels the mystery, his mouth twitches upward in restrained frustration. He licks his lips. Eyes scan the page.

The paper slides, smooth under the hand of the assailant and stops before you. It is clear the man does not like to get his own hands dirty, you think to yourself as it taps the ironed white leaf with a slight impatience. Reading the sheet, it is easy to see that this is a list of 'problems', who caused those 'problems' and how they have been dealt with. Here and there, a name has been crossed out. Elsewhere, a small skull and cross bones has been sketched next to a name that has either been crossed out or not.

The paper glides back towards the assailant and is laid next to the book. A finger that feels somehow like a pistol points at you between the eyes, then it points at the book and after a pause, the paper. The man makes an exaggerated questioning gesture and his face looks like a cheap impressionist doing their best job to look like a sulking child. His lips being to move and amidst it all, the self returns to the body. For now, at least, all the senses have become alert.

"So as you see, you're not the only one to have gotten into this situation," the man says, stroking his beard, his speech littered with dramatic pauses and emphasis.

"Now then, you have a choice. You've read the book. You've seen the list. The list shows others like yourself whom have a debt. Those with severe markings next to them, well let's just say, have what I would call an insurmountable figure. Once such a name is crossed out, they have the honor of being in my little book. You and I both know that your name could, and in reality, should join that special 'pre-book group'. However, I am a reasonable man. I know that you didn't steal my money on purpose. So, I am going to give you an option. If you take care of one of the other little problems for me, then, I will forget about our little problem. It's simple really, either two of you will be in my poetry collection or one," the man states and smiles.

The severity of the situation has sunk in and I am truly at one with my thoughts again, thoughts which are racing to find a conclusion to whether I am willing to destroy a life to save my own. The words won't come out as my mind shut's down in fear. I can feel myself detaching from the situation once again, my mind leaving the body as I hear the man lean towards me and say

"What's it going to be then eh?"