I feel like crying and then I feel like screaming. I want to lean forward and bite the nose off his face and spit it out. I want to drive my thumbs into his eyeballs and then ram my still hard dick into his empty, bleeding sockets. I want to remove his head with a dull serving spoon and deposit this new wave of shit directly into his chest cavity.
He grips me tightly by the neck and leads me back to the room, announcing, “Alabama hot pocket time!”
Carrie, trembling and still a little green, tosses a soiled towel into the corner of the room and says, “What in the name of fuck is an Alabama hot pocket?”
Mongo tells us.
We look at each other and then reply in unison, “I’m not doing that!”
My colon growls. Mongo repositions the cameras and says, “Now is time. We do this and we win. Game is over, million dollars is ours. Don’t you want to be rich?”
I say, “Not anymore. I’d rather you stab me than go through with this.”
“I’d rather you stab him, too,” Carrie says.
Mongo chuckles and reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out a photo and holds it up for both of us to see. It’s Carrie’s little Chinese baby. “What about this little one?”
Carrie’s face hardens and I see death flare in her eyes. “If you touch my little girl, I will never stop tracking you down, you sick piece of shit.”
He turns to me and says, “Or maybe I pay visit to little peeing whore? Tricia is her name, I believe?”
I want to respond, but I’m overcome by another wave of nauseous intestinal pressure that buckles my knees. The lingering smell of shit inside the room doesn’t help. It smells like a nursing home exploded in here.
Carrie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the other bed. “Fuck it, let’s get this over with.”
She lies back with her ass at the edge of the bed and spreads her legs as far apart as they’ll go. I shake my head.
“I can’t do this.”
Before Mongo can say anything, Carrie screams at me, “Come on you fucking pussy! Be a man and do what you have to do. Just get it over with.”
She spreads her vaginal lips apart and looks away at the wall.
I turn and point my ass at her. I can’t hold it much longer.
I can’t believe I’m going through with this. I focus on Mongo. I direct all of my thoughts and energy at him. Anger burbles out of me as powerfully as the shit that blasts from my ass. Instead of thinking about what I’m doing, I concentrate on how I’ll make him pay for this.
When I’m done, I turn and look at Carrie. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a look of anger mixed with horror. Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, “Please just hurry up and get this over with.”
I nod and slide into her. I close my eyes and try not think about the hot slop enveloping my crotch and sticking to our thighs, the sickly stickiness as I slap against her. I block out the odor, the texture, everything. I have one focus: Mongo’s bloodied face. On his knees. With his hands tied behind his back by barbed wire. I conjure the image of a hot poker in my hands. I imagine the kind of revenge to be had with such an implement. I can hear his screams, pleading for his life. Begging me not to hurt him.
I pump harder, determined to finally finish this. I’m lost in the fantasy of revenge. I’m thrilled by the promise of torture. I’m near climax when, in my mind, I rear back with the glowing poker and give Mongo one more chance to plead for his life. I relish it. Then I plunge forth. I finish it.
Carrie is beating against my chest and sliding away from me. She’s saying something but I don’t understand her. She points behind me. I turn and realize that the sound of Mongo’s pleas for mercy are still in my ears, very real.
But he’s not begging me to stop. He’s pleading with the two gorillas who have him flat against the plastic-covered floor, his arms pinned behind his back and a handgun pressed deep into his cheek.
A moment later, Peter Oh’Tool strolls into the motel room through the open door. He flashes me a greasy smile and shoots me with a thumb-and-forefinger gun.
“Howdy, Dennis.”
Peter looks down at Mongo and shakes his head. He squats down and leans close to the Russian bear’s face and says, “Dmitri… why are you trying to ruin my show?”
Mongo, or Dmitri, I guess, starts to say something in a whiny, high-pitched voice, but he’s cut off by a vicious downward thrust of the gun barrel across the bridge of his nose. Blood spews from his face across the plastic, mixing with small puddles of brown fluid.
I collapse onto the bed.
Carrie takes a shower while I stand at the sink in the bathroom. We’re in there for quite some time, both of us silent as we clean up. We emerge in a pair of threadbare bathrobes to find the room has been restored to its original dumpiness, the plastic tarp gone. And there’s no sign of Mongo anywhere. I hope he’s encased in that tarp, stuffed in the trunk of a large black sedan.
We stand side by side facing Peter Oh’Tool. He looks at Carrie in the same way he looked at Mongo/Dmitri a few moments ago.
“Now,” he says, “what to do with you.”
Carrie has tears in her eyes. “Please…”
“You should be in a trunk with Dmitri right now for helping him, you understand that right?”
She nods vigorously.
“But I’m not going to do that. When he threatened your child, that’s where I drew the line. But you understand this: if I see or hear anything more about you sniffing around Dennis here for the prize money, I’ll come back. You understand?”
Carrie nods harder.
“Alright, get the hell out of here.”
Carrie grabs her clothes and can’t leave the room fast enough. Peter and I watch her go and then he turns back to face me.
I say, “Prize money? So that means I won?”
Peter smiles his onstage porn star smile and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Are you kidding me? You did it, alright! You’re King of the Perverts!”
He’s a lot happier about it than I am. “So, now what?”
“Now, we get all this footage edited and make a show out of it. We begin airing next month.”
“Next month? That fast?”
“Sure, we don’t fuck around here. We’ve been working on your stuff since the beginning. Once I saw that alligator fuckhouse of yours, I knew how this contest was going to turn out.”
“What are you saying, you rigged the game?”
Peter laughs at me condescendingly. “Yeah, man, this is reality TV. You didn’t think any of that shit was actually real, did you?”
“I don’t know, I guess not. So, did you send the little guy with the glasses? Jack Mehoff?”
“Actually, that’s my big brother Todd. He’s a bit touched as I’m sure you noticed.”
“How long did you know what Mong-er, I mean, Dmitri was up to?”
“Since yesterday. I sent Todd here to tip you guys off with the remaining lineup of challenges. Dmitri responded by beating him within an inch of his life. My plane landed in Indianapolis two hours ago and we’ve spent the past thirty minutes in the room next door watching and listening.”
I’m quiet for a while, taking it all in. Peter Oh’Tool saw everything, then. He and his goons could have come in and stopped this at any time, but he chose to wait. He wanted to see it through. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
Peter heads for the door, leaving me to digest all of this. On his way out, he turns back and shoots me with his finger gun again and winks.
“See you in Vegas for the final show.”
“There’s more?”
“Of course. We have to cap the contest off with the live crowning of our King!”
Final Interlude
The Aftermath
One by one, the girls show up. Each of them pretty much does the same thing. They enter the coffee shop and look around a minute, hovering near the door like they can’t decide whether they want to go through with this or not.