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About

"Welcome to my head. My thoughts, dreams and pretty much anything else that gets blurbed out."

99 problems part duex

You know. Forty five minutes with an asshole on fire seems like an eternity. I sat in that car until God got to the 6th day. When we arrived, they didn't even bother taking this stinky rag off my head.

At least there are no drums.

I was dragged out of the car and spent most of the 2 minute walk trying not to trip on the different sets of steps and wooden walkways we went over.

Fuck this bag stinks. Ahh. I get it.

I couldn't see shit, but I sure could smell it. Gotta hand it to Mr. Miyagi and the gang, he sure knew how to keep things hidden. To bad I didn't get to walk to wherever this was, because I was pretty sure what everything was made of as I walked over it. Stone, dirt, wood, dirt, and stone. All in that order.

Oh well, it's not like I've never seen a traditional tea garden and court yard before. Just means there is a ten foot wall i'm going to have to scale damn if I want to get out of here.

While they lead me through various parts of some stone floored building, I kept trying to pay attention to the sounds, but I swear they told everyone to be quiet. So, with nothing to go on, I began to descend what I think was stairs, at the instructions Miyagi.

Fuck that's cold.

I must be in some kind of cellar shit inside the main house. Smells musty, and every so often, I think I hear the sounds of moving water overhead. Though, it's a little quiet down here as well.

Mr. Miyagi takes my hood off, and I realize very quickly that I should have shit myself in the car. As the other 3 goons begin to tie my feet to the only chair in the middle of the rust splashed concrete floor, I start to realize that I may have made some mistakes about who that waitress was.

Peeking around the room I see a few wooden barrels please be booze, large sacks of rice, and directly across from me, a metal table covered in what looks like Dr. Frank N Furter's stainless steel playset.

Just don't take my balls.

The goons finish tying my hands behind my back and Mr. Miyagi just stands there for a few moments and stares at me.

"Hey, wax on," I say to Miyagi. "Can you do me a favor and hose me down? This curry shit is getting in my eyes."

He just stares. Fucker. I know you speak English..

"My name is Kokichi," Miyagi tells me.

"I'll stick with Miyagi."

Miyagi reaches out his hand and treats me like my old man.

ow.

They laugh, I grunt, and the staring match continues.

I sit for what feels like an hour, all the while contemplating who the hell it is that wants me here. Which is sad because I'm not really sure who I've pissed off in this country. I mean, I was relocated here to protect me from my own country, and now I've apparently got a reason to leave this one as well.

Seriously though. You kill two or three Dominican cartel bosses in Los Angeles and suddenly you find yourself on a flight that never existed, siting with a guy who tells you his name isn't important. Next thing you know, you live in an apartment that gets paid by someone who doesn't exist and you get a job where all you do is take packages that come to the door, re-label them with labels that come in a separate letter, and give them back to the delivery guy the next day. What the shit kind of life is that?!?

Wow. Get a hold of yourself. I'm starting to sound like a whiny bitch.

The door at the top of the steps opens with a loud creak and I get to glimpse the bottom half of a man wearing white suit pants and matching shoes. I hated the 70's.

The moment he reaches the bottom step, I realize my mistake.

"Ahh. Mr. Chan," I say. "How have you been?"

Mr. Chan, "Dave-kun."

SLAP. ow.

"Yeah," spit "I had that coming."

"Good to see you so soon. I was afraid that after our encounter at the club you would try and skip out on me," Chan says.

I sit and stare at him. Knowing that anything I say is just going to give him an excuse to hit me.

Mr. Chan he hates that name isn't much to stare at anyways. Around 5'8" and a buck twenty five, the guy is almost always shirtless. I realize he thinks he is Yakuza, half the reason I call him Chan, but his tattoo's look like he got them done by the worst of their Tebori.

Under boss pride. 

"So Chan," I chide. "What can I do for you on this fine morning?"

"Start with why you shot one of my brothers in cold blood," he says.

"Call it a hunch and good aiming. Besides, Miyagi over there shot up a small crowd earlier, and you're worried about one replaceable henchman," I say.

He just stares at me for a moment, and I can already feel my sphincter start to clench. Hopefully he can't see it.

"Dave-kun," Chan says. "You know very well my name is Kazou, and that is is Mr. Kokichi."

I spit a little bit of blood. Looks like that last slap hurt more than I thought.

I really have to poop, but I know its going to burn.

"Enough small talk," Chan says. "You know why you are here, yes?"

"Yep."

"Good," he says. "In the morning I will have Kokichi here remove both of your hands. One for my man, and one for my daughter. Good bye."

I stare at his back as he walks up the steps and realize I must have been down here longer than I thought.

No wonder I have to shit so bad, never got the chance to take my morning BM. Bastards.

Chan leaves with Miyagi and I wait for the inevitable click of the light switch. It never comes.

Fuckers. Going to make me sit in the light all night.

I begin checking the ropes at my wrists and feet. No good. My wrists are tied pretty tight, and to make matters worse, they are starting to swell. Great.

I test the chair. No good. It's actually welded to the floor. After a quick glance at the weld, I realize that the rust stains on the floor aren't rust.

Well, this day just got worse.

Looking around the room I start to realize that I really am going to lose both my hands.

I wonder if they cut off her tongue? Ha.

After sitting for a while I hear the sounds of water running overhead again and this time I notice the gurgling sound coming from the back of the room. I lean my head back and look and sure enough, there is a large floor grate in the concrete where the sound of moving water is coming from.

Thank God for traditional water systems.

I quickly close my fingers around my hands and begin sliding them under my butt. Thankfully the silk robe at this point has scooted itself up enough that it isn't to hard to move out of the way.

Holding my hands together as tightly as possible, I begin to form a small cup.

This better fucking work.

I brace myself for the immense amount of pain my ass is about to feel, and release my bowels.

Shouldn't have had so much teriyaki the night before.

Doing my best to catch as much of the liquid feces as possible, I begin to push it back against my butt cheeks and let it smoosh out of the cup and onto my wrists.

Oh man is that rancid.

As the smell of digested teriyaki and curry begin to assault my nose, I start to feel the liquids sliding between the ropes at my wrist.

Twenty minutes of me attempting to control the flow of hand saving liquid freedom, I finally sit completely on my hands with all my weight. I sit there, in my own vile salvation, hoping to give it enough time to warm up my hands and moisten up the ropes.

Note to self. Write a book.

Once I can no longer feel my hands, I slip them out from under my butt and begin to work on getting one of the hands free. Unfortunately for me, I was never one of those people who could just spin his shoulders and bring their hands out in front of them. Although, given the situation, perhaps that is a blessing.

After what seems like an eternity of struggling I start to feel my wrist give. Unfortunately it's not the rope that's starting to give. It's actually my wrist.

Fuck it.

With a quick pull, I tug as hard as I can and feel the wrist pop out of joint, and the rope.

I bite my teeth and scream as quietly as I can.

The door at the top of the stairs opens and I place my hands back behind my back and grab my now dislocated wrist with my free hand.

The goon walks most of the way down the stairs, takes one look at the puddle around me and just starts to smirk.

Laugh all you want fucker. I am going to be gone in the morning, and you are going to be dead a few moments later.

He curls his nose up at the smell, and walks back of the stairs.

whew.

It takes me a few minutes to undo the knots at my feet with only one hand, but I manage. Now freed, I walk over to the table and grab a screw driver in the bucket under the table.

I don't find anything useful for a sling so I make do with duct tape. Taping the arm in a rough sling.

It's gonna be sticky for a bit, but that might not be the worst of it.

Walking over to the grate, I begin to thank the ceiling as I realize that it isn't bolted down. Looks like they might actually sweep the leftover parts into this hole anyways.

I put my fingers through the slots and begin pulling up on the grate. It's heavy, but after a few moments of grunting, the top comes off and I am looking down a black hole big enough for a local to climb into.

I hate my life.


5 hours later.


As I walk up to the U.S. Embassy covered in shit and slough grime I half expect the door guard to start yelling at me to stop well before I even cross the street. To my surprise, the guy just stares at me as I walk towards him.

"Hey," I say. smooth operator.

The guard just stands there eyeing me. Right about the time I am going to start explaining, a black SUV pulls up and the door opens.

"Get in Dave," Says the man in a black suit, white shirt and black tie.

I'm about to protest when I notice my old boss sitting next to him in the car with that same stupid ass smile on his face.

I get in the side door and we take off.

"Jim," I say, as I look at the man sitting across from me.

Jim just rolls down the windows slightly and says, "Heard you were in some trouble Dave."

"Yeah," I say.

This fucker is going to send me to Alaska, I know it.

Jim just reaches into his jacket and pulls out travel arrangements and hands them to me.

"I hope you like sheep," he says.

I take the itinerary folder, sit back and open it up. Inside is all the usual documents. Fake wallet, real passport, plane tickets, a small folder with whatever local currency, and a locker key.

I really hate showering at airports.

"How long," I ask.

"Six months at least. Try not to get too drunk," Jim says. uhg.

I relax and try to stay awake for the rest of the drive to the airport.

Never have sex with a waitress. 

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