H O W - I - E N D E D - U P - I N - H O S P I T A L
I wrote this a few days after I got out of hospital, at the end of October 2012. It's a conscious stream and a rough as guts recollection.
As you may or may not
be aware of, I was recently abducted by a gang from an organized crime syndicate.
Threaten, beaten, and then dumped near the border with Poland.
To make this short story longer, let me medicate my wounds, stretch back, and recall the wonderful adventure of the last week.
The weekend started out just lovely. On Saturday, I bought two new albums. Yes, I still like to buy CDs! I was then invited to a friends, as she was baking carrot cake, and I got extra fucking icing!
On Saturday night, I was writing my book. Alone. So much time alone.
Past midnight and into Sunday morning, I went for a walk. The small hours are when I tend to get bad things in my head. Bad, bad thoughts. So I went walking in the warm Berlin night. Such hot weather for October. Walking down unknown streets. I had nowhere to go. Just walking. Over thinking. Wanted to fucking kill someone. Just angry. Because I'm always fucking pissed. Walking down dark abandoned streets where girls would fear to tread. Walking while contemplating getting away with the perfect murder. It's all about the details, and a little bit of luck.
Then soon, before I knew where the fuck I was, I walked into a huge open area, like an empty parking lot, or perhaps where a factory had recently been demolished. No fucking lights anyway. Just a massive space. Ruins of concrete and brick all around. Could have been a fucking war zone. Just another derelict industrial plot of land near the river, south of F-hain. I wished there was a guard dog that might charge me, and try to tear my fucking throat out. I've always liked strolling down dark parts of town since I was young. I'll tempt fate, look a dangerous situation in the eye, and piss in god's fucking face! I fucking double-dare you to strike me down! But I do this because, ultimately, I know no one ever fucks with me – and there wasn't anyone around any-fucking-way.
So I walked along this empty lot, fuming and resentful. Shit in my head. And soon wondering where the fuck the nearest S-bahn was, so I could fuck off out of there and stalk some ex-girlfriends. When just then, a van drove past me. A black van. Modern and ugly. No lights on. It cruised past. I hadn't even heard it coming, I was listening to my headphones. So this van moved ahead. I cared little and watched it drive all the way to the end of the open plot, and then around a corner next to some warehouse. I continued walking in the same direction. Until I reached that same corner and saw the guys from the van standing next to three other cars. Must have been about ten men, all yelling at each other. I continued strolling down that narrow passageway, while watching those manic men in black. They were very animated in their expression toward one another. I assumed they were just a bunch of gang-star wanna-be hip-hop fuckwits trying to out staunch each other. It was all fun and games until gunfire caught my attention over my headphones!
Dressed in a black hoody and military jacket, with my shaved head and full beard, it was no wonder that they thought I was one of them. I guess I really do look like an Eastern European thug at this time of night while ducking for cover.
Next thing I knew, there's a gun aimed at my head and then I got kicked at the back of my knees! Finally my headphones pop out, and I recognize that they're all screaming Russian. Love that gentle and innocent language. But what the fuck are you seriously meant to say in this kind of situation? Whoa there sunshine, I'm just passing through. This is a simple case of mistaken identity. I'm just stretching my legs. Didn't mean to interrupt your little arms-deal gone wrong. Please remove the gun from my forehead and I'll happily go about my merry little way.
But when the shit hits the fan and you're on your knees with a gun point-blank at your fucking skull, you have only one truth to face: that you're about to get randomly executed on this worthless fucking night. So honestly, there was nothing to say. No bargaining. No excuses. No reason came to mind to even try and get out of this situation. What did I really have worth living for? Seriously, nothing came to mind. I just knelt there with an AK-47 thumping at my head while I watched two other dudes get shot against the warehouse!
Mere murder and I just watched. Thoughl, admittedly this shit was much more exciting than stalking an ex-bitch again.
Then this real mean-looking bastard came over. He had a big beard like mine and must have been about fifty. He pointed a 9mm handgun at my left eyeball, and then said something quietly in Russian. I know about three things to say in Russian, and I wasn't about to let my last words on this planet be: Nostrovia! So I glared straight back and said nothing. Maybe I was in shock. After all, when I had watched my father die, I also didn't speak for twenty-four hours. Maybe that's my ego-defense. Silence. But then again, the more pissed off I get the more silent I also get too. The old guy repeated his question again. I remember thinking, I wonder if I'll be conscious for a moment after he shoots me in the head. I wonder if it even hurts at this range. Then I smiled, sure it'll fucking hurt, I have nerves in my face! I guess the old guy didn't like my smirk, as he pistol-whipped me across the back of my fucking head! Yeah, and I have nerves there too! You know how in movies, most people pass out immediately after getting hit across the head. Well, it's total fucking bullshit! It just really fucking sucks!
So next thing I knew, I was thrown in the backseat of the nice new black Rolls-Royce. I have to say, for criminals, they sure do drive in style. I had a henchman either side of me. No one had any guns anymore. The old guy was up the front, another mobster driving, with classical music playing quietly over the stereo. Apart from the bleeding at the back of my head, it was all really quite pleasant. I mean, I could definitely see myself hanging out with these cats – under other circumstances.
We drove through Berlin. Right through Mitte, and from my best guess, somewhere past Zoologischer Garten, near Savignyplatz. The other two cars had followed and we all pulled into a courtyard in what looked like any old apartment building way out west. I guess, maybe I could have yelled out for help, but at this point I was just going with the flow. I was curious to know where exactly they had taken me? And why the fuck they had even bothered?
Inside we went, and up to the fifth floor to a fucking flash apartment. It was big as fuck and decked out in some mint shit. But what would this evening be without some teenage Russian hookers to add a little spice. You know what I'm talking about, those Russians sure have some great taste when it comes to the quality of their skinny whores. Super-models don't look this good. There were three of these drop-dead gorgeous stick-figure chicks in skin-tight black, sitting in that enormous lounge. They were accompanied by more of that classical music. An HDTV played the news from fuck-knows-where on one wall without sound. While a real fat fuck sat smoking a black cigar on the sofa amongst all the girls. I'm not sorry to say, all I was interested in was that one little girl with her hair tied back in a bun, who had those juicy blowjob lips, and wouldn't stop staring at me with her swollen puppy-dog-eyes. I could picture myself looking in her pupils while my cock was balls-deep down her deep-throat. Was that wrong of me?
Anyway. Reality came back with a fist in my gut! Hello there floor. More blah, blah Russian. Then a kick or two in my ribs. That'll wake you up better than any coffee ever could. I blame all the horror films I've seen for completely destroying my sense of fear. And I would like to thank my ex-girlfriends for obliterating any shred of self-preservation I may have once possessed. But honestly, again, I couldn't think of anything worth saying at the time. Maybe if I had simply spoken English they would have all burst out laughing and just kicked my ass out on the street and the night would be back where I started... Walking the city alone, wonder what the fuck I was doing with my shit life.
Either I was incredibly stupid, or I'd discovered a new level of boredom, because I kept my mouth shut. My focus was soon drawn back to that cute little hooker. So we've got Russian mercenaries beating the crap out of you, a gun in your spine, and yet you're having a staring competition with some anorexic bitch who looks like she wants to slit her wrists for everyday that she's been alive. My priorities are warped!
That fifty-year-old chap then grabbed my left arm – he had obviously seen the head of my snake tattoo on my hand, and he yanked my sleeve up. What is it with Russians and tattoos? They either suddenly wanted to fuck me, or just thought I really looked too warm, and they ripped my jacket and hoody off! Of all of my tattoos, you wouldn't believe that the one they all seemed most interested in was the pig's head tattooed on my right shoulder. I swear, I thought I was about ten seconds away from getting the lead-treatment to the back of my head – when suddenly I was on my knees, topless, and everyone was in awe over my pig tattoo. The only reaction however, that I paid attention to, was that of the little whore. She just looked down at her heels as silence filled the room. Now, I really don't get this. There I was in shoes and jeans, my entire torso exposed, and these guys can see all my tattoos. Tattoos, might I add, with words only in English. I thought the game was up. If I was a Russian mobster, why the fuck would I have English on my skin? But still, all they cared about was the pig's head.
The fat fuck then started chuckling.
It was pretty obvious that I was hot for the little hooker, so he shoved the back of her head and sent her onto the floor right in front of me. Seriously, could this night get any better?
Well, apparently it can!
Into a huge bedroom we were both thrown. Do I really need to tell you what happened next? Yes! Yes, I do! So the door was locked from the outside. It was dark in there, just one lamp on. The king-size bed had a carved wooden frame, while that classical piano could still be heard in there. For a moment, I listened to the Russians talking in the other room. They didn't seen particularly happy campers. But me. Shit, I had just hit the fucking jackpot! The hooker stood up and looked at me with those terrified eyes as she pulled her dress down off her perfect tits. No bra needed. So I sat back on the bed, watching like a hungry pig as she swayed her hips slowly from side to side, pushing the dress lower down her body. I loved her belly button. Lower her dress went, till it revealed that exquisite little pussy, and the dress dropped to the floor. You got to love girls who don't have any underwear at all. God bless each and every fucking one of them. She looked nervous, just an act! Chicks like this have been working their asses since they were five. She must have been seventeen, and I wanted every fucking inch of her! She then slowly crawled up the bed as we glared hatefully at each other...
Whoa! Maybe I'm going into too much detail about this part.
Anyway, simply put, she sucked cock better than my previous imagination could have possibly hoped for! I mean, fuck! Watching those beautiful eyes as she dragged another length of my erection down her throat made even dead men moan!
Anyway, on with the story.
Like everything about this bitch, she was right on time. Not thirty seconds after she swallowed down all of my Bruce-juice, the door swung open! Whoever these new guys were they didn't seem to give a fuck about tattoos. Punch to my gut! That makes number six! Seven! Eight! And nine!
Next thing, I'm kicked down the stairs, nearly broke my neck, and then I became real friendly with the trunk of a car. I had always wondered what it's like to be trapped in the trunk while driving cross-country. One word: humid! But you know, luxury cars actually have a lot of leg-room back there. However, it would have been far more comfortable if that assortment of the semi-automatic rifles weren't also in there with me. I wasn't tied up, just topless in the trunk of a car with several machine-guns – but no bullets. These guys weren't complete fuck-ups.
During this charming little ride (which wasn't that little), I had plenty of time to reflect: what a fantastic fucking blowjob! A content smirk lined my face as I lay there picturing that hooker's pained expression.
Sooner or later though, I started contemplating who the fuck these assholes had mistaken me for? But that was only short lived. Who cares who I might be or who the fuck these shitheads were. The only decent question I could muster was, why the fuck was I still being taken for a ride?
Yeah, yeah. So some drug-deal, arms-deal, prostitution-deal went askew. But why didn't they just fucking waste me at the gunfight? And what's with the pig's head tattoo? I remembered someone once told me about how significant tattoos are in Russian prisons. Yet really, aren't all prisons like that? Supposedly in Russian prisons if you have a tattoo of an elephant it means you're a cop-killer. I think. So what the fuck does a pig's head mean? It must stand for: "On my deathbed, I am entitled to the world's finest fucking blowjob from the youngest little slut in the room!"
Anyway. The trunk ride went on for fucking ages. No idea exactly. And soon things got real bad. Cramp! Cramp in my leg! Fuck! There wasn't nearly enough fucking room to stretch the cramp out. Shoot me now!
By the time the car pulled over and the trunk was opened, it was stinking hot in there. Grabbed and dragged out, I found myself in a large, empty warehouse. Restraints cuffed my wrists together. Then my arms were lifted over my head and looped over the hook from a hunched crane. Left there, I was forced to stand up on my tippy-toes in order to spare my hands from going numb from the cuffs. This wasn't as bad as it may seem. The shit they tied my hands together with was thick and rather soft, like duck tape. The beating that followed however, that was not so enjoyable.
Okay, okay, okay. So there I was. Half naked, strung-up in some warehouse with a bunch of Russian motherfuckers ready to unleash all those years of Cold War frustration on my innocent jawline. What could I do but hang around and wait for the ass-whipping?
The first guy was smoking as he walked over, inspecting me like I was a piece of shit he had just discovered on his shoe. I watched his gray eyes examine mine, before he blew a lung-full of smoke in my face. Yummy. So let the torture begin. He stubbed his cigarette out on my right wrist. Motherfucking cunt! I'd always thought burning children with cigarettes would be a blast. And it is! I'm sure. As long as you're not the one under the burning amber. Hot, hot, hot curry out my ass, that shit burns! Now, I've got a few tattoos (maybe they're the reason I was in this current situation), but different parts of your body hurt in different ways when getting tattooed. For instance, you shoulder, where the pig's head tattoo is, that's a piece of cake, lots of muscle. But my wrist, I'm telling you, more sensitive than my fucking spine! However, I take it like a big boy. Cigarette burns are similar to getting tattooed: intense but short lived. All you can do is grin and bear it. Big grin, big grin. But that asshole didn't seem amused, so he fucking slapped me across my face! Jesus! Cat-fight much? And then he spat in my fucking eye! Dude, that's just not fucking cool!
He walked off with a sneer on his hooked nose, as another fuckhead in black hoody and leather jacket strolled up while rolling his neck and muttering some more nonsense in Russian. Again, I started wondering what they were talking about. I mean, my German is shit but at least I can pick up 30% of a conversation; but Russian, it's like listening to Led Zeppelin backwards and hoping to hear Satan whisper where he had hid the key to my ex-girlfriend's front door, so i can bash her fucking brains in while she's sleeping. This other chap then produced a claw hammer which he graciously held up to my face. There he said something real fucking vicious right into my ear. Maybe it's a good thing I don't understand Russian, or I might have shit my pants, his tone was bad enough. But still, I just stared back at this dude like he was selling Mars Bars after he already knew that I don't fucking eat chocolate! Get the fuck out of here! Guess he wasn't content with my lack of reaction. Yet with a good old sucker-punch to my kidney, he finally got my attention! BAM! Son of a cunt! My feet went limp and my body-weight hung on my wrists. It's quite a unique pain, getting punched in the side of your back. Kind of like an electric shock. Winds you, and feels like a broken beer bottle has just snapped off in your lumbar region. He grabbed my chin, held my head up, and again, I was spat in my eye! Ah, come on! Guys! Is that shit really fucking necessary?
Well, then the real fun began. So this prick with the claw hammer then held up a three-inch steel nail. Can you see where this is leading? He then placed the nail against my left ribs, just below my nipple, and before I could take a breath, he hammers that fucker into my chest! WHACK! Wow... That hurt! About an inch of the nail sunk into my ribcage and instantly expelled all the air from my lungs. Couldn't breathe. Felt like my chest had collapsed. Like someone had put a huge vice on my torso and crushed me like a paper-cup with the slamming of a door! I was left hanging. Gagging for air. Every vein in my neck and forehead must have been throbbing as I choked. Struggling like I was weakly fighting to breathe while being smothered beneath ten tons of freshly piled-on horse shit. I then suddenly remembered someone in some movie that I couldn't actually remember the name of, saying, "Just exhale." So I did. Forced out anything left inside. And what do you know, my lungs automatically took a breath in.
Before I had time to rejoice at my new found ability of respiration, a hand clamped about my throat, and then slappy-slap-slap again got my undivided attention! At this point, I was about ready to admit my English language skills. Unfortunately though, I was being choked. The dude was a giant, and lifted me right up by my throat. You never realize how heavy you truly are, until your windpipe does all the walking.
Someone else in the warehouse then yelled in Russian. Even if I understood the guy, how the fuck was I meant to reply while this other cunt choked me like a chicken? Frustration like never before! Then I was released. My wrists took my weight. Coughing. Gasping. Spitting. I felt like I was in a James Bond film, and I wanted to say, "Do you expect me to talk?"
And then maybe a Mr. Gold-Finger-Bang might reply, "No, Mr. Bruce. I expect you to eat shit and die."
So, upon that delusional logic, I found no reason to start talking now.
Then Mr. Fisty-Cuffs came back to say hello with his tight white knuckles. Again a scene from a movie popped into my head. This time, Rocky. When he was beating that hung carcase in the slaughter house during his training. Tenderize the meat. I am meat. Beat the meat! Beat me good and hard! I've been a bad boy, buddy! I need to be made to suffer! Make me pay for all the things I've gotten away with! Beat me for all the rules I've broken! Become the divine hand of eternal justice, and smite me! Come on, you can play karma, and I'll play the part of the universal dumbfuck whose in need of a good old-fashioned flogging. I'm Jack's well-used boxing-bag.
I would like to thank all the years that I've spent doing my morning sit-ups. Fuck yeah! I took that cunt's beating, and I nearly started laughing when he gave up. Come on, you faggot! I punch myself harder than that just for the fun of it, you fucking pussy! Come on! I can take your best fucking shot! Come on, for fuck's sake! I'm revved up and ready for fucking more! Tell you what, the beating got my lungs breathing again. I wanted someone to play Clutch really fucking loud in that warehouse. Good tunes for good times! But when that shit-head thumped me in the face, okay, that knocked my senses sideways. Ah, fuck...
Those pricks yelled at one another, while I dangled there and spat blood on the concrete. The big guy obviously didn't like my spitting bad-habit, so pulled out a handgun, pistol-whipped me, and then pressed the barrel up under my jaw. What could you do? Eyeball that fuck and just dared him to fucking pull the trigger. Do it, you fucking prick! If I had something worth living for, I have might squirmed. But they got me at the right time in my shit life. What did Eminem say? "What are you going to do to a guy who strangles himself?"
Another car then slowly pulled into the open warehouse.
And slowly all these other tough guys backed off.
A short guy with a mighty impressive gray mustache exited the vehicle, and slowly walked toward me. He too was also dressed in a familiar black hoody and leather jacket. This older chap was clearly higher on the political-ladder amongst these organized criminals. The first thing he did, after walking straight up to me, was stare inconsolably at my feet. This guy had a brain, and you could see it working beneath his subtle expression. He just stood in front of me, staring at my shoes.
No one said anything.
I still wished there was some Clutch playing.
Then the old dude raised his hand, gesturing to my shoes. He didn't say a fucking word. Just pointed with his open palm at my feet. One of the other Russians stepped up closer and also stared harshly at my shadow.
Okay, I have big feet. Sue me!
The new guy then looked in my eyes and spoke slow as death, "I like your Chuck Taylors."
I smiled, "Thanks. They're great for playing the drums in."
The other dude looked like he just realized he had a live lobster in his underpants. The mustache guy looked at the nail in my ribs, and then tapped it with his finger tip. My smile disappeared. The other fifty-year-old dude from the apartment then stepped up and muttered something quietly furious to the new guy, who simply ignored him.
Just like that, they all turn around and walk away.
They just leave me hanging there.
Watching as they made their way to their respective automobiles, I noticed their shoes: all black and leather. Guess my Chucks gave the game away. And perhaps saved my neck?
The cars all systematically pulled out and drove away.
Looking around the abandoned warehouse, I found myself utterly alone. If this was a film, we would fade to black and I'd just wake up in hospital...
Unfortunately, this wasn't a movie...
So I was hanging by my wrists. Burned, choked, beaten, and with a fucking nail sticking out of my chest. Could be worse. That hot little whore could have bitten off my dick off. As some ancient Chinese proverb probably doesn't say: always look on the bright side of a Russian abduction. So I looked up. Took a deep breath. Then said aloud to no one,"Pleasure doing business with you!"
But seriously kids, don't make yourself laugh while you've got a nail sticking out of your fucking ribs. Painful as fuck!
So first things first. Stand up straight, stretch, and jump in order to unhook my wrists. And then collapse in the fetal position on the concrete while you cringe in agony and strain to fucking breathe.
Saturday had been a beauty of a day, but at this time of the morning, I was really starting to freeze my balls off as I lay there without a fucking shirt in that pitch fucking black. To my surprise, when I reached to the back of my belt, I found my Gerber multi-tool was still sheathed there. Hadn't these guys even searched my pockets? I soon used the blade to cut the tape from my wrists, and then with the pliers, I tried to pull the nail from my chest. Big mistake! Don't touch that fucker! Not today, you fuck!
So get up!
Get up, boy!
I heard Sarah Conner from the first Terminator film, yell in my head, "On your feet, soldier!"
So I got up, looked around the darkness, and stumbled outside. Ah, the lovely ambiguous forests of somewhere anywhere in the greater countryside of Germany. Where the fuck was i?! Unlike a film, there wasn't anyone coming to save me, or even to pick me up. I was, as I have always been, on my own.
No point in thinking about it, so I walked, following the only gravel road that presented itself. Keep moving. Keep warm. Keep going. Spiral out. Yet the depressing idea that I was very possibly miles from anywhere, made me only more pissed off. The nail pissed me off, the cold pissed me off, and this endless fucking country road was absolutely intolerable! I was pissed the fuck off! Those cunts could have at least shot me in the face for all the trouble this had been. Thanks for leaving me to fucking rot! Fucking assholes!
But speak of the devil... And he shall appear...
Turns out after all, they must have decided it was best to pop a cap in my ass. Standing in the middle of the road, I watched the headlights from one of the cars coming back to finish the job, and I considered the options. Hide, but why bother? So I stood where I was until approaching headlights became blinding. My open multi-tool was already in my hand, hid against the side of my jeans. When you go down, you go down fighting. That lone car stopped a good five meters away, and the giant who had liked to choke me, then stepped out. No words needed. He didn't see the knife in my right fist, ready in my 'stabbing' grip. Walking casually toward me, he looked as if he was planning to simply march over me like a fucking steamroller. I lowered, hunching (in real pain), and then that giant lunged at me with both enormous arms!
I ducked, slipping under his left paw as I drove my knife into the back of his fucking knee! Instantly he screamed and dropped like a fucking elephant shit. Somehow he grabbed my ankle, so I spun and stabbed his forearm right to the fucking bone! He shrieked, and I punched the cunt in his stupid face! But he caught my knife hand, until I elbowed him in the fucking throat! Game over. He gagged, clutching his neck with both hands, and revealed his 9mm under his left armpit. I removed the gun like plucking a hot coal from a bonfire. And then, with adrenaline playing a drum roll inside my chest, I proceeded to kick the living shit out of that giant's balls! I stomped that cunt one final time with a boot to the face! Always kick them hardest while they're down, motherfucker! Metallica, Don't Tread On Me, came to mind while grinding my heel into his fat retarded forehead.
But no more fucking around, and I climbed into his nice new car. Okay, I don't actually have a driver's license. I know, I know. I'm thirty-four and I still can't drive a car. No! I can fucking drive! Just not legally. Or with any great skill. But in this kind of situation, I wasn't about to say no to a free BMW. And Bob's your uncle. Off I drove.
Next priority, work out how to play music on the stereo. And what's the first song I came across on the radio, The Doors, The End. Yeah, "Meet me at the back of the blue bus."
I was fucking glad I took this ride, 'cause it took me about thirty minutes driving time before I actually found any signs of civilization. Fuck having to walk that distance! It was some small town, and by that time the sky was beginning to lighten up. But where the fuck was a police station when you fucking need one? I couldn't find any, so just kept driving. More black roads through a blackened country.
Eventually, I ended up in a place called Boxberg, near a lake, and finally I stumbled all bloody into a tiny police station. It wasn't long before I'm in a doctor's office getting the nail in my chest removed, and then I was in a helicopter heading back to Berlin. The whole time, I was lingering on that skinny hooker and her pouting lips. I'm telling you, it was all worth it just for that one blowjob. Hell, they could crucify me with real Nine Inch Nails if I could sodomize the bitch next time.
So that's what happened to me, how I ended up in hospital. The cops later informed me that these mobsters weren't even Russian. Most likely from Slovakia. Fuck it, it all sounds like the same ridiculous gibberish to me. When the cops asked me how I had managed to overcome the giant that came back to deal with me? I put it like this, "I just thought of what I'd like to do to my ex."
© 2012 BRUCE STIRLING JOHN KNOX