SHORT STORY 2
H O W - I - E N D E D - U P - I N - H O S P I T A L
SHORT STORY 2
HOW I ENDED UP IN HOSPITAL
I wrote this a few days after I got out of hospital, at the end of October 2012.
I was recently abducted by a gang, beaten, and then dumped on the German border with Poland.
To make this short story longer, let me medicate my wounds, stretch back, and recall the wonderful adventure from this last week.
On Saturday night, I was writing my book. Alone. Like always. It was past midnight and well into Sunday morning, when I went for a walk. The small hours have always been when I get bad things in my head. Bad, bad thoughts. So, I ventured out into the warm Berlin night. Such hot weather for October. Walking down unknown streets, I had nowhere to go. Just walking. Over thinking. Just angry. Because I am. Walking down dark abandoned paths where girls would fear to tread. I wanted to fucking kill someone.
Soon, before I knew where the fuck I was, I came upon a huge open area, like an empty parking lot, or perhaps where a factory had recently been demolished. There were no lights. It was a massive space with ruins of concrete and brick all around. It could have been a war zone. Just another derelict industrial plot of land near the river, south of Friedrichshain. I wished there was a guard dog that might attack and try to tear my fucking throat out. I've always liked strolling down dismal parts of town. I'll tempt fate, look a dangerous situation in the eye, and then piss in god's face! I fucking double-dare you to strike me down! 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 that empty lot, fuming and resentful. Shit in my head. And soon I was wondering where the fuck the nearest S-bahn station was, so I could fuck off out of there and stalk an ex. When just then, a van drove past me. A black van. Modern and clean. There were no headlights on as it cruised past. I hadn't heard it coming, as I had my headphones on, listening to The End, by The Doors. The van moved ahead. Though, I cared little as I watched it drive all the way to the end of the open plot and around a corner next to a warehouse. I continued walking in the same direction. Reaching that corner, I saw the guys from the van standing next to three other cars. There must have been about ten men, all yelling at each other. I continued strolling down that narrow passageway while watching those men in black. They were extremely animated with their gestures toward one another. I assumed they were just a bunch of gang-star wannabe, hip-hop fuckwits trying to out staunch each other. It was all fun and games until gunfire caught my attention!
Being dressed in a black hoody and military jacket, with my shaved head and a full beard, it was no wonder that they thought I was one of them. I guess I really did look like an Eastern European thug while I ducked for cover.
Next thing I knew, there was a gun aimed at my head, and then I got kicked at the back of my knees! Finally, my headphones popped out, and I recognized that they were all screaming Russian. Love that gentle and innocent language. But seriously, what the fuck are you meant to say in this kind of situation? Whoa there, sunshine, I'm just passing through. This is a simple case of mistaken identity. 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 aimed point-blank at your fucking head, you have only one truth to face: that you're about to get randomly executed. So honestly, there was nothing to say. No bargaining. No excuses. What did I really have worth living for? I just knelt there with an AK-47 thumping at my head while I watched two other guys get shot against the warehouse! Mere murder, and I just watched. Though, admittedly, this shit was much more exciting than stalking an ex. Then this real mean-looking cunt came over. He had a big beard like mine and must have been about fifty. He pointed a handgun at my left eyeball and said something quietly. I know about three words in Russian and considered saying: nostrovia! But I just glared straight back and said nothing. Maybe I was in shock. After all, when I watched my father die, I 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 become. The old guy repeated his question. However, I only wondered if I'd be conscious for a moment after he shoots me in the head. Would it even hurt at this range? They say that the brain itself doesn't feel any pain. Then I smiled, sure it'll fucking hurt, I have nerves in my face! I guess the old guy didn't like my smirk, and he pistol-whipped me across the back of my fucking head! Yeah, and I have nerves there too!
I was then thrown in the backseat of a nice new black Rolls-Royce. I have to say, for criminals, they sure did drive in style. I had a henchman on either side. No one held any guns anymore. The old guy was up the front, another driving, while classical music played quietly over the stereo. Apart from the bleeding at the back of my head, it was all 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 as we pulled into a courtyard in what looked like any old apartment building. Maybe I should have yelled out for help, but 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 hookers to add a little spice. You know what I'm talking about, those Russians sure have great taste when it comes to the quality of their skinny whores. Super-models don't look this good. There were three of those drop-dead gorgeous, stick-figure chicks in skin-tight black, sitting in that enormous lounge. They were accompanied by more of that classical music. A silent HDTV played the news from fuck-knows-where, while a real fat fuck sat smoking a black cigar on the sofa among the girls. I'm not sorry to say, all I was interested in was that one little girl with her hair tied back into a bun. She had those juicy blowjob-lips and wouldn't stop staring at me with her puppy-dog-eyes. I could picture myself looking in her pupils while my cock was balls-deep down her 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 anxiety. And I'd like to thank my ex-girlfriends for obliterating any shred of self-preservation I may have once possessed. For again, I couldn't think of anything worth saying at the time. Maybe if I had simply spoken English they would have all burst into laughter and just kicked my ass out on the street, and the night would be back where I started: walking the city alone, wondering what the fuck I was doing with my 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, you'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. My priorities were 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 looked too warm, as 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 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 everyone was in awe of my tattoo. The only reaction however, that I paid attention to, was that of the cute little whore. She just looked down at her heels as silence filled the room. Now, I really don't get this part. There I was, in shoes and jeans, completely topless, with these guys all staring at my tattoos. Tattoos, might I add, with words only in English. If I was a Russian gangster, 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 could!
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, and that classical piano could still be heard. For a moment, I listened to the Russians talking in the other room. They didn't seem 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 dog as she swayed her hips slowly from side to side, pushing the dress further down her body. I loved her belly button. Her dress went lower, until it revealed her exquisite little pussy, and then the dress dropped to the floor. You got to love girls who don't wear any panties. God bless each and every fucking one of them. She may have looked nervous, but it's 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.
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 out of her throat made even dead men moan!
Like everything about this bitch, she was right on time. Not thirty seconds after she swallowed down 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 hit number six! Seven! Eight! And nine!
Next thing, I was 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 being driven 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 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. Yet 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? Little good a knife was though.
During that charming little ride (which wasn't that little), I had plenty of time to reflect over what a fantastic fucking blowjob that had been! 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. Supposedly, 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 your deathbed, you are entitled to the world's finest fucking blowjob from the youngest little slut in the room!"
The trunk ride went on for fucking ages. No idea exactly how long. And soon things got real bad. Cramp! Cramp in my fucking leg! 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. Plastic restraints tied my wrists together. Then my arms were lifted above my head and looped over the hook from a crane. Left there, I was forced to stand on my tippy-toes in order to spare my hands from going numb. Though, this wasn't as bad as it may seem. The shit that they tied my hands together with was thick and rather soft, like duct tape. The beating that followed, however, was not so enjoyable.
Okay. So, there I was. Half-naked, strung-up in some warehouse with a bunch of Russian motherfuckers ready to unleash 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 lit a cigarette as he walked over, inspecting my predicament 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. 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. Now, I've got a few tattoos, but different parts of your body hurt in different ways when getting tattooed. For instance, the shoulder, where the pig's head tattoo is, that's a piece of cake, lots of muscle. But the wrist was more sensitive than my fucking spine! However, I took it like a big boy. Cigarette burns are actually 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 the face! Jesus! Cat-fight much? And then he spat in my fucking eye! Dude, that's not fucking cool!
He walked off with a sneer on his hooked nose, as another fuckhead in a black hoody and leather jacket strolled over 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 hid the key to my ex-girlfriend's front door – so I can bash her blonde fucking brains in while she's sleeping! This 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 was a good thing that I didn't understand Russian, or I might have shit my pants, his tone was bad enough. But still, I stared back at this guy 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 recognition. 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. It winds you and feels like a broken beer bottle has just been 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?! This prick with the claw hammer then held up a three-inch nail. He then placed the nail against my left ribs, just below my shoulder-blade, and before I could take a breath, he hammers that fucker into my back. WHACK! Wow! That hurt! About an inch of the nail sunk into my rib-cage and instantly expelled all the air from my lungs. I couldn't breathe. It felt like my chest had collapsed. Like someone had put a huge vice on my torso and crushed my body 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. Suddenly, I remembered someone who I couldn't actually remember, 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 the 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 guy was a giant and lifted me right up by my throat. You don't realize how heavy you truly are until your windpipe does all the walking.
Someone else in the warehouse then yelled out. 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! But then I was released. My wrists took my weight. Coughing. Gasping. Spitting. I felt like I was in a James Bond film, and wanted to say, "Do you expect me to talk?"
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 begging now.
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. During his training, when he was beating that hung carcass in the slaughter house. Tenderize the meat. I am the meat. Beat the meat! Beat me good and hard! I've been a bad boy, buddy! I need to suffer! Make me pay for all the things I've gotten away with! Beat me for 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 who's 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, as I took that cunt's beating, and 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! But when that shit-head thumped me in the face, okay, that knocked my senses sideways.
Those pricks yelled at one another, while I dangled there and spat blood on the concrete. The big guy then pulled out a handgun, and pistol-whipped me, before pressing the barrel up under my jaw. What could you do but eyeball that fuck and dare him to pull the fucking trigger. Do it, you fucking prick! If I had something worth living for, I have might squirmed.
Another car then slowly pulled into the open warehouse.
And slowly all those tough guys backed off.
A guy with a mighty impressive gray mustache exited the vehicle and quietly walked toward me. He looked like Otto von Bismarck dressed in a black hoody and leather jacket. This older chap was clearly higher on the political-ladder among the 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.
Then the old chap raised his hand, gesturing at 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 at my shadow.
Okay, I have big feet. Sue me!
The mustache guy then looked in my eyes and spoke slow as death, "I do like your Chuck Taylors."
I smiled, "Thanks. They're great for playing the drums in."
The other guy looked like he had a live lobster in his underpants. The mustache guy stared at the nail in my ribs, and then tapped it with his finger tip. My smile disappeared. The other fifty-year-old guy then stepped up and muttered something quietly to the mustache guy, who simply ignored him.
And just like that, they all turned around and walked away.
They left 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 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 automatically wake up in hospital.
Unfortunately, this wasn't a movie.
So, I was left hanging from my wrists. Burned, choked, beaten, and with a fucking nail sticking out of my back. Could be worse. That hot little whore could have bitten off my dick. As some ancient Chinese proverb probably never said: always look on the bright side of a Russian abduction. So, I glanced upward. Took a deep breath. And 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. It's painful as fuck!
First thing 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 catch a fucking breath.
Saturday had been a beauty of a day, but at that time of the morning, I was starting to freeze my balls off as I lay without a fucking shirt in that pitch fucking black. I soon used the blade from my multi-tool to cut the tape around my wrists. And with the pliers, I tried to pull the nail from my ribs. Big mistake! Don't touch that fucker! Not today, you fuck!
So, get up!
Get up, boy!
Looking around the darkness, I stumbled outside. Ah, the lovely ambiguous forests of 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 pick me up. I was, as always, on my own.
There was 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 somewhere, only pissed me 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.
It turned out, after all, that they must have decided it was best to clean up their fuck up. 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 the approaching headlights became blinding. My multi-tool was still 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, stepped out. No words needed. He didn't see the knife in my hand. Walking casually, he looked as if he was planning to simply march over me like a fucking steamroller. I hunched over (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! 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! I then punched the shrieking cunt in his stupid face! But he caught my knife hand, until I elbowed him in the fucking throat! 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. 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!
With no more fucking around, I climbed into that 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, Metallica, Don't Tread On Me.
I was fucking glad that I took the car, because it was about thirty minutes driving time before I actually found any signs of civilization. Fuck having to walk that distance. By that time the sky was beginning to lighten up, and I drove into a small town. But where the fuck was a police station when you fucking needed one? I couldn't find any cops, so I 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 into a tiny police station. It wasn't long before I was in a doctor's office getting the nail in my ribs removed, and then I was driven back to Berlin. The whole time, I was lingering on that skinny hooker with her pouting lips. I'm telling you, it was all worth it just for that one blowjob. Hell, they could crucify me all night long if only I could sodomize that bitch the next time.
So that's how I ended up in hospital. The cops later informed me that these gangsters 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