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“Priest, this is your gig,” Linc said. “Cut this fucker’s tongue off.”
Priest took pride in that command from his VP. Slade put a hand to his mouth and refused to look away. Not for a second did Priest flinch or freeze. It took all of a few cuts and grunts from Priest and Paul’s tongue fell to the concrete floor with a wet slap.
Priest’s hands were soaked with blood. He cupped his hand under Paul’s chin.
The guy was obviously in a state of shock.
“You’re going to write with your own blood,” Priest said. “And tell us who wanted you to kill our VP. If you don’t, I will eat your eyes. One at a time.”
Priest turned away, looking for something for Paul to write on. Slade had it covered already. He picked up a piece of cardboard from the ground and stood in front of Paul.
“You can use your nose to write with,” Priest said.
“This is fucked up,” Cyrus said.
Priest used his bare fingers to collect fresh blood from where Paul’s tongue had once connected to his mouth. He smeared it all over the tip of Paul’s nose.
“This is really fucked up,” Linc said.
Slade held the cardboard toward Paul’s nose and waited.
The four outlaws all looked at each other as Paul groaned, whimpered, and moved his head. Linc was the first to smirk. That made Cyrus shake his head, smiling, and turning away.
Priest lit up with excitement. Slade grinned.
What a sick fucking life we have at times, he thought to himself.
But this was the life. This was the outlaw life. What were they supposed to do? Feel bad for this Paul guy? Paul dug his own grave. He took a chance and it didn’t go his way. That’s life. You fuck with fire and get burned… that’s on you.
Paul groaned and cried. Slade pulled the cardboard away and showed it to the others. Sloppily written, but it was there.
SS13.
“These pricks are getting ballsy,” Priest said.
“Very ballsy,” Cyrus said. “Linc?”
“We can talk after the funeral,” he said.
“Everyone needs to get cleaned up,” Slade said. “Can’t show up covered in blood.”
“What about Paul?” Priest asked, rubbing his bloody hands together.
Slade looked back at Paul, hanging by the chains. A crooked, broken finger. His tongue cut from his mouth. Bloodeverywhere. Tears running down his cheeks. Half alive. Half dead.
“Leave him,” Slade said. “He can suffer.”
Just like that, the four outlaws left the garage, leaving behind some random guy named Paul to groan and cry and slip more and more into a state of shock until his heart would finally decide to just give out.
Even if Paul had his tongue, and he screamed, nobody would ever hear him.
Chapter Two
Flour Power
To get to know Nelle and truly understand her… well, it was sort of impossible to do. One look at Nelle and anyone would assume she was a super model. Which was partly true.Partly.
The oldest of three, now reduced to two, Nelle lived a life so odd, quiet and secluded, anyone would assume she was hiding something.
