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“Motherfuckers,” he grunted as he turned and ran inside the house.
Pee Bee’s eyes met mine and instantly went wide. There was now a risk if we attempted to leave – the man inside the house may return with a gun before we got away. I realized the risks associated with breaking into the home, but I had zero desire to get shot in the back. With little time to think, and even less to react, I swept the kickstand down and steadied the bike.
Pee Bee shot past me and ran into the house after the retreating man.
It seemed like a fool’s move, but it was probably our best bet. Without as much as a second’s thought, I followed right behind him. As I rounded the corner to the living area, I heard the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh.
“What were you gonna do with that?” I heard Pee Bee shout. “You a fuckin’ baseball player?”
With his legs in the living room, and his upper body concealed by the doorframe of what I suspected was the bedroom, Whip’s look-alike was on his back. A baseball bat lay beside him on the floor, and Pee Bee sat on his chest, pounding him without mercy, one fist at a time.
As no one was coming to the beating victim’s rescue, I immediately assumed the small home was empty – short of the guy getting pummeled by Pee Bee. My experience in the military, however, taught me that assumptions could get a man killed.
I quickly searched the home, found it empty, and walked back to the living room. When I returned, the man on the floor appeared to be unconscious, and Pee Bee still straddled him while digging through his backpack.
“Come on, let’s beat feet,” I said.
“Hold up,” he responded.
He pulled a roll of duct tape from the bag. “This ought to work.”
I chuckled. “For what?”
“Taping him up.”
“What the fuck for?”
He stood up glared at me as if I were an idiot. “So the dumb fucker doesn’t call the cops or whatever.”
I nodded and stepped toward him. “Let’s make it quick.”
While I held the man’s legs above the floor, he taped his ankles together with about a dozen wraps of tape. After tearing the tape in two, he then taped the man’s arms to his torso with an equal amount of tape.
He swung the toe of his boot into the side of the man’s head. “Pick up his head.”
I laughed to myself and lifted his head from the floor by his neck. He began to moan; a sign he was obviously regaining consciousness.
Pee Bee kicked him in the side of the head again, hard.
“God damn.” I chuckled.
“Fucker came at me with a ball bat, Crip. Fuck this dude.”
“I’m with ya,” I said. “Just make it quick.”
From his forehead to his chin, he wrapped the man’s head in duct tape, making it one solid ball of grey tape. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it would definitely be effective in keeping him from talking.
While Pee Bee placed the remaining portion of tape back into the backpack, the man started to thrash around. I realized in the rush that Pee Bee hadn’t taken time to leave any air holes in his handiwork.
I motioned toward our flopping victim. “Fucker’s suffocating.”
Pee bee sighed. “How long’s it take for a guy to, you know, run out of…” he paused and shouldered his backpack again.
“Oxygen?”
“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Oxygen.”
“Maybe a minute or so?” I shrugged. “Something like that. Give or take.”
