Karen
“What’s that? Nothing?” Bottle was cocking his head as if to listen intently, but of course Dewey couldn’t say anything. His mouth was covered up with tape and the furious sounds making their way out from underneath were completely incomprehensible.
“I guess he ain’t sorry. Let’s do this.”
Music that I’d chosen was pouring out of the panel van which Red had driven here, though he was now sitting on the back of Twist’s motorcycle.
Bottle climbed onto his motorcycle, and patted the seat behind him. I gave a tight-lipped smile and hopped up behind him, squeezing the bike between my thighs as I wrapped my left arm around him.
When everyone was ready, Bottle raised a hand with an extended finger and then made a circling motion. Four motorcycle engines sprung to life with eager roars, as if they ached to be let loose on a highway. This journey would be a short one though. A very short one.
I looked behind me at a frantic eyed Dewey lying on the ground. On the other side of his body was a massive heavily customized motorcycle upon which T-Bone sat, and on another stock motorcycle Twist was sitting, looking over his shoulder in our direction, while Red was sitting on the bike behind him. Gauge was just to the left of us, waiting for the signal.
Bottle raised his hand again, and this time he did a countdown from three. It was important that all the bikes started off at the same time.
3... Bottle dropped his thumb, 2... the middle finger, 1... the index finger dropped and his hand flew to the throttle. I looked over my shoulder, my face in a manic grin as I watched Dewey’s wide eyes scream out at me.
The four motorcycles soared away like beasts unleashed and behind each one a coil of rope unwound like a whipping snake as we roared away. The ground crunched underneath us and dust hazed up into the air, making it hard to see.
After fifty yards it happened. Each of the ropes reached their end at the same time and, just like that, my tormentor was gone. There was a barely susceptible tug on the bike as Dewey was ripped apart, four pieces of him flying off and just his center torso remaining on the dusty road, rapidly surrounded by a muddy red puddle.
The bikes turned around and went back to regroup, each towing a grisly souvenir.
The four motorcycles parked facing each other, their front wheels inches from what was left of his torso. When the engines were switched off we could hear the dying notes of Love Will Tear Us Apart, our song, playing. Except the song wasn’t ours. It was mine now. Just mine.