I USE ZIP ties, not trusting my ability to tie knots, and having seen too many prisoners cut through duct tape with a conveniently found piece of glass. Thank you, Spike TV. Plus, he had them on him, in his pants pocket, my body pat discovering them early on, along with a syringe that I keep for the pure hell of it. Also found: ski mask, knife, keys, and enough condoms to piss me the hell off. Looks like the man had planned for years of fucking. I keep the Taser ready, the tins still attached, a new blast of current shooting through him every time he even thinks about moving.
The gas is still here, showing no sign of dissipation, and I start wondering why I took ToothpickDick’s knowledge vomit without even a cursory verification through Google. What if this shit takes days? How do I eat, shower, talk on the phone, with a gas mask on? Should I open the window? Let the toxic air float through the city, causing sore throats and blurred vision at every turn? At least it is working. More than working. I zip-tie his hands together, at his back, the act a struggle, his hands fighting me for a spell before I get the loop in place and yank. His eyes are shut tightly and he’s blubbering. This man, twenty years my senior, armed with elements of destruction, an infidel knife—impressive—and expensive trappings, is blubbering. Rivers of tears down his face, nonsense hiccupping in big gushy teenagechickattheendofTitanic sobs.
I am crouched at his feet, my hands too small to fully wrap around his ankles, when he shoots a foot up and catches the underside of my chin. Hard. Hard enough to knock me back, the back of my head slamming against the floor. The impact causes tears to spring, a gasp coming from my mouth. Panic sets in when sudden heat sears my eyes, acid from the room creeping underneath my dislodged mask. I reach up, yanking the mask back into place at the same time that the sharp tip of his shoe finds me a second time, this kick connecting at my thigh.
Motherfucker. I wheeze, my eyes blinking rapidly as I roll out of reach, my throat burning as I grab at my thigh, rubbing the spot where I can already feel a knot forming. Anger erupts, my hand grabbing along the floor until I locate the Taser and sit upright, sending a long volley of jolts into this bitch of a man that I may just lose control over and kill.
I wait for a minute before moving, let my rage simmer and eyes recover, hating the rapid pant of my breath. I must remember my size, my limitations. Need to squash my confidence a bit.
I give him another jolt of juice and crawl forward, straddle his shins for more leverage, and zip-tie his ankles, moving as quickly as I can, breathing easier once his feet are under wraps. Then I duct tape his mouth shut and turn off the lights. Sit in the misty dark for a moment and let my heartbeat slow. My eyes readjust, following the line of his prone body, stretched out on the floor, his chest heaving, cries muffled by duct tape, his instruments of attack moved to the kitchen counter. My breath is hot in the mask and I exhale slowly, evenly, trying to get my body under control, trying to tame the madness to a point that it will be productive. I have done it. I have subdued him. He is tied up. My objective attained. Now, I just have to control myself. Gain information. Find out why he is here. Find out why he hurt Mike. For the hell of it, ask where my motherfucking money is. Have fun. Yes, in the midst of fact discovery, I will have one hell of a good time. My own personal present to myself.