“Ugh.” Joel opened his grainy eyes to find himself in some kind of basement, or a garage or something, a grungy space full of junk.
For some reason, the room was upside down. Water dripped somewhere.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Everything was cloaked in shadow, except for a piss-yellow fluorescent bulb inside the upper half of a workbench. Tools and engine parts lined the walls and scattered across the floor, and at the far end of the room was a giant wooden cutout, a spray-painted portrait of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
A long plastic marquee leaned sideways against the wall, a dingy white antique. ARE YOU TOO COOL FOR SCHOOL?, it asked cheerfully, next to a cartoon coyote holding a glass with flames licking up out of it. DRINK FIREWATER SARSAPARILLA!
“Whhfffk.”
Joel’s head was pounding and drool ran up his cheeks, collecting on his forehead. When he tried to rub his face, he found his hands were cuffed together, and the cuffs were chained to the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Mmmmff.”
Cotton pressed against his tongue, and something tight was bound around his face and the back of his neck. He was wearing a gag.
Looking down (or up, as the case may be) he saw he was hanging from the ceiling by chains around his ankles. All his clothes were gone except for his underwear, a blue cotton banana-hammock. Subterranean chill raised goosebumps on his naked thighs.
Jesus Christ, his worst sensationalist fears had come true—somebody he met on the Internet for sex had abducted him.
Was Red a cannibal?
Oh God, your cheap ass gonna get ate up, just cause you don’t wanna buy your own steak. He twisted and jerked, trying to see more of the room, trying to ignore the dripping water. Revolving slowly to the left, he saw he wasn’t the only person hanging out, so to speak. A white guy, also dressed only in his Hanes, ankles chained to the ceiling. He was facing the wall, bruises all over his shoulders as if he’d been beaten unconscious.
“Hey,” said Joel through the gag, hhnnngh. Swaying his head from side to side, he swung his center of gravity back and forth, pulling on the chain around his cuffs. He managed to bump the guy with his shoulder, causing him to wobble and turn slowly on his chain.
When his fellow abductee-in-arms turned all the way around, Joel almost pissed his hammock.
The man was dead—very dead, his throat cut, his neck a slack grin stringy with red-black fibers, the crag of his larynx glinting in the worktable’s light, framed by yellow fat like scrambled eggs. A sheet of dried blood ran up his purple face, collecting on the top of his head, where it was dripping on the dark floor.
He’d been bled dry like a pig.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Aww, awww, no,” said Joel. Where you at, Robin Martine? Where you at, sis? Oh God, please come find me. Your brother from another mother has royally fucked up this time.