...But I Digress

First 2 pages of a short story I wrote not too long ago. Say what you like, all criticism welcome.

I lick my bottom lip and taste blood and strawberries. This makes me concerned and I try really hard to remember if I kissed her before or after the blowjob.

When in denial, always go with the one that makes you feel better.

Thanks Doc, I think to myself, it was definitely afterwards then. Mentors have a funny way popping up in your thoughts with advice from time to time. I sigh with relief and then am pushed abruptly from behind, and this snaps me out of my line of thought.

“What are you waiting for?”

What am I waiting for? A hundred answers come to mind but all would fall short between the ears of these hungry-eyed fiends. They stood in a circle around the table, making an arena of sorts. Thunderdome, I thought. Except the challenger wouldn’t be much of a fight, I suppose, based on the simple fact that he was tied down, and tied down pretty well I might add. My hat goes off to the knotsmith who showed that rope who was boss.

Of course, all these random thoughts were just to divert my attention from the reason for the blood on my lip and the arena of twisted brutes.

They look at me eagerly, every pair of mislead eyes watching my every move. Suddenly, I felt on display, an exhibit perhaps or a special attraction you go to an amusement park when the roller coasters have lost their thrill.

My hand is shaking, I realize, when he slips the knife in my curled up paw. I look up into his eyes and they give me a pep talk that words would only ruin, followed by a quick nod and then is out of my field of view. Turning toward the table, I make the smallest possible steps that a bipedal primate of my physical stature can make. Just a little longer of stalling and maybe they’ll forget about this initiation hoopla. Then, perhaps, we can all do a few bumps and head back down into the raving mess of shaved chests, exotic body piercings, and all those pathetic attempts at inspirational verse via multi-lingual tattoos.

The table slides a little on the concrete floor when I bump into it, not knowing that I had already reached it.

Close my eyes, sigh, open my eyes.

The handle on the knife starts to feel slippery in my increasingly sweaty palm. The room is and has been silent now for awhile, only the rhythmic pulses and booms emanating from the wall closest to the club are heard, but still sound a ways off. One last glance around the room, full 360 this time, and I see nodding heads and near-salivating mouths looking crazily between the knife and me. They have the stark resemblance to what I imagine the audience at an ancient Mayan sacrifice would’ve looked like, high hopes and silent prayers for the drought to soon pass.

Close my eyes, sigh, open my eyes.

It’s getting heavier the higher I lift it, its sharpest edge bouncing light from ceiling into my eyes. The knife is almost to an optimum thrusting level, a few more inches. Someone whispers from behind me, probably my cousin. “Stab,” he says.

Close my eyes.

Above my head it sits, waiting and waiting some more. The challenger squirms on the table, sensing the impending doom that I have aimed just below his sternum. He begins to try talking to me for the first time, none of it coming out remotely understandable; gags will do that to you.

Sigh.

Whatever he’s trying to tell me is now being obviously shouted. The words “fuck” and “money” are definitely said at different points.

“Do it already!” someone says impatiently to my right. He’s trying to get free now, reaching for the nicely tied knots. When this doesn’t work, he screams loudly and starts pulling the ropes as hard as he can, angrily. My hands, clasped tightly around the knife, begin to shake again and suddenly I feel hot breath on my ear.

“It’s time now, today is the day this man dies. All he or you has done up to this point, this second in time, means nothing,” the whisper breathes, “End his life and for the first time, feel true freedom.”

No more stalling, no more thinking.

Open my eyes.