An Ass Full of Diamonds

If you're in sales, Summer is either the worst of times or the best time; Like Sydney Carton you may about to get your head chopped or you're out beating the path to sell what you've got or you're frightened about Fall and that you don't think you'll have anything to sell so you're on the road is to find merchandise. I'd just sold my last piece, was tired, bored and needed to let everything stop for a while so, dumb as it sounds packed a bag, got in my car, flipped a coin as to which way to turn then started on a road trip with no destination, no time limit. Just me, the car, the open road and time to kill. And, who knew?, maybe get restocked in terms of what could be sold.

These days most guys in high dollar sales travel by plane but I usually have only one or two things available so flying in and out just makes no sense financially nor does hauling the merchandise on offer around in first class. You learn real quick that there are lookers everywhere but few prove to be buyers. Also, I'm good at what I do, my merchandise is top quality, not for every Joe to look at, fondle it, see if they can try it-no- then try and fuck me down on the price or say they'd take it....If; In other words, they can't afford it. The internet has helped, I can show what I've got to hundreds of purchasers at once charge them for the privilege of looking, also quickly find who is a serious buyer and who's just “looking '”.

But that was behind me as I came to another junction and flipped the coin again. West. (I'd started this flipping thing in the parking lot by my condo but, after too many flips and too many trips around my own block, I only used it when there was a major junction or a sign advertising something that looked interesting.) Using that method I got out of town, county and state quickly enough but found myself on a long, dull stretch of Interstate headed West. By then, the only junctions I found were for North or South which were as dull as the road I was on so I just stayed on it.

And then I had a brain wave, something I should have had about two hundred miles earlier but didn't...sometimes we're just too damn dumb. What I discovered was that staying on the Interstate wasn't going to achieve what I had in mind which was to see something of wherever I happened to be. Sure, they had a purpose but my purpose just now was to get off it and stay off. So, without flipping a coin, I took the next exit then found what had been the “old” road before the Interstate flew through killing local businesses and, with the advent of Walmart, almost killing whole towns. Shopping Malls hadn't helped, the latest knife in commerce, the wholesale outlet mall, was just one more step down in the death of small town America.

The place I was raised, to be specific, Gothenburg, Nebraska, was a good example of a nice, if isolated and dying place. You may have heard of Gothenburg, seen pictures of the beautiful fountains, gardens, the palace...however that Gothenburg is in Sweden and bears no resemblance to the green fields, farms and ranches of central Nebraska. I'm not even sure if they rebuilt the whole damn castle thinking that it could draw enough tourists to make it pay it would. But it's in places like my home town I find my merchandise, at least the best merchandise, the other, the sleazy, the shop worn, the used up can be had in any city but for clean, healthy stock, it's the country or nowhere. Ex Marines are also a good choice-and in demand-as they've been broken to accept authority without question.

It's a bit hard to explain what I do. Sure, in one sentence, I sell Men but that doesn't really cover it and the services I perform. I'm no white slaver, no one is drugged, put in a bag awakening to finding themselves on a slow boat to somewhere. Nope, when my men are sold, they are happy to be property, happy to have a new, good owner and I'm happy with the colossal fees that I receive. No way around it, there are all sorts of Federal, State plus local statutes that make what I do a felony which, if caught, could get me a lengthy stretch in prison. Something I wish to avoid and, I must say, my clients are equally anxious for me to stay “out” for if I'm nailed, some will probably go down as well. It's part of the sales/consumer arrangement that exists in various ways in all business.

I work for harried, often married, men who have found that having a man to come home to on occasion is just what they want. In generally, they like something that's reasonably young, say25-35, in primo shape and sees sex as both a sport as well as an art: Also understands that some of these owners may have certain kinks that fall somewhat without the normal range of anyone's sexuality. Some may be sadists, others in to body modification or keeping their property caged and used as an animal. I have to know these things up front because it's one thing to pitch being a male whore to some guy but quite another to explain to him that, yeah, he'll get a can load of money but his nuts may be cut off or he may end up with a full body tattoo or spend his days on a rack, fully stretched out, screaming for real, not for a porno video.  

Only to a certain sort of man can this proposition be successfully sold but, when I find one, both they and I are on the way to a find pay day; The assumption that the sold goods get nothing is ridiculous. While, yeah, there are some few, very few, guys who are so deeply into whatever cranks their turns, they don't give a damn about money; They do NOT make good merchandise as it's all about them, their tastes, their desires with no thought to the purchaser who is there to see that the fore named are all supplied; He likes them as well but on his terms, not theirs.

Then there's training. Say I found a guy who was in for this, would accept one of the more normal fetishes, I can't just hustle him to John X whom I happen to know likes the same fetish, there's too great a risk that the merchandise decides otherwise, wants out. You can memorialize anything you want but, to quote the late Sam Goldwyn, “A contract isn't worth the paper it's written on.” I'm no sexual athlete so just for the correctness of the situation, I don't sleep with the merchandise, tempted, but it just doesn't happen. However, given my line of work, I've come to know men who are very experienced in a wide ranging selection of sexual activities. Just what doesn't matter but the bottom line to that is that the merchandise has to already be skilled at basic sex, its practices and forms. They have to be ready to be fucked, know how to fuck, suck, get sucked, eat a guys ass...the usual, the normal. Also, they've got to be in shape. Following those requirements, we get into the more specialized world of what someone may want that strays from the normal. Over time I've developed a group of men who function as, sometimes a trainer, sometimes a validator of the abilities of the product. I have to be absofuckinglutely certain that what I say they can and will do is fact, if not, my business would collapse very quickly making me find a job as a bean counter for a chain of groceries stores or something equally tedious.

One thing I stress to purchasers is that as great looking as they may be when delivered, if they're not given access to a gym, for more than briefly now and then, what looks so good will run to fat and flab very quickly. Of the complaints I get, the one most often concerns itself with their muscle god who has deflated, has no muscle tone, no six pack; Without even speaking to the former merchandise, I know the answer; Not enough gym time. When you see muscle gods, whether in porn or as a body builder, few realize just how much time it takes to hang all that muscle on that frame and, as stands to reason, the more meat there is, the more time it takes to put it there. I don't give refunds but I have taken merchandise back, sent it to a buddy in Florida who runs a private gym then had them reconditioned as well as their tan worked on; The costs of doing that are split between the former owner as well as the next owner. Also, the owner from whom I retrieved the poorly used merchandise goes off my list of clients which can hurt him in ways he doesn't understand.

Every kink, every fetish has their own underground system of knowing who are members and how to communicate with them. In that world my code name is “Meat Man” so when the word gets out that the Meat Man removed merchandise for whatever reason, that person is effectively shunned. It's as if he's the disease carrier and the others in his circle want me to understand they're not like him, they practically build gyms in their homes so their toys stay nicely muscled up, fuck I know one guy, who actually has three products he got from me, that are routinely sent them to Aruba just for the tanning and the workouts in the water.  When he calls with a request I will jump on a plane to meet with him; I know his tastes are high, what he wants difficult but he's willing to pay top price including the cost of flying me in and I only travel first class. For example, at one point he wanted a dwarf body builder who was willing to be made a transsexual. That does not grow on trees, took almost two years to fill the order but I did and the fee was into seven figures. After that check cleared I took a month off, went to Aruba, worked on my own tan plus took a pair of potential sales items just to prove to me what they could do, how often they could do it as well as do it with enthusiasm. They also worked on their tans.

People who know me, generally my clients, say to me, “Dan, why don't you have a partner, you're good looking, in shape, wealthy....”. They've a point but almost without exception, every guy I've hooked up with has, eventually turned to me to say….“Dan, I'd like to get in on the big bucks.” Okay by me but at that moment our relationship ends and their life as merchandise begins. They've been around me, they think they know what goes on so they're prepared to do what it takes.

That's what they think. I don't discuss my whole business with my pleasures so they don't know about the testing to make sure they can do what they're saying they'd like to do. Obviously, I can't have their nuts cut off just to see if they'd do it. However, when it comes to almost everything else, they're beaten, tortured, fucked for hours, their ability to suck is done with a hose and can take two to three hours, they find themselves in stress bondage, the sort that may not look good but hurts, their testicles tortured and on and on. Only then do I take them to a physique photographer to have them photographed with an emphasis on whatever it is they do best or think they do best. No point in handing round pictures of a guy in a five point chain star when what the purchaser wants is someone to live in a cage and be his dog. Not to mention the photographer and I split the profits when he sells the pictures to porn markets. It's called making it coming and going. The camera guy charges reduced rates because he's getting profit another way plus my overhead is lowered; It's that way in a lot of what I do. I can't have these guys wandering around naked or in Speedos so they have to be clothed, fed, lodged...so there, too, are financial paths to be dealt with.

A lot, well most,  of my clients do not want something, that looks like street trash-great for porn but not to be a ‘companion’ they can take wherever. They want to be able to dress them up, take them with them, show them off to other guys who might want to get in touch with me just to see, by chance I had…. Of course where they're going and how they're about to be shown off can vary widely but I have it down to two forms of dress when they're presented for initial inspection. Number one is in close fitting jeans, a white deep V neck T-shirt, socks and sneakers. They always are wearing a jock, sometimes, tighty whiteys. The other model is the prototypical man in the gray flannel suit. Depending on the season, I bring him in looking as if he shopped at Paul Stuart or Brooks Brothers. Button down shirt, silk rep tie, wing tips, looks just like any ad agent on Madison Avenue. This is probably my best seller. Whatever they may do in the bedroom, the dungeon or a secluded field, initially they look like someone they can relate to, one of their own who, they know, is twisted to their specific tastes….just doesn’t appear anything other than ...normal. That they’re not, but look as they do is just part of the inducement to buy; Who would bother purchasing something that, even in the shop window you didn’t want?

When you peel the guy in jeans and a T shirt, you can be pretty sure of what you're going to see but a well cut suit conceals a great many body types. Just because I get asked, contrary to what most people think, my clients do not want men so muscled up they're almost a joke. A guy in his late twenties to mid thirties, modest six pack, good arms and legs is the most preferred plus has the longest “career”. In this case I do take 'trade ins' however that's usually been specified in advance. Works best for everyone. I get the fees many times, the merchandise gets an ever rising price and several men get the pleasure of something that gets better as experience gets greater. The smartest of these men sock away every penny they make so when their career is over or they want out, they've a sizable nest egg. Several of them run businesses, some of which I use; One has a fine gentleman's store in Philadelphia-where my suits come from-another a really nice mens' only resort in Florida and a third-surprised even me- returned to his former profession as an airline captain. Some of them stay with what becomes their life partner, some, often to please their “owner” go into porn-the owner usually owns the studio- some unfortunately drift into drugs, alcohol and street hustling, some just disappear, in a sense a parallel to real life relationships.

Life along the less traveled road was good, I'd found a couple of Mom and Pop restaurants that made me a bit fatter for the quality and quantity of their cooking, stopped by interesting road side attractions that I thought wouldn't be worth my time but were and, with each stop, some easy conversation, was alerted to something else, just down the road I couldn't have known about. Went to a small town rodeo that was more fun than I'd had in a long time; The good people there-they were all neighbors or from the area-welcomed a stranger, insisted I join them for their pot luck dinner then stayed for the dance...it was almost too much home spun Americana at one time. And, professionally, saw some young cowpokes that I'd have like to add to my merchandise but this wasn't the time or the place for recruiting. It's hard to remember, once you're in the flesh peddling business, that there are still good, civil people who are not suspicious, will welcome you on the basis of an out of state license tag without thinking 'stranger danger' then offer whatever they have to make you comfortable all in return for your genuine interest in them and what they're doing. All I will say is that I hope nobody had a camera of me learning to line dance or do the two step. I'd remind you I'm a good looking man, 43, prime beef in many ways, nicely masculine, I could've gone home with a number of ladies. And maybe a couple of the guys but I was just being as neighborly as they were.

The only offer I accepted was from an older couple who had a sort of impromptu bed and breakfast; After the dance, I was a long way from anywhere so I followed them home. Comfortable room, bed, I dropped to sleep immediately, was wakened by the smell of coffee and bacon. The lady said her husband had been up and gone earlier but she'd let me sleep in, me being from the city, not probably keeping farm hours. Insisted I sit down and “tuck right in while it's still fresh” then had one of the best breakfasts I'd ever eaten while she fretted that, “the biscuits didn't just come right”. After that she said the bathroom was upstairs if I wanted to shave and shower before I left or...if I wanted to stay a day or two, there wasn't much to do but her husband could take me to “Earl's” later for a beer or some cards or...I almost was tempted. It crossed my mind that some of the guys I’d seen the previous evening might also drop by “Earls”. Clearly nothing would be said but seeds could be planted, names taken, even some vague tastes in whatever plus whoever might be discovered. 

Having potential live stock tucked away for a future sale is always a plus. One thing...I made a point to remember where the place with the nice couple as well as the good breakfast was along with a couple of local boys who nicely fitted into their jeans-in the country all you have to do is ask a question, mention someone you've seen and you've got the information or a rather complete bio, more than you could probably discover on your own. She actually named a couple of the young men who, in her words, 'got growed up, probably move out of here now, ain't enough for them to do...just like young men every where I guess." She guessed right; Asked her to write out their names...if they ever came town it would be my pleasure to show them as good a time there as I'd been showed here. She smiled, this was just the sort of country hospitality that was expected. Of course she'd see to it they got in touch if they ever headed my way. One other thing I knew, she would do recruiting for me that I could not have done, tell whomever what a nice man I was, respectable, they should look me then drop in. I told her I'd look forward to that. I could see she was thinking about something....left for a moment then returned with a pair of pictures of the men in question. Apologized, she wasn't very good with a camera but at least this gave me a way to remember them....I promised I would and meant it.

However, the best thing was to get on to wherever I didn't know I was going. Took her up on the shower; Shaved and when I left she was, she said, embarrassed to have to ask me for twenty dollars. I gave her a hundred, told her to tell her husband to “buy one for the boys at Earls until the next time... and for her to get herself something nice”. I was sincere, she saw that although holding the hundred made her blush: She took me at my word when I said there'd be a “next time”. There were no printed card but she wrote out their name, number and address. Strange to see something with no cell phone, no email, no face book, just a simple, direct name, address and telephone. I gave her my business card, well, the one I give people who have no idea and no business knowing what I do. On it I'm a corporate executive of a company called “Discovery Capital” which meant nothing but read good. Had my home address, phone, email etc. She said she wouldn't lose it and to expect a card at Christmas. I told her I planned on dropping in on my way back from...and didn't finish the sentence. She told me how to get to the highway; We waved at each other as I drove off.

I'd changed over night. I felt good, really refreshed, happy to be out on the road and not specifically on the look out. For the first time I'd been relaxed enough to just throw on some khakis and an open throated shirt, no slacks, freshly pressed shirt or a jacket. The fields looked green and then, it happens everywhere, a stretch of road that was just dead dull. The little towns I went through were uninteresting, never much now they were dying as time or the interstate passed them, unwelcoming so...I just went on through. Around one or two I began to regret I hadn't accepted my hostess' offer to “red up a sack lunch, just in case you feel peckish...”. Whatever it would have been, would have been good and I hadn't seen a place that even looked clean. At one major highway there was a truck stop-which usually has good food-but I was deep in my country driving and to walk into the smoke filled, curse filled “professionally” partitioned dining room full of truckers wasn't what I wanted; Forty miles later things got worse.

I know nothing about cars, I'm no mechanic so if putting gas in it, oil occasionally and keeping the windshield fluid container filled is all it takes to keep them running, then I'm good. I lease cars because their care and maintenance becomes the problem for another so, when things go wrong, they can solve it or give me a new car. But out here, with a dying eight cylinder thing, they weren't convenient. It was obvious that my skill at pumping gas, checking oil and wind screen solvent wasn't going to be of any help in other words... I'm sunk.

Which, suddenly, I was but more so. It was running but, clearly, it wasn't going to run much further. Around a bend there was what must have been a gas station back when. The pumps had glass globes on top-I thought about antique dealers to whom those remnants from the past represented profit but here were only two of them, no sign announcing the price of gas, nothing but it was a place to pull over. I was surprised to find it was actually a working business, a mechanic's shop which, once I was there, was obvious and, more good luck, he clearly knew about engines as there were large pieces of farm equipment in various stages of repair. Just no one that I could see but, hey, compared to where I could be and the situation I could be in, I was doing alright. Idly, I thought about calling back to my hosts of the previous evening, something told me, although it would take hours, they'd show up, probably with a mechanic and/or a tow truck. Another night or two plus some breakfasts wasn't a bad idea but a better one was to call AAA then use the Premium membership I paid for. This was the moment for them to deliver.

One good thing about the interstate system is that the towers that handle cell phone calls are strung along them and, usually, you can get a call through. Which I did. Problem was, as helpful as they wanted to be, I wasn't entirely able to tell them where I was, something they needed to know. I vaguely remembered the name of the last town I'd gone through, several miles back, but didn't have an address, didn't know the number of the road I was on....they offered to try and triangulate my location by cell towers but that would take awhile. Their suggestion was that I see what, if anything, I could find to identify where I was; In effect said, “Keep in touch”...

Sensibly, I should have though of this, if this was a business, even one as casually run as this seemed to be, there would be some form of address or phone number on a pad or an invoice, something that would tell me-and them-where I was. It was hours until dark so I wasn't worried about being stranded, cars did, occasionally, go by on the road. Probably could hail one of them and at least find out where I was although for a grown man to not know would strike others as stupid-it struck me as stupid- so I set out on my mini reconnaissance mission.

What bothered me was that, for an afternoon on a business day, there was no activity I could see. We all have that moment when we think, this is the time, the time I walk in to a place and ….everyone is dead, shot or cut up or whatever. It's a creepy kind of feeling but that's what I got. The main office, if you could call it that, was left over from its days as a gas station, big room, windows looking out on the lot, some desks, chairs, filing cabinets, a pair of hooks from which depended two keys for the lavatories and, with no trouble I did find a name, an address plus a phone number then almost flipped open my phone to call AAA to give them the happy news that I'd found myself as goofy as that sounds. But I was launched into exploration mode and was curious as to why no one was around so I went through the door to what would have been the bays to work on cars and now, probably, large equipment. Also, why call AAA if there was a mechanic who could diagnose the problem then fix it before AAA could do much. It was all quiet then something warm and wet hit my head, like a bird dropping only it was red and I knew instinctively it was blood. I looked up.

Attached to the raised garage door was a man who had been beaten, almost professionally so. After whatever happened to him he'd been strapped to the door and then automatically rolled up. Gagged and probably out cold, he would have stayed there until someone came back for him or he died and the body was retrieved to be disposed of. For all that I'd seen kinky sex involving blood and bondage, this was no sex scene, this was a crime scene. Automatically I found the button to lower the door; Seconds later I was trying to untie the straps, loosen the buckles, take as much pressure off him as was possible. Again, knowing something about rough sexual play, I knew that to loosen the ties too quickly could cause nerve damage, it takes time for your limbs to have muscles coordinate so they can move, nerves to get back to functioning properly so I just loosened things to the point that they made a hammock for him to lay in. He was breathing steadily; I took a pulse although knowing that he had one, other than he was alive, wouldn't do me much good.

He flinched when I touched him, a sure sign of a beating given to someone by another with the purpose of hurting them. But not killing them, not yet at any rate, the way he'd been strapped and-it was damn clever-put in the overhead door all said this was not just a crime, but part of a major crime. To which my internal reaction was, “Shit, just what I don't need” and at the same time realized that I could do without AAA who might have some good questions to which I'd have no great answers for then they'd call the cops who would have even better questions and my answers were already in diminishing return land.

On instinct I got some water from a cooler, tried to see if it could be dribbled into his lips and his eyes, while they fluttered, couldn't seem to open. There were some clean shop towels, wetted, I wiped his face, hands, whatever flesh was exposed. Both eyes were deeply bruised, far beyond the “traditional” black eye. I worried that some of the upper ocular bone might be broken, hell, for that I worried that lots of bones might be broken which was another argument for leaving him as he was. Also who to call....I was too close to crime myself to be comfortable calling anyone and in no position to do much about this situation. So I just knelt there and hoped the damp cloths would help revive him and tried to clean him up a bit.

Hard to judge his age, young certainly but between the bruises and contusions about all I could tell was that he was probably over twenty and under forty. That's when I remembered to check his body for identification, Now that I knew where I was, if some of his numbers seemed to match then I knew we were dealing with something local; Also, as it was looking substantially more serious, I took a moment to retrieve my gun from my car. Normally when I'm driving as I had been, I just use the open carry law but now that circumstances had been very altered, I got my holster from my bag, stuck the gun in it put it around my shoulder and, just in case, pulled out a snub nose and dropped it in my pocket.

There was no sound other than birds high up in the bay, very infrequently, cars going by on the road; I hoped that, because the doors to the highway were now closed, if anyone made an approach, I'd hear them. About then I noticed the large first aid kit that was on the wall per DOT regulations. Probably wasn't much I could use but there would at least be some antiseptic cream some bandages, and, since this was a good sized industrial one, who knew what else. I set up a sort of triage around my guy by closing and locking the door to the main office. That made the only way in was through the back bay doors; It just took a moment to close the one furthest from me. One last job for my car was to bring it around back, pull it in as well so that, if you were passing, or going by to see if there was any activity, it wouldn't be obvious. You'd notice the door was down but with a body attached, that could have happened just due to weight-of course if you're just driving by the thought of a body strapped to a roll down door doesn't occur to you. One way or another, if anyone wandered by, I'd know it almost as soon as they knew it. Clearly no one would pull up for service as there was none to be had

I opened the kit and found some things like bandages, band aids, an ace bandage or two, some astringents which I could use, pair of scissors, and, happily, some smelling salts. Immediately broke the glass ampule and held it under his nose. There was a noise that didn't sound good but didn't sound like a death rattle, he tried to open his mouth but only a tooth fell out...I couldn't tell if his eye or eyes were trying to open but, to do so, they were going to have to fight a helluva lot of swelling. It was time to begin to check for consciousness and the only way was to start asking questions like...his name...what happened-although that was pretty obvious although why was not. On the first round there was no response so I tried to wipe his lips then dribble some water in, someone had told me to look for the swallow reflex... there was one. That was good.

I just kept talking, told him my name, where I was from, how I happened to stop, remembered the name of the family where I'd stayed the night before, tried to ask him questions, kept the water going into him...hoped he was doing better. I had nothing to make him comfortable, first aid kits in commercial places can't legally have anything for the relieve of pain and, from just what I could see, he hurt every where. I felt like the line, “I'm not a doctor but I play one on TV” as I tried to palpate him to see if I could find green stick breaks or obvious problems. Opened his shirt to check for knife wounds, tried to find where the blood had come from but finally decided it was his mouth, the abandoned tooth would have left a socket which would bleed. One thing that was on his side, he was sturdily built, no fat and seemed to be in pretty good shape. From what I could see, his biceps filled his shirt sleeve and his chest was nicely formed under a T shirt; His good health and great condition were helping him more than I could.

His information was less helpful. He had a commercial driver's license that listed his name, James McCorkel, his home address, his city, Dayton, Virginia, age, social security number, some CDL information but that was it. No credit cards, some affinity cards for things in Virginia, slips with addresses, also in Virginia, beyond that...nothing. No cash-that wasn't a surprize-I couldn't find a cell phone on him although I suspected that it would have been removed; No one leaves a beaten body with some way to call for help. And, to my somewhat knowledgeable criminal mind, my best guess said that he'd been left up there to be collected later and later didn't mean too long, probably today, likely after it got dark. The standard reason for this is the usual “a drug deal gone wrong”. I was willing to run with that except if that were the case, whoever he tried to fuck over, if that was the situation, wouldn't have bothered to come back for him; He'd be dead now. The simple deduction was that he knew something and hadn't spilled it or they needed him as a guide to someone or someplace.

There were some other possibilities but based on what I knew, those were the top choices. Which also meant I had to make some decisions and pronto. The easy one was to call the cops, 911 works from anywhere, then tell them where I was, the problem, wait for them to show up. There would be questions as to why I'd not called sooner but, it was the truth, I could easily say I didn't know what I'd walked into, was stuck with a bum car when I found a body that wasn't improving. Eventually they'd buy it and, blind luck, I had the name and place of the nice people who'd had me as their guest last evening so from where it was to where I was now-I even had a receipt from the truck stop, the last place I'd gassed up- pretty much ruled out I was anything other than the person who found the scene of the crime. On the other hand, I could be assured that they'd-politely-ask me to stick around for a day or so, at least until they could figure out just what had happened. Somewhere in all this it was just, only just, but possible, they might get on to me and my real business which they then would enjoy giving it to the news media which would have two stories. The latter of which would probably put me in prison for a long time. I looked at my watch, gave myself an hour to see if I could rouse him, find something out and then make a decision.

There was another problem, transportation. I'd pulled in with a dying car and it's condition hadn't improved, the journey from front to back could easily be it's last trip until some professional attention was paid to it. Looking at large green machines that said, “John Deere” didn't offer any help but when you're around the corner from trouble, you go looking for whatever you can find. I put wet shop towels on him,, set one to drip in his mouth and began another look around. And got lucky. Behind one of the larger machines was a reasonably new Ford pick up, keys in it. That didn't surprize me as in the country security concerns ran low. I hopped in, started it up, noted that it had a full tank of gas, not that it mattered, that it was a crew cab which meant the back seat could be used as a sort of couch or bed, something to put Mr. McCorkel on if that seemed the route to take.

While I was out in the yard, I grabbed some things-any thing with any identification-from my car, put them in the truck-figured I'd come back for whatever was left then pulled the truck around into the bay, facing out, as I knew to do, for a quick exit if necessary.

My patient was showing signs of life. He had one towel in his hand and was trying to mop where it probably hurt. I knelt beside him, didn't touch him, but spoke to see if my voice was somewhere in his memory banks. Without waiting for an answer I explained that I'd found him, let the door down and was trying to revive him, looked at his wallet, knew who he was, also knew that to my eye, he was probably in trouble. Gave him my name, tried to calm him then asked questions. What I really needed to know was how much trouble he/I was in? If he expected anyone to come back. I didn't get any answers right away, you could see he was thinking about what he heard and concurrently was trying to see if his mouth was work. Thus far, no. Plan B consisted of my asking him questions and telling him to nod as best he could yes or no...I could sense the reservation, clearly, he wasn't used to hanging around with a group of boy scouts therefore wasn't prepared to be as honest as, just now, I needed him to be. So I

went back to basics.

On an abstraction of what is done in Emergency Rooms, I told him the answers to the questions they would normally ask. I told him his name, that I'd got it from his driver's license, the legal address, that the had a Commercial license, finding him trussed up and stuck on the inside of a door that was up pretty much convinced me this wasn't a stunt pulled by kids. I didn't know what kind of trouble he was in but I was damn sure he was in trouble which left him with two choices, trust me and tell me what the fuck is going on or I could leave him tied up, walk out eventually to read what might have happened to him in the papers. I told him the time, I knew how these things worked, and I did, he had until maybe an hour before sundown to make a decision. In my experience, if you leave someone like that it's either for them to decide to play along or as a lure to catch someone else. Whoever did their shooting-or however they disposed of unwanted bodies-wasn't around but would be later in the day.

Whatever I said struck some nerves as I could tell he was trying to move his jaw-a painful thing to have to do-to tell me something. He also opened part of one eye which wasn't the prettiest sight I'd seen that day. Generally eyes come in some basic colors but what his was.... I couldn't tell you. By looking closely I could see an Iris but it was surrounded by varying shades of mauve, red and a disturbing mucous color that would have been okay in an Opal but in an eye, no.

“Hurt” was his first word and his second was “cut”. Okay, that was news, so I asked him where, I hadn't found anything but then I hadn't done a full body search either. “toes” was my clue so, carefully, I eased off his work boot and found, yep, someone had cut off the little toe on both feet. They were suppurating but, fighting the urge to vomit, I got the First Aid box, cleaned them, dressed them as best I could and, while I was doing that realized that this was a gang hit. Knowing that wasn't the best news I'd figured out but it did narrow my options; Somehow I was going to have to get him up and into the pick up then away from here and reasonably soon. Working on his toes seem to give him some relief from pain and it had also provided him with time to get his mouth more able to speak.

“Gotta get out. Coming back tonight”, well, my guesses were right. “Cut me down?” Slowly I began to hack through the not very professional binding of rope, duct tape, electrical tape and whatever else they'd used being grateful that, unlike some of my clients who are into bondage, no one had used chain with locks. As best I could I released him in such a way that he slowly eased on to the paved floor rather than just a sudden thud. Once I had him loose, it was a bit easier as he could help me. He'd been professionally beaten which meant that he had deep tissue bruising and was in a lot of pain, the sort of pain that laughs at aspirin. Now that I knew he wasn't on the ragged edge of death, I hauled out a bottle of Hydrocodone that I took for a spot of Arthritis and gave him a couple. It would take at least thirty minutes to have any effect and as badly banged up as he was, I couldn't be sure how much good it would even do. Still, it was pain suppressant and he had a lot of pain to suppress.

“Can you sit up?”

“Maybe, if you'll help. Get one arm behind me and....” his instructions ended in a wave of pain and cursing. But he was up, finally, and I could lean him against the door. Giving him the shop towels as well as a bowl of cold water I let him take over that duty. “In my truck....” and another wave of pain went over him...” McDonalds bag, maybe thrown in the back...” So now I knew who's truck I had found. “there'd be loaded syringes of morphine....I'm a Vet, got my leg half busted in the sand box...” While he had another round of being overwhelmed with pain I found the bag and, he got lucky, no one had found his stash. I brought the bag and asked him how many? He held up two fingers, his jaw was clenched shut in agony. So two it was. (I noted there were at least two dozen more plus some empties and a box that suggested in it there was more; Clearly he was on very good terms with a pharmacist somewhere.)

Not bothering with the niceties, I went straight into his bicep with one then went through his pants leg to catch the fleshy part of the thigh with the other. Generally morphine works better as a hot shot but I didn't have time to find a vein then make sure it closed after I'd filled him up. Also, after the beating he'd had, I could have found a vein that was damaged and might collapse. We sat for a few minutes. “Better, oh holy Jesus better. Thanks mister, yer pret near savin' my life.”

“Yeah, well, look around, we're still in a garage-this where they worked you over?-and we need to be elsewhere pretty quick. Your truck? (which was both dumb and redundant as he'd told it was his and where the drugs were...), anyway it had the keys in in and it's ready to go. I'll try and get you up but we're gonna take it slow.” Even his fingers had been beaten, probably with a gun butt, that's what I would have done, so he wasn't going to be much good in holding on while we moved.

I looked back at the truck. Suddenly I realized getting him loaded up was going to be easy, now that he was a passenger and somewhat loaded on drugs, I could roll the door up and pull right up to it. Only in reverse. I'd move the truck and then open the door and get him in the back seat. And then we'd be off. That was my plan anyway. I ran it by him and apart from an obvious anxiety to get the duck out of fodge, he had no objections. Not that it would have mattered.

His truck, when driven, was obviously one that had a little more under the hood than Ford had put there as original equipment. Just touching the gas gave you a spurt ahead that, if there'd been anything to hit, I'd have hit it. It was comforting to know that if any sort of chase was involved, I wasn't going to lose due to lack of horse power. As I've mentioned, I know zip about the internal combustion engine but I do recognize things that go fast that were meant to do so and this was. Before I moved it out front, I went back to friend McCorkel, made sure he was ready to roll. As soon as I had the truck in front of the door, I was going to sprint inside, raise the door and then as best I could help him get in the back seat and lay down. However, his plan was to sit in the passenger's seat to ride shotgun and look out. As he pointed out, he knew what potentially to look for; I didn't. He gave himself another boost of morphine which probably would make him woozy but, as I thought about it, the back seat wasn't long enough to lay on.

It went faster than I thought. Got the truck out front, the door open, him loaded and we were on the road in under two minutes. Just to avoid getting stopped for seat belts I insisted we put them both on although it must have hurt him like hell to have the pain of the compression.

Time to mount up and get moving. Not having small change and needing a drink, I shot the Coke Machine open. Why not? took one for now, one for my new buddy and several more for the road. McCorkel was trying to be helpful but his prime task needed to be walking to the truck and getting in it without falling down too many times. There was a duffel bag on the floor which I converted into luggage, snagged the first aid kit, more cans of soda and, after “opening” another vending machine, a selection of peanut butter crackers, Oreos in four packs, some unknown things in silvery packages that might-or might not- be edible and pronounced us ready to go on our picnic. As I passed them I picked up several rolls of blue disposable shop towels against the moment that my traveling companion might choose to bleed, vomit or drool from an overdose.

My time driving a pickup could be measured in seconds-when I'd moved this one from back to front- but, fortunately, the tough truck people at Ford had realized that the city slicker who bought one would prefer an upgraded interior, enough stereo music to deafen a herd of Wildebeests if you happened to pass a herd of Wildebeests, and enough electronic gimcrackery to keep the youth of today happy. Just as an after thought there was automatic shifting, a brake, a gas pedal plus some other bits and pieces that I recognized as standard equipment. Being that high off the ground from a vision standpoint was a little perplexing; I hoped I wouldn't meet the nicest people on a Honda as they were swept under the grill. In short, we were ready to roll.

I got him maneuvered in to the passenger seat; Probably hurt when I latched down his seat belt but the last thing I wanted was to get stopped on a technicality such as not wearing seat belts. Lowering my shades to “drive” position, I touched the gas and we were off.

The road was mercifully empty so as I started back down the path just driven I could do things like adjust the rear view mirror which is what I was doing when I saw in it what looked like the recreation of the bombing of Hiroshima, complete with an angry orange mushroom shaped cloud. About a second after that, light traveling faster than sound, we were hit with the mutherfucking father and mother of a Kaboom plus Whompf that, without my touching the gas moved us fifty feet down the road. McCorkel was suddenly more alert than he had been up to now.

“Shit, I didn' believe 'em about the explosives....” was all he had time to say as, just then, there was a loud, metallic, clanking noise from the bed of the truck that caused all the hydraulic systems to compress and then bounce the vehicle three feet off the ground. When we landed, I stopped: The latest addition to our traveling party was a large, green piece of somewhat twisted metal that had parts of “John Deere” stenciled on it. If ever there was moment to pause and reconsider, this was it.

I looked at McCorkel in the same way the first person will when meeting Martians on their home turf. "What explosives????" I screeched although the initial sound wave was beyond us. "What....?" To be fair, he looked stunned-although since our recent acquaintance, "stunned" was one of his few expressions other than excruciating pain and the look that comes over you as better living through chemistry turns night to day, pain to pleasure and humans to consumers.

"They said theys a bag a explosives and iffen I didn' shut up, they'd blow me an' it back to Virginny." I just stared at him. "But.....I never done seen it. No, sir, never did so I just thought it were a pack a lies..."

"Like the lies that they were going to cut off some of your toes? That kind of lie?" It seemed a good moment to teach him how to give a suck job to a fifty caliber so I stuck mine in his mouth. "Motherfucker, they cut people's toes off so they can't run, they'll stay pretty much in one place, not go AWOL. Get it? You're missing two toes, one on each side, I found you strapped up and attached to a garage door on the ceiling, probably about over where whatever it was that was going to blow up would do so. And it did. Now, take a good suck on that barrel and remember you're living because some guy too stupid to walk away from what he knew to be a bad situation interfered and caused you to continue to live. Now suck while I try to restrain from pulling the trigger." I'd stuck my piece in a little too hard and, as I pulled it out, two more teeth followed it. "Sorry 'bout that."

We sat there for a few moments, amused as lighter parts of the station, out building, pumps and, of course, John Deere equipment, dropped around us. The windshield almost broke but it was made of sturdier stuff and whatever bounced off it dented the hood and then fell away.

"Mister, am I in trouble?"