Chapter 28

The killer refused to let him get up, even to use the bathroom.
That was possibly the worst torture, so far, having to sit in the wooden chair day after day, stewing in his own diarrhea.
A horrific red rash had exploded across Pussylips’ ass, down his legs, all the way to the heels of his feet.
The sun was started to come up across the flat, iron-like water of Sunken Lake.
It was Tuesday morning. Almost four days since the kidnapping.
Since Saturday evening, the killer had beaten Pussylips with pieces of firewood, twisted his fingers with Vise grips, and burned the head of his penis with a smoldering log.
Another long night in the cabin had passed and tensions were running high.
Pussylips still was not talking. The coke was not in the duffel bag.
It was nowhere to be found. Where in hell could you hide 27 kilos of coke, during a bus trip?
It didn’t make sense.
The killer ate a breakfast of white buns and raw hot dogs.
When he was done eating, he got up from the card table and left the cabin for the first time in 72 hours.
Pussylips was refusing to say anything resembling human words anymore. All he did was sigh and sleep.
It was good to get outside. It stunk so badly in the cabin, like piss and the most pungent feces. Like cheddar cheese.
It was a mild morning and the killer was dressed in a thick, tight-fitting green OR gown that a friend who works at Valley Regional Hospital had stolen for them. He also wore big rubber gloves, rubber farm boots and a paper surgical mask to make sure no blood or hairs or cells or anything got onto the floor or onto Pussylips, or vice versa.
The killer was dying of heat. The woodstove in the cabin was pumping hot.
He was hot and claustrophobic. He stood outside the cabin for a minute, breasthing in the cool air.
There was a tool shed in back and the door was unlocked. He took a quick look. Most of the tools were gone, but there was a carpenter saw hanging on the far wall. An old-fashioned saw with a wood handle. It was good quality and would probably cut like a dream. The rusty blade had a picture of the cabin and the lakefront painted on it, in oil paint, done by an amateur but capable artist.
The killer took down the saw and brandished it in his gloved hand.
He stormed back into the cabin.
“Where’d you leave the Jesus coke!” he screamed, the colourful tool high in the air, above his head, him all dressed up like a doctor. He must have looked ridiculous.
“One more goddam time, I’m asking you!”
Pussylips sighed and flopped his head, side to side. No.
The killer yelled and dropped down on his knees, kneeling in the puddles of piss trapped in the folds of the tarp. He grabbed his left foot and smacked it down hard on the floor. Then positioned the blade upright on the ankle bone.
“Where is it, goddamn it?”
Pussylips crotch was filled with yellow, soft-serve diarrhea. He looked down at it and whispered: “Can you smell my shit?”
The killer wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm, then began to saw the ankle.