Chapter 42

Glen Frederick was standing in front of the desk, holding the cold HK pointed hard against Lewis White’s pockmark-covered forehead.
“You’re going to get killed, Lewis,” Dee said calmly, with a dead serious, slightly intoxicated demeanor.
He was fixing himself a drink of Gibson’s Finest at Lewis’s liquor cabinet in the kitchenette. “At least you’ll have one more black gun in your mouth before the end, you cum-gargling faggot.”
The Fag’s eyes darted like a terrified squirrel, back and forth. He knew he had nothing to do with the missing cocaine, but he also knew it didn’t matter.
When animals like Dee Lee were in a rage, they had no problem hurting innocent people, friend or foe, as long as it got the message out.
Glenny stuck the barrel on his bottom lip. It tasted like metal.
“Open your mouth!”
Lewis White opened his jaw, a crack, and closed his eyes. Glenny rammed the thick barrel inside his mouth and moved it around. “Now, suck this dick for daddy.”
Lewis started to cry and moved his head forward and then backward, stiffly. His head was trembling and his teeth chattered on the metal gun barrel.
“Ah-Ah-Ah.” Glenny took the gun out, wet, and repositioned it against his cheek.
Lewis spoke, as if he were talking to a wild dog, using a calm, slow voice.
“How can I prevent this? I’ll do anything.Please tell me what I can do.”
Dee snorted and gulped his whiskey. “What’s Billy say about all this, hey?” He was drinking his drink angrily and smoking another joint.
“He said he feels bad about it,” Lewis said, trembling all over.
Glenny set the gun barrel closer to his mouth, causing him to flinch at the hand movement. He frantically imagined a burst of three bullets roaring out the end of the HK and blowing his head apart. The end. Judgement.
It was a desperate feeling.
“Please…” he whispered.
“Bill has no idea who did it?”
“I don’t know. I can find out for you. Anything.”
“You’re a pretty smart guy, Lewis. I guess what I want you to do is try to come up with a good explanation for me of who took my moosemeat,” Dee said, using one of many biker codes for kilos of coke. “I’d like to fucking share with you some information, Lewis. Goes like this: Kurtis Missions and Darroll Missions, both worked, and worked recently, for either ‘Shining’ Bill or J.P. Nason. Now, that’s a pretty Jesus little coincidence, don’t you think? I’d like you to fucking explain that, and try to come back to me with an explanation that doesn’t make me kill you.”
“They did? I…”
“-Shut up!” Dee pointed a thick finger at him. “’Shining’ Bill had Kurtis Missions working on his tuna boat, the Aimee, in the fall season. Now, Darroll left us to figure out what’s going on by ourselves. Which leaves me only Kurtis and maybe his mother. And you. And more than anything in this world, you are going to HELP US OUT!” Dee hollered the last part of his sentence. He strode over to Lewis like a giant and grabbed the back of his head, clamping his neck. Glenny pulled the gun away and stepped back toward the couch, holding the muzzle upward toward the ceiling.
Lewis was forced to stand up with his face bent down and his chin resting on his sternum. His hands were latched desperately on Dee Lee’s forearm, unable to budge the arm in the least. Dee took the joint from his lips with his free hand and inserted the heater into Lewis’s ear. There was a whispering sound of sizzling skin and burning hair, followed by a scream and whimpering. “Aeheeeee!”
Dee held the Fag’s neck firmly as his body thrashed. He pushed the joint in further, until it was about three centimetes buried, then swirled it around like he was stubbing out a cigarette in a narrow ashtray.
“Eeeeehhhhhahhh…” Lewis screamed again.
Dee let go and Lewis collapsed onto the carpet, clutching the side of his head and scratching at the ashes that had come loose deep inside his ear canal.
The joint was broken in Dee’s hand and bits of burning marijuana leaves released tiny plumes of smoke here and there on the carpet.
Dee threw the broken joint onto the carpet and unzipped his starchy work pants, fishing out the white plastic clamp at the bottom of his feces-filled colostomy bag. He unscrewed the clamp. The pressure of the gas caused thick liquid feces to spout like brown piss down Lewis’s short haircut and hotly down the back of his neck.
A powerful, sulphur diarrhea smell filled the motel room with choking fumes. It was almost supernaturally overpowering.
Glenny began to cough and pinched his nose.
“Anything you can do, Lewis,” Dee said, shaking the dregs out of the bottom of the bag, “would be greatly appreciated.”