In Laymon's Terms

Gary glanced over his shoulder at the two scowling men in suspenders. Uh uh, no way—I’d rather walk. He turned back and shook his head, defeated. “Forget it, I’ll walk. Just give me the bill and point me in the direction of the towing yard.”

“Afraid I can’t do that either, friend.”

Shaking with anger and frustration, Gary opened his mouth when suddenly the sharp screech of a rusty deadbolt lock sliding home cut through the buzzing din in his head. He spun around and a brilliant shower of hot, white light suddenly burst in his skull and he rode its falling, sputtering twinkles to the black-and-white checkered floor.

Gary awoke to the screams of an animal in pain.

He forced his eyes open and blinked through a wet, red haze. He lay on the black-and-white checkered floor, a small pool of sticky blood sandwiched between his cheek and the scarred linoleum. His head felt as though it was tightly swathed in a bandage soaked in liquid pain. Gritting his teeth, he slowly peeled his face from the gummy floor and looked up.

Randy was the animal. High-pitched and piercing, his pain-filled screeches seared the air in the small diner. A heavily muscled and completely naked young man towering perhaps seven feet tall thrust himself in and out of Randy as he lay bent over one of the diner’s tables, his pants torn away and lying tattered about his ankles. Dark, clotted blood coated Randy’s thighs and legs.

The two suspender-clad men stood on each side of the naked man, the shotguns in their arms trained on the back of Randy’s head. Suddenly one of the men plucked an object from a nearby table and handed the enormous, naked man a large garden claw. He smiled and, reaching around with his powerful sinewy arm, raked Randy’s upturned throat with the sharp, glinting tines. A thick ruby mist burst from his neck and sprayed the wall next to the booth. All three men stepped back. His screams suddenly cut short, Randy slid from the table and dropped loosely to the floor, leaving a long, red-wine smear on the booth’s white table.

Awash in a sheen of blood and sweat, the naked man twisted his head and looked at Gary, a wide smile cutting his large wide face in two. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the diner painted his shining bald head in a dirty brilliance. His heart hammering wildly, Gary’s horrified eyes dropped to the inhumanly-massive erect dildo the man sported, a crudely hand-carved baseball bat with Louisville Slugger still emblazoned in black on the side. Gary saw with an icy shudder that it glistened with dark blood and ragged bits of Randy’s flesh. Held on by leather straps looped around his waist and between his legs, it wobbled ponderously as the large man turned to face him.

“About time you woke up, friend. Hell, you missed all the fun,” Bert said. “Well,” he chuckled, “most of it, anyhow.”

Gary raised himself up on his elbows, his arms quivering with the strain. He lifted his shell-shocked eyes up to Bert. The bearded man swam in and out of focus. Gary squeezed his rheumy eyes shut, trying to clear his vision. He tried to speak but quickly clamped his mouth shut. His teeth had nearly severed his tongue in the fall; red-hot shards rushed in and stabbed his tongue with each breath. He felt the warm, coppery blood begin to well inside his mouth and leak from his pursed lips.

Turning to the waitress who now sat beside him on one of the counter’s stools, Bert frowned and asked, “Ooo, Mary, he doesn’t look so good, does he?”

She looked down at Gary. “Hm? Oh. No, I don’t suppose he does at that, Bert.”

“Shouldn’t have hit him that hard with the skillet.”

“Well, you see what he did, Bert? Tried to stiff me on my tip. You see him leave anything? I sure didn’t.”

“I’ll give you that one, Mary. That wasn’t the proper thing to do, no sir.”

“I mean, I work hard for my money. I shouldn’t be treated like that.” Bert looked back down at Gary, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in thought as he studied him. “She got herself a point there, friend. Should’ve tipped her, no two ways about it.”

“Damn straight,” Mary said, crossing her arms.

“You know,” Bert said, fingering his beard, “seeing as how he’s probably learned his lesson and all, maybe we should just get him cleaned up and let him go.”

“You think?”

“Well, I don’t suppose he’ll forget to tip again, do you?”

“No, I don’t guess he will. Still, it’s the principle of the thing.”

Bert shook his head. “No time to stand on principles, Mary. After all, running a restaurant’s a cutthroat business.”

The two locked eyes. Their mock frowns suddenly slipped from their faces and they burst out in laughter. “Oh Bert,” Mary said, gasping for breath, “you’re one wicked, wicked fella.” She leaned over and wrapped her fingers in his beard, pulling him toward her and kissing him long and hungrily on the mouth.

Gary’s eyes shot to the counter above him, searching desperately for any sign of his briefcase. There it was—a brass-gilded corner jutting out from the edge!