“What. In the fuck. Is that smell?”
Smells like cat piss. Ammonia. The odor was so strong that it left a metallic taste in the back of my alcohol-ridden throat.
“Somebody get me the fuck out outta here!” I shouted.
I coiled the rusty chains around my wrists and shook them with a violent temper, similar to how The Ultimate Warrior would wobble the top rope that bordered a wrestling ring.
Fuck it. It’s no use. Nobody can hear me.
I laid there for a while and rubbed my throbbing temples, trying to develop an image of my last location. The last place I was before I ended up here. In this room.
The steady drip of leaking water was beginning to drive me to madness. Each bloop, followed by a ping, sent a throbbing agony of dull hurt rippling through my head.
I was with Marcus. Why did I let him convince me to go to a “gentlemen’s club”? The men in there were far from gentlemen, adjusting their half-hard dicks when they stood up. Leaning against the bathroom wall, epically failing at the urinal and pleading into their cell phones with the person at the other end: “Just one more game of pool with the guys, babe, and I’ll be home.” Like the women on the other end didn’t know where they were, because, you know, every popular pool tavern plays ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ at a deafening level.
Yes! Now I remember. I had to pee and I wanted a cigarette. I also had to get away from the gentlemen taking mental snapshots for their spank-bank. So I went to the gentlemen’s bathroom in the gentlemen’s club and joined the gentlemen hoaxing their wives.
And then, nothing. Darkness. I blacked out and found myself chained to a wall in this dreary room all alone.
I eased my back against moist tile and managed to keep my balance as I scooted upright, letting my arms dangle to relieve my back of the enormous pressure that began weighing on my shoulders.
I could feel the presence of my wallet press against my right ass cheek through my designer jeans. It felt empty. Figures. I’ll check it later. I have to let this wave of nausea pass first. I should’ve had some fries at the pub before I let those bozo’s drag me to Spread Eagle, the trashiest topless bar in Columbus. No. What I should’ve done was stay at home and binge watch Wayward Pines on Hulu. I do love that Matt Dillon. I wonder if he’s related to Bob and Jacob.
‘We can make it home, with one headliiiiiiight.’
‘Lord knows I’ve paid some dues getting through
Tangled up in blue’
Yeah, that’s better. I’ll google the relation later if I…
“Ever get the fuck out of here!”
There. That was good. Give ‘em hell man. That’s what they want. I actually kind of sounded like Christian Bale that time. I like him too. Kind of gruff as Batman and a little over the top for me, but he did play the best Bruce Wayne in my opinion. Not to take anything away from Michael Keaton of course. I think Keaton was more of a gentlemen’s Bruce Wayne than Bale was. A real gentlemen. Not the type you would find at a…
“Pathetic excuse for a gentlemen’s club!”
More like Patrick Bateman that time. Not bad. I’m getting the hang of this. I should definitely consider doing impressions at parties and bah mitzvahs.
Wait. What was that? Someone finally heard me screaming.
A square beam of light emerged in the distance from a door, causing temporary blindness. I kept my eyes shut to adjust, then re-opened them, hoping to get a glimpse of my surroundings.
Mazes of leaking pipes were attached to a water tank in the corner. In the other corner, cases of beer and liquor.
The faint sound of Tommy Lee’s drum kit reverberated outside the door. I was still in the club.
“Hey! Help me! Who the fuck are you? Marcus, if this is you playing a sick joke on me because I passed out in the bathroom then I’m gonna slaughter you and your whole bachelor party boys, got it?”
Slouching down, I rested my legs on the back of my calves, trying to get a glimpse of who was behind door number one.
“Hey man, I’m serious. This isn’t cool.”
A shadow covered the opening for a moment just before it closed shut. Again I was alone in utter murkiness.
Wait. What time was it?
I pressed the illumination button on my watch. 12:01 AM. It couldn’t be that early. We didn’t leave the pub until one, right? Who am I kidding? This night had been such an alcoholic blaze of testosterone driven debauchery that I didn’t even know where I was a second ago. That’s when I noticed the second hand wasn’t moving.
“Motherfucking piece of shit!” I tapped it several times. A poor attempt to bring my five hundred dollar time piece back to life. The second hand suddenly moved forward, backward, then it stopped all together again.
Oh how I would like a joint right now. Even a bottle of the pink stuff would do. Anything to end the war raging in my head and stomach.
“Marcus! Are you still there?”
I dragged my ass forward along the damp floor as far as I could, heaving the weight of the chains with me. I got about ten feet from the wall when the door suddenly came ajar. More hair metal from the eighties filtered inside.
“Yeah, funny. Best bachelor party ever guys. C’mon now, jokes over.”
I knew the only reason why I was coaxed into coming tonight was because I made more money than these knuckleheads. C’mon Damon, it’ll be good for you to come out and have some fun. C’mon Damon, we need a party limo. C’mon Damon, C’mon Damon, C’MON DAMON!
“Marcus, your whole life you’ve been nothing but a selfish prick.”
I crawled back towards the wall, expecting Marcus, or someone, to unlock me from this shamble. The door slammed shut. My back arched backwards like a Halloween cat. It was followed by a loud ‘click’, meaning it was locked.
I felt the presence of someone else in the room…
A somewhat familiar looking dude stood underneath the glowing light, producing a thin shadow that stretched across the floor. His flared nostrils told me that whatever he was planning on doing to me wasn’t going to end well. He held a worn baseball bat. He let the end of the bat, the end used for contact, fall into his opposing open hand. This motion continued until he finally spoke:
“Boy, am I going to enjoy this!” he said, with a wad of something in his cheek.
I slid my tired and half drunken body to his right, creating maximum distance between us, then stood up.
“Whatever you plan on doing…I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”
I raised my cuffed wrists, putting my palms up in mercy. He took a swing. I ducked. The tips of my over-gelled hair combed the bottom of the wooden club.
“Look dude, I’m sorry if I touched one of the girls. I honestly don’t remember what happened after I went to the bathroom. I’ll pay them whatever they want in restitution.”
His forehead wrinkled.
“Heh, yeah, you’re gonna pay alright.” His calm demeanor made him even more frightening.
He placed the bat across his chest. Swing and a miss! This guy must’ve been as drunk as I was earlier. No matter. My headache had left with the nausea (they probably went to join the gentlemen at the main stage) as an overwhelming, confident anger came over me.
“Look motherfucker. I’m chained to a goddamned wall!” I said, showing him my wrists for a second time. “See?”
He spat a mixture of tobacco and saliva out of his mouth. It splattered onto my polo. My favorite two hundred dollar polo. I should’ve known better than to wear my A-game clothes to this shithole. In an optimistic twist, his spit smelled like morning breath, which was a welcome change from the cat urine.
I searched for something to defend myself with, catching the door in my peripheral. The viewing window was open and I could see the top half of four different faces, speckled with glitter, watching us as the bald headed bouncer tried to use my head to bring in the winning run.
It was Marcus, the bachelor, and his two buddies.
“Marcus? What the fuck man! Help me!”
Marcus cupped his hands to the corners of his mouth.
“Dude, remember that guy who uploaded the video of Lindsay giving him a blow job?”
That’s where I recognized that pathetic looking face. My older sister Lindsay, who has great taste in men by the way, had a little too much of this and that and did what Marcus just said she did. And the guy did upload it. In fact, he also Persicoped the act live under a phony account.
I, being the protective brother and government paid hacker that I am, registered the asshole as a sex offender. It’s amazing what you can do nowadays on the internet. No one is safe. Needless to say, he doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, now does he? Turns out, small world, he bounces here at Spread Eagle, also the only place sleazy enough to hire such a creep.
I could hear Marcus: “Hey guys, you said you wanted to see something off the chain tonight.” He wrapped a comforting arm around the bachelor’s shoulder and pointed at me. “Watch this!”
The bouncer, a.k.a. indie pornographer, pulled the bat behind his head and drove the bat across my spine. Splinters of wood exploded through the air.
And that’s when I felt my skin pull, my face elongate, and my body implode. Fucking Marcus. He set this up, that bastard.
My shirt, already ruined, split at the seams as my back began to contort. My favorite polo, fuck it. I’ll buy another. My toned, man-scaped body was overwhelmed with dark brown hair follicles that sprouted out of my pores like a sped up re-enactment for a Chia Pet infomercial. Honed claws ripped through the top part of my hands and feet. I shed a human head as my warm snout presented itself, completing the transformation. I didn’t even realize tonight was a full moon.
I stood up on my hind legs and faced the poor guy. His eyes widened behind stuttering eye lids as a stream of urine dripped beneath his groin. With a quick flex of my arms, the chains snapped from my wrists. I’ve always wanted to do that.
Now, I’m a respectable guy, but this one really had it coming. I gently stuck my claw into his throat. He gasped for oxygen as his heart pumped tiny geysers of blood from his neck. When I retracted, his head bobbled northeast to southwest. A hungry infant searching for a nourishing nipple.
Remember scoring that acid guys? No? Well we did. It was just a bad trip. Now go home to mommy.
You see, in this world, you never know who you could be messing with: a mixed martial artist, a homicidal maniac, or, in this case, a sophisticated wolf man.
If only baseball bats were made out of pure silver.