Chapter 2

I don’t know how long I’ve been knocked out, but I can still feel a throbbing ache on top of my head. I take in a deep breath, like I’ve been holding it for years but when I go to open my mouth I can’t move it to breathe. My eyes pop open and I make a move to tear at whatever this is that’s sticky and covering my face.

But I can’t move my hands.

I start to struggle, trying to free them from whatever is keeping them behind my back. I quickly realize that it’s no use and the events of the day slowly come back to me. The shitty safari, the bird, the fence, the fucking river, the shooting…

So far the only positive thing about this situation is the fact that I can now breathe through my nose. I can feel the snot running down under my nostrils and I feel like it’s all over my face. God this is disgusting. This whole damn thing is just disgusting.

I can’t believe I saw someone get shot, like really murdered.

I hear a groan and feel someone move underneath me. I look up and see that I’m heaped up in a pile on top of Trace. He’s got a black eye and squints it open. He’s got duct tape over his mouth. Shit, that must be why I can’t move my mouth.

I try to tell him something by only looking at him and all I can see is that he is in a lot of pain and really scared. Shit, I don’t know how we are going to get out of this. We are in Africa and some militant terrorist group probably kidnapped us and we’re gonna have our throats slashed like those Americans in Middle East did. Fuck, I bet momma is having a stroke right now.

Shit, shit, shit.

I look up and around and notice we are in the living room of some nice house. There’s a fireplace and we’re lying on a hard wood floor. Across from us is a man, I’m guessing he’s the man. He’s wearing the same white suit and there’s that damned hat resting beside him on a white, plush leather couch.

A dark marble coffee table separates him on the couch and us on the floor. A few of those guys in camouflage walk by behind the couch. They have guns, big rifles and they are talking as they walk through the room and disappear somewhere behind us. God, they’re fucking laughing. They’re laughing and we’re here practically dying on the floor. They’re voices fade away and I strain to pick up any sound I can. I can’t really hear anything except, except… Damn that hit on the head must have made me crazy because I think I can hear “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King coming from the floor. I’m fucking going insane.

Dammit, my head hurts.

It doesn’t help when a shrill of a cell phone sounds, but I perk up realizing there is a way for communication outside of this hell. The only problem is I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get to that phone. I won’t make it that far. I watch as the man on the couch picks up his hips, slides a small phone from his pocket and brings it to his ear. He doesn’t say anything for a minute and then starts to say “yes” then “no” then “yes” again twice. Then he says, “I don’t want to fuckin’ hear from you until it’s fixed.” And then flips his phone closed and sets it on the table in front of him, where it looks like he’s been counting money. A few packs of sugary substances are also on the table, but I’m sure they aren’t sugar. There’s also a red velvet bag and a gun.

He shakes his head and sighs, “Fuckin’ idiot.”

His accent isn’t foreign. I’m pretty damn sure he’s American. I see now that he’s got pale skin. There are freckles all over his hands as he speedily counts a stack of twenties. There are freckles all over his face, too and his head is orangy-red and looks like it might be graying. He looks fucking Irish.

His eyes land on me and instead of being green or blue, or even light brown, like most Irishmen, they’re almost black. He stops counting, sets down the money and smiles a purely evil smile. “Mmhmm, our little witnesses have awoken. Bernie!” He yells and then gets up from his seat and strolls over to us. He squats down and I feel now like I’m suddenly back in time, back at the gorge, but this time I’m the guy who’s about to be murdered. Is he going to taunt us? Fuck, this asshole really is going to taunt us. “You two start thinking about which of you want to go first. You need to understand I do not like people who enjoy my business’s waste management as a spectator sport. What were you two doing? Making bets on which one of those fuckers would die first? You won, didn’t you?” He smiles at me and then is interrupted when someone steps behind him.

The guy that was beating the shit out of Trace is there. He’s still got his damned gelled hair that looks like it could kill some one with how spiky it is. The black shirt he’s wearing has a little bit of dust and dirt on it and I notice how muscular he is. He looks like a damn bodybuilder. “Sorry boss, me ‘lil bro was on the ringer,” He says in a thick cockney English accent.

“Oh, it’s fine.” He stands up and pats the guy on the shoulder, “Get rid of those two will you?” He says walking back to the couch. “Make ‘em decide who goes first." The bastard winks at us.

This is just wrong. I gulp and watch him pick up the money again to start counting. God, I’ll fucking give him whatever he wants. If he’s so fucking concerned with cash he can have it. Just don’t kill us. What am I thinking? Fucking shit, nothing’s going to work.

Just give it up Justin, just give it up.

“Sure, boss...” Bernie shrugs and reaches down to pick me up and stand me on my feet. I feel tears come to my eyes as he pulls out a pair of handcuffs from behind him and moves his gun from the strap around his waist to where it’s tucked in the front of his jeans. God, this isn’t supposed to happen to me. I mean, it’s not supposed to happen to anyone, but, but…I feel like I’m five fucking years old but I’m so fucking mad that I didn’t bring Tiny with us. He would have saved us.

The Bernie guy stares at me for a while and I want to punch him for gloating at me while I’m crying. But then it happens. Something that makes me stop crying and makes me realize the sudden advantage of being who I am. I watch it happen slowly. I’ve seen it happen so many times in my life. It’s usually the male reaction. Girls seem to know me right off the bat and they clam up and just stare silently. Guys tend to look at me really, really hard, like they think they know who I am but don’t wanna ask. But then they always end up going “You’re that Justin guy?” and then inform me about how much his sister or girlfriend wants to do me. His eyes widen and a small smile comes onto his face. “Bloody 'ell...” He starts to laugh and looks over his shoulder at the Irish guy. “Do yew know who this is?"

"Should I?" The Irish asshole says uninterested, not looking up.

"Fuckin' Justin Timbalake!” The Irish glances up and shrugs and looks back down at his pad. Bernie turns back and smiles at me, patting me on the shoulder a bit. I find incredible odd that he’s acting almost like he’s a fan but has me fucking taped up and is about to shoot me. God, if only he’d take this tape off my mouth maybe I could negotiate something.

What the fuck am I talking about? Negotiate?! How the fuck would I know how to negotiate?

Bernie shakes his head at me and then says to his boss, “He’s a big pop star back in the UK and the states!"

I move my eyes form Bernie to the Irish guy. He drops his pad and stares at me for a while and then slowly says, “Really?”

“For sure! It’s a pity though,” He says and then roughly turns me around and I feel metal hooked around my wrist. I realize now I had tape of something around them before. I still do and the confinement of the tape and the handcuffs make me feel claustrophobic. I look down at Trace and he’s still curled on the floor, listening, just like I am, to every damn word they are saying. “Me ex gal loved your music." Bernie said and then I don’t believe my fucking ears when he sings, “I’m gonna rock your body” mocking me in a high pitched tone. He laughs. “That shit always got ‘er ‘lil muffin hot.”

I gulp down the vomit I feel pulling up in my throat. Fucking bastard is singing my damn song and then he’s going to kill me? I can’t even comprehend this situation. It’s beyond me. I would fucking pray but right now I have very little hope in God or even if there is one.

Fuck.

I take in a strong breath through my nose and stare straight ahead as he pulls out another set of cuffs and squats down. God, I’d love to kick the son of a bitch in the fucking mouth but I’m taped up around my ankles, too. I feel cold metal come around my ankles as he pushes up the end of my jeans. I look down at him and he looks up at me and smiles, pulling out a pocket knife and using his teeth to get the blade out. Great now he’s going to fucking cut my feet off.

I close my eyes and ball my hands into fists and squeeze. I hear the sound of fabric being cut and wait. Pain shoots through me but a different kind than what I was expecting. I moan as I feel all the hair around my left ankle come off. Shit, fucking shit! I don’t know why I was thinking that he was going to cut my feet and I have to wonder if it would be as painful as this.

He does it to the right. Why do I have to have such hairy legs? I wonder if something like pulling duct tape off your ankles that can mess up your tattoos. I wonder if that’s why it hurts so damn bad. Fuck Justin, what the hell are you thinking about? You’re about to fucking die!

I look down at Trace. Shit, I think he’s crying. He looks up at me. It’s ok man. It’s…fuck…

I feel myself start to get watery eyes again.

This is not fucking ok.

I’m turned around again and the only positive thing I can think is that I can actually move my feet a little in a shuffling movement. At least I’ll get to walk to my death like a man instead of being carried like a baby. He lets me go for a minute and I watch him reach down to pull Trace up, but before he is able to, the asshole says, "Bernie, wait just a minute..."

Bernie drops Trace from where he’s a little off the ground and looks at the Irish man who is smiling. "Let’s see if we can get a mil or two out of him before we do ‘em off...” He waves his hand in the air. “Go lock ‘em up..."

Bernie asks, "You want them out in the cage?"

"Yeah...” He thinks for a second and rubs his chin. “Wait, no…” He smiles a bit, looks up at me and narrows his eyes. God, whatever he has in store for us I know, I just know it’s not good. He wants to fucking torture us, torture me, until he gets every fucking dime he wants.

Then he’s gonna put a bullet in my brain. I just know it.

He laughs and says in a smooth, calm voice, “Put ‘em down with Sarah."

"With Sarah?” Bernie asks shocked and if I wasn’t scared before, I’m fucking shaking now. Whoever Sarah is, she’s not good. I wonder if she’s like code name for a torture chamber or a creature like Sloth from The Goonies. But Sloth was a good guy.

I have a gut feeling that Sarah is not.

“Are you sure, Boss?" Bernie says skeptically.

"I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure!" The Irishman replies in a bitter tone. He stands up promptly and walks out of the room. I try my best to figure out how this house works and look around, noticing a few windows with the blinds drawn and what looks like late afternoon light coming through. If we ever get loose we’ll need to know where to go. I don’t know what is making me think about things like this. I don’t know how I’m staying even halfway calm. I look down at Trace again. His eyes are wide but he’s obviously not as calm as I am. I wonder how I look. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

God, I know I’ve put him through some shit in my life time but he’s doesn’t deserve this.

Suddenly Bernie is in front of us again. “Sorry mates. Time for the shroud.” He wiggles a black cloth in front of me and his smile is overly excited. It’s like he’s getting pleasure out of kidnapping us. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, all I can see is darkness. I listen...I can hear Trace moaning as something is being ripped. God, he has hairier legs than I do. As I stand there and wait for them to ready us to go be tortured by whoever or whatever Sarah is, I wonder why they even put the hood over us. They’re gonna kill us after they get some money.

I realize, he must have noticed me looking around. They know what I was thinking. The shroud is there to blind us to every way, every move, and every sight we see. It’s to keep us from thinking about an escape.

It hits me slowly and hard and I feel the fresh tears start to fall and the snot build back up in my nose. There is no way out.