by John B. Rosenman

"I said 'Open your mouth.' I want you to suck this steel dick like the macho hero
you are, like the all-American example of red-blooded manhood you epitomize. Open it."

Turner fought down his tears and obeyed. The barrel entered his mouth inch by inch. Long and hard, it tasted of machine oil and pressed brutally against the back of his throat. He fought not to gag.

"Close your lips around it," Larson said. "There, that's better, nice and snug. Now, Mr. Turner, let me assure you that if you backslide ever so slightly and mistreat your wife, that I will know, and retribution will swiftly follow. Trust me, you wouldn't want that. If you slip, if you let that sickness or mental wound or whatever foulness it is that's inside you get out of control just one more time, then I'll pay you another visit. And if that happens, my friend, you'll think Hell is a summer resort in Acapulco by the time I'm through." He paused, studying him. "Do you understand? Just nod."

Turner nodded, though it made the gun barrel grind painfully against the back of his throat.

Larson cocked the gun.

Desperate, insane terror flooded Turner's mind, such gut-wrenching fear that he urinated in his pants. At the moment all he wanted to do was please this man and live.

"Excellent. Now, as a sign that you have truly repented of your evil ways and are sorry for your sins, I think it would be a good idea to take your wife out to dinner tonight, don't you? A fine, fine meal at one of the city's best and most lavish restaurants. But before you take her to dinner, you're . . ."

He withdrew the gun barrel. Turner stood against the wall on legs that threatened to collapse, feeling such gratitude and relief that he wasn't even ashamed that he'd wet his pants. But why was Larson looking at him that way, with growing displeasure?

The barrel approached his mouth again. "But before you take her to dinner, you're . . ."

Abruptly, Turner realized that Larson expected him to speak. "But before I take
her to dinner," he croaked, "I-I-I'm going to apologize to my wife for what I've done to her, and promise never to do it again." He inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath, and had an inspiration. "And . . . I'm going to get her flowers, c-call the f-florist immediately!"

"What kind of flowers does your wife like, Mr. Turner?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"Then you need to find out, don't you?" Larson leaned closer, and suddenly spittle sprayed Turner's face as the man started screaming. "JUST DON'T FORGET WHAT I'LL DO TO YOU IF YOU DON'T KEEP YOUR PROMISE! DO YOU HEAR ME?"

Turner gazed into Larson's mad, contorted face, and felt his sphincter tighten. "I promise," he gasped. "I'll never forget. Never."

Larson smiled, and his face smoothed over like a quick-healing wound. "See that you don't," he said. Turner watched him rise and walk away.

"Mr. Larson?"

Halfway across the living room, Larson turned and looked at him.

Why had he spoken? Turner thought. The man was leaving, and he was safe. Why in God's hell had he called to him?

He forced himself to meet Larson's eyes, ignoring his own wet pants, bruised throat, and the fact that his nose was bleeding again. "Detective Larson," he asked respectfully, "do you have a wife?"

Larson gazed at him for a long moment. "No."

"A . . . girlfriend, perhaps?"

"No."

Turner hesitated, wondering why some men chose to remain alone. And why had Larson asked, with such intensity, why men liked to abuse women?

"Mr. Larson," he finally said, knowing he should keep his mouth shut, "why don't you . . ."

Larson's face twitched. His lips tightened into a white, bloodless line. Slowly, he raised his finger, pointing it directly at Turner. "Don't forget," he said.

Turner watched him walk to the door, open it, and leave. When he was sure the man was gone, he raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Ever so faintly, he could hear the sound of Barbara's cane.

Trembling, he remembered the taste of gun metal in his mouth and the man's cold, contemptuous face. He had never felt so ashamed, humiliated, and diminished. It was as if he weren't even a man anymore, let alone someone powerful whom others feared and respected. He felt pathetic and without dignity, as if he had lost something he might never regain.

Had he ever made Barbara feel this way? The thought struck him like one of Larson's slaps, opening up whole new realms of possibilities. With a sob, he shoved them aside and tottered to the front windows, where he opened the curtains.

Outside the sky had darkened, except for a rich red stain near the horizon that was the color of bright blood. Turner gazed at it with streaming eyes, rubbing his forehead over and over as if to erase some mark. Then, hearing the tap of his wife's cane again, he turned and glared at the ceiling, digging his nails so hard into his palm that it bled. His whole body filled with a mad rage to destroy, a savage desire to beat and smash and rend the cause of his humiliation.

After a while, suppressing his feelings as best he could, he went to ask Barbara what kind of flowers she liked.

*******END*******