Immobilized by fear and rope. Wrist bound to wrist, foot bound to foot, sweating like a pig, even though the room’s not the least bit balmy. Cool and dry like a fall evening in southern Arizona. Sweat rolls down the forehead forming into beads before drip, drip, dripping to the floor. Coalescing into a coagulation of dirt and sodium and chloride and water and whatever else perspiration is made up of. Miniscule puddles. Tiny transitory ecosystems. Little salty souls, lightly corrupted, slightly corrupted, both foul and sweet, waiting for their ascent into the heavens, ready at any moment to be reunited with their creator. Normally he sweats like this when sitting in the sauna after a gun-blasting work-out. There was no workout today though, just the darkness. His mouth is stuffed full of Subway sandwich wrapping paper, sealed shut by duct tape. He can tell it’s from Subway because he’s eaten there a million...
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