Sam J. Drane has failed at most things. And he could fail you too. He’s currently serving a two year stretch for impersonating a stand-up comedian whilst arguing with a parking inspector over a ticket, and carrying a handgun-shaped baguette loaded with cheese and tomato, some mayo, some lettuce. Sam writes sometimes when he is motivated. Yes, it does pass the time. Drane’s work has previously been published by Paroxysm Press, Milk Shadow Books, Murky Waters and others.
As he twisted his wrists against the leather shackles, Billy Douglas realised that he’d gotten mixed up with some real bad dudes. They liked the feel of crunching live parasites between their teeth whilst sticking expired chocolate biscuits into other peoples cavities. Some real high end business-suit-during-the-day-zippered-shut-gimp-mask-by-night-type cats.
Billy had gotten bored of his solo sweat sessions and answered a classified ad one day. This one promised pleasures beyond that which were on offer anywhere else. Intrigued, Billy had sent an anonymous email. At this point he would be content where man or woman answered as long as they were over the prescribed age. He got a reply within twenty minutes.
It read: “Mr Billy D. Would you like to meet for a coffee or something else?”
Well, though Billy. Something else could quite possibly be a suck session, so of course!
But back to the steel table that he was strapped too. There was an old woman standing over him now with a bowl of what smelled like barbeque sauce and cough syrup. She appeared not to be clothed.
A dull voice slid into the room like a snake.
“I see you’ve met my mother. You can call her mother soon too. If you like? She’d like that. She’ll never break character either.”
This was the one that had called himself Blake. He was standing at the head of the table. He looked down into Billy’s eyes.
“Would you like a… basting, Billy?” Mother said.
Her voice was deep. Is that an adam’s apple?
“No. No, I’d like to go home. Please.”
“But mother can stuff you like a turkey if you like?” Blake answered.
“Jesus, Buddha, Allah, help me.” Thought Billy.
“Or perhaps father could offer you some wine? Have you said hello?” said Blake.
Billy twisted his head up. In the corner of the room atop a short stool sat a smiling lipsticked old man. Again, minus clothes. A bottle of red wine at his feet. A nearly drained glass in his hand. The glass was smeared with kisses, and pairs of panties were wrapped around his wrists.
“Hello there Billy. Fancy a drop, boy?”
“Why? Why would I want that?”
“We thought that you wanted this Billy? That you were committed to the team.”
“I was. I am still. But this…”
Blake lifted the pig mask from his face.
“Billy. We’re in the middle of a global financial crisis, and you don’t have any previous call centre experience. How else do you expect to get a job here?”
Mother put down the bowl.
“Billy, I honestly think you could make manager if you tried hard enough.” She said.
Father had fallen asleep. But he seemed to be smiling with approval.
Broke and horny, Billy submitted. He eventually made team leader.