The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition

by Travis Adams Irish

and the pistol pressed tight against his ribs permeates pressure and pain in his chest, while the forearm in his throat pushes in and releases, creating an on again, off again asphyxiation.

 

  “I want some of your blood today,” Tuck demands with a hateful gaze, his eyes staring straight at Rory. “Thomas is a doctor, and he is going to safely extract the blood that we need. Now, if I get what I need, and am able to go on with my life, then so will you. Understand?”

 

  Rory does his best to nod, but starts choking from the pressure of the forearm in his throat. Tuck becomes instantly frustrated and delivers a powerful punch to Rory’s stomach, then follows up by smacking him on the left side of the head with the large silver pistol. This blow to his head causes him to immediately drop to his knees and is followed up by a second blow from the pistol in almost the same place. His vision becomes fuzzy, and there is a moderate ringing in his ears. Rory closes his eyes, feeling completely stunned as if a heavyweight boxer just delivered a solid combination to his head. Through the haze of pain and ringing, he tries to listen to his captors.

 

  “What the hell are you doing?” Thomas declares with concern. “You’re going to cause a hematoma if you keep hitting him in those areas.”

 

  “Hey, man, he needs to know that I am willing to hurt him.” Tuck says aggressively in his defense. “I didn’t pay you to tell me how to be a thug; I paid you to get the blood and keep it clean.”

 

  “Okay,” Thomas agrees with no resistance, “just don’t hit him in the soft tissues or the head anymore. If you need to get him in line, hit him in the elbows, the top of the forehead, and the sides of his knees.”

 

  “Oh, you just want to make sure I don’t spoil the blood, right?” Tuck inquires with a friendly smile. “No problem, doc, any beatings he gets will be steel against bone, and that’s gonna’ motherfuckin’ hurt.”

 

  “Good,” Thomas begins, “I’m going to need your help holding some of these things and keeping them off the ground.”

 

  Soon Rory feels something thin and smooth being pulled over his wrists, and then it is cinched tight against his skin, binding his hands together. He opens his eyes for a moment, gazing through the cloud of pain enough to see a large zip tie holding his wrists together, and watches as a second and third are added by Tuck to ensure he can’t break free. There is a warm stream of blood running down the left side of his head and he is becoming more nauseated with every second.

 

  “Shit!” Thomas curses in frustration, “I can’t get the blood from his arms with his hands bound and the shirt like this… Let’s just cut the shirt off.”

 

  Thomas leans over Rory, producing a scalpel from his small black bag, and then he begins to slice through the fabric of Rory’s black fitness shirt, starting at the hem of the right sleeve. The discomfort is growing worse for Rory as droplets of his abductors’ sweat are falling on his arms and face from the efforts of moving around their gear and manhandling him. Fluid starts to run from his right eye, but his left eye remains completely dry while the ringing in his head continues. As the heavyset doctor kneels over him, using a scalpel to cut off his shirtsleeve, Rory feels suffocated by the man’s head pushing his bound hands up against his face. Finally he is overcome by the nausea, his head feeling compressed from all the heavy blows, and Rory vomits all over the doctor’s head and shoulders. Almost immediately, he cries out in pain as he feels something sharp jab deep into the top of his right leg.

 

  “Oh fuck!” The doctor declares, pulling off his vomit soaked shirt and using it to clean off his hair. “I think I just stabbed him with the scalpel.”

 

  “You what!?” Tuck asks with frustration as if scolding a four-year-old. “Why did you puke, asshole?” He shouts at Rory as he punches him in the face, catching his right eye with most of his fist.

 

  “Fuck, don’t hit him!” The doctor shouts, “I just stabbed him and may have hit an artery; we need to make sure he doesn’t bleed to death.”

 

  “What do we need to do?” Tuck asks with sudden concern. “I want to get the blood before he dies.”

 

  “Help me clean off the wounded area so I can stitch it up if he needs that.”

 

  “Oh, fuck this,” Tuck says after a moment, “there’s all kinds of blood and puke and shit down there, I’m not touching his nasty, white ass; that’s your job.”

 

  “Whatever…” The heavyset doctor says.

 

  Thomas pulls Rory’s fitness pants down to his knees, and leaves his boxers on as he half lifts and half shoves him into a sitting position under the tree. There is only a thin layer of boxer shorts now between his backside and the ground, and Rory can feel a rock pressing uncomfortably against his anus. Thomas works frantically to clean Rory’s leg, his exposed belly and the back of his arms wiggle as he uses water from his canteen and baby blue shirt to wash the leg.

 

  “It’s a flesh wound, we’re okay.” The doctor starts to laugh and relaxes for a moment, feeling relieved that he doesn’t have to apply emergency sutures.

 

  “Well, what are you waiting for, dude?” Tuck asks incredulously. “Let’s get the blood and get the hell away from here.”

 

  “Right,” the doctor says, breathing heavily, “hand me that blood kit and get ready to hold onto the first bag.”

 

  Some part of Rory is wishing the doctor had cut an artery. He is in total misery, feeling the effects of a concussion, pain in his head, and a fresh cut on his upper leg. His eye is beginning to swell after the heavy punch that Tuck delivered with unmerciful force. Since his hands are bound together and pushed up close to his face, he is overwhelmed by the foul stench and sticky texture of half digested food. This disgusting aroma, combined with the copper scent and sticky feeling of his own blood, raises his suspicions that he may not survive through the end of the day.

 

  He closes his eyes and leans back against the tree, just wanting them to get the blood and leave. The two men fumble around for a moment with gear, and the doctor sticks Rory a few times in his right and left arms with intravenous needles, but is unable to tap a vein.

 

  “Why can’t you get it from his arms? Just find a fuckin’ vein, dude!” Tuck demands with growing frustration.

 

  “Well, no, it’s better to draw from his hands, but some genius decided to bind his hands… Actually, I’ll just draw from his feet.”

 

  Soon Rory feels his left leg yanked in the air, and he has to twist his body sideways to prevent an injury in his upper thigh. His running shoe is thrown off and his sock is peeled away as if it had been on fire. After his sock is removed, he hears excitement from the doctor and subsequently feels a needle shoved deep into the vein of his inner left ankle.

 

  Thomas and Tuck celebrate for a moment as this attempt to draw blood is finally successful.

 

  “Did you get it yet?” Britney’s familiar voice carries from just a few feet away. “Oh my God, babe, what did you do to him?”

 

  “He’ll be fine,” Tuck insists with a calm voice, “I just needed to teach him a lesson so he didn’t get away. Did you get the cooler, babe?”

 

  “Yeah, I got the cooler, and some extra ice packs. Holy shit; did you rape him or just get the blood?” Britney asks with genuine concern. “Why are you taking it out of his ankle? And what happened to your shirt? That’s nasty.”

 

  “It’s a long story,” Thomas says, “let’s just finish this pint and get going.”

 

  “
Well, hold on,” Tuck stops with a sudden innovation, “how many pints does he have?”

 

  “He has eight pints,” Thomas answers rapidly, “but we can only take one or he might die.”

 

  “Maybe we should just take it all then.” Tuck suggests boldly. “After this, there’s no way he’ll let us go. Isn’t that right, Rory, you’re just aching to see us all locked up?”

 

  “Baby, what if it doesn’t work?” Britney asks with alarm in her voice.

 

  “What do you mean?” Tuck inquires with confusion.

 

  “I mean what if something goes wrong with this blood and we’re not cured of Hepatitis C? If you kill him, we’ll never be able to try again, and we’ll die.” She finishes her last statement with emotional urgency.

 

  “You’re right, babe,” Tuck agrees after a little bit of thought, “we need to keep him alive just in case the blood doesn’t work. Hey, Rory,” Tuck speaks in a louder than normal tone next to his head. “Look, we’re sorry for what we did to you today. We’re going to leave you fifty grand for your trouble. As soon as we get across the border in a few hours, we’ll call the police and let them know where you are. I really want you to stay alive, but if you ever tell anyone what we look like I will visit you and your woman with some of my friends. Trust me, Rory, my friends make me look like the Keebler fucking Elf; they are not good people.”

 

  “Thanks for your blood, dude,” Britney states with a sincere voice, “I’m sorry my boys did you like this. Take care of yourself, okay?”

 

  After a bit of arguing and shuffling around, the trio finally packs up the blood and starts their journey back to the trailhead and parking lot. Britney