In major cities throughout the United States—San Francisco no exception—gunshots uninvestigated are an everyday occurrence. The gunshot heard at Stalactites, case in point, went scarcely noticed; it might have been a backfire or a dumpster's fallen lid; it might have been a door-slam, easy to ignore. Corpses, on the other hand, are hard to overlook. Oversize plastic trash bags, however, rarely draw attention. And it was into one of these that Raymond Dobbs (aka the Henchman) was crammed expeditiously.
Otherwise Raymond's passing went unheralded and unmourned, a local landfill pressed into service for his unmarked grave.
Willie hoists his captive, Bruce, like a hapless marionette—the latter's lime-green leisure suit looking tawdrier than usual, his lanky shoulders hunched in the puppeteer's forceful grip. Not much shorter than Willie (if decidedly skinnier), Bruce is up on tiptoe (maximally taxed to free his scruff).
Willie's forklift fingers drop their gangling load.
Squatman levels a who-are-you-trying-to-con look that penetrates Bruce's artifice, causing the latter to blanch behind rose-tinted sunshades.
As Willie's switchblade wrist-flicks into position, Bruce sustains its prick, half an inch or more penetrating his slacks.
Willie, wrapping an arm around Bruce's torso, worms in the blade, blood despoiling the fabric, anal ring impaled.
A nod from Squatman earns a grope from Willie, frisking Bruce's pockets. In an envelope labeled "Defondo" is a sizable wad of bills.
With Squatman's tacit approval, Willie twists the knife.
Another nod grants nominal relief from the infiltrating metal.
Willie jiggles the blade.
Squatman, pursing his lips, seems equally unconvinced.
Willie's continuous prod does serious damage.
Bruce half-turns to assess if this is a threat or a fate accompli—the move itself a detriment to his lacerated sphincter.
This subtext, though inaudible, is vindictively implied by the crooked rictus now afflicting Bruce's drained-of-color puss, as he attempts to cope with the pain, control the outrage, and stifle the ignominy of a four-to-six-inch trespass mangling his large intestine.
The knife's withdrawal is almost pleasurable insofar as it spells relief. Bruce, though weak in the knees, disinclines the proffered chair.
Willie wipes the blood and feces onto Bruce's sleeve, its glossy polyester slit by the weapon's razor-sharpness. Bruce grows visibly faint envisioning how his anus must have fared.
With a trickle inching down his pant leg auguring septicemia, Bruce makes haste to beat a woebegone retreat.