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“You fuckin’ idiot!” He heard a hushed but intense voice from far away. He coughed, threw his hands up to his throat to fend off a phantom attacker he last remembered was cutting off his air. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You trying to kill him before he even does the job?” He heard the same far away voice, as if the strange muted shouting came from a long, echoing tunnel. Chris rasped in several breath before he trusted he was breathing again. He sat up in bed naked, still high as fuck, but was alone in the master bedroom. The men had left him there with tense arguing continuing from downstairs.
“So I got carried away,” he heard Polanski defending his actions. “You get carried away, too, Mac. Look at the way you offed the Bailey family. One by one, Mac. Each and every Bailey, one by one. And each one knocked off in a worse way than the last. You ain’t no Saint Francis when you get worked up, let me tell you. How many pieces that oldest kid Tony in now? How many fingers did you cut off, how many ears and whatever, before you just went and slit his throats in front of his pa, and his ma for fuck sake? That wasn’t just for the old man’s benefit and you know it. You liked it! You was enjoying yourself. I seen your face. Don’t say you didn’t.”
Chris was trying unsuccessfully to process the evening. How much time had passed since he blacked out? Johnny Carson was doing his opening monologue on the bedroom television. It couldn’t have been that long ago that the local news was on. His brain still flying, not a lot of things made sense. Then, like a light switch got flipped on, the pieces of the night fit. The last thing he heard on the news, the sewer pipe, two escaped cons--those two were right here. Chris crawled off the bed. On hands and knees he crept to the staircase to observe the men. They were in their boxer shorts again.
“Listen, you dumb shit. That was to get the dirty cop to squeal where he stashed the booty. Took the littlest to get him to sing, but it worked, didn’t it?” said Baily-Don-Mac, whatever his name was. He was no cop. He smacked Polanski’s forehead. “Think, dumb shit. Be smart.” Then he said in an even quieter voice, “If you want to snuff the kid, wait till he brings out the stash, then you can have all the sick motherfuckin’ fun you want. But you almost fucked up what was pretty complicated set-up to begin with. Drax would have had both us skinned alive, and I do mean skinned! And I do mean alive! We seen him do it to that poor fuck Jackson, his own boy he caught wearing a wire for the narcs. So he didn’t do it himself but had the sick-o doc do it, but it amounted to the same thing, din’t it?”
Polanski shivered. “So what now?” he said, starting to pace nervously around the room.
“So now you go up and hope the kid recovers. Then you beg him to forgive you, hope he ain’t dead or damaged, and will still do the job for us. You kiss his ass, suck his cock, you do whatever it takes.”
“We gonna be straight with him?”
“We gotta, but he don’t need to know everything. I’ll do the talking. He trusts me a lot more than you, but you gotta make it up to him. Be his pal. You been a mean fuck ever since we busted in on him. Play nice.” They both looked up the staircase.
Chris ducked back quickly in the dark hallway. He scurried back to the bedroom, got on the bed, and played possum on his side as the men came back into the room. Polanski got on the bed and shook his shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he said forcefully, then pulled back and said gentler, “kid, you still with us?” Chris faked like he was stirring, throwing his hands to his neck like someone was choking him and sat up in panic. “Nah, nah, you’re okay,” Polanski said nervously pushing down Chris’ hands. “Things just got a little out of hand--that's totally on me--but you’re okay now. Man, I sure am high. How ‘bout you?”
“Yeah,” Chris said hoarsely. “You were choking me.” He shoved Polanski away.
“Yeah, nah, I was just playin’, but like Mac knows, I sometimes get carried away. I play too rough.”
“Who’s Mac?” Chris asked confused.
“Ah, geez,” Mac sighed and put his head in his hand. He sat down on the other side of the bed and put his hand on Chris’ back. “Yeah, we gotta come clean with you kid. We ain’t no cops.”
“What?” Chris said in disbelief. “If you’re not the cops, who are you?”
Mac laid out it out for Chris. “Nicky and I are ex-cons. We were just released from upstate after doing our time. And the first thing we do is we come pay a visit to the guy who set us up, the crooked cop who lives here. He’d been skimming money off the top for years from the man we work for. A Mister Jones.”
“Mr. Jones?” Chris said suspiciously.
“Well, that ain’t his real name, but better you don’t know.” Mac went on with his story with Chris pretending to hang on every word. “So the dirty cop’s family is away, see? So we bust in on him. We had to get pretty rough with him, but he finally admitted that he did a bad thing and that he had the skimmed off money squirreled away in the house, in the duct work. So Mr. Jones instructs us to use Bailey’s uniform and police stuff to get you to come out to Flushing to help us recover the stash. Seems like he had his little kid go deep in the ducts and hide the goods where big guys like us can’t get to it, so the only way to get it is for a little guy like you to get it for us. You’re kinda like part of our gang now.”
“Did you kill Manetti,” asked Chris, steeling himself for the answer.
“Nah,” Mac said. “He hadda done it himself. You seen the place was chained from the inside. Mr. Jones used that as an excuse for us to show up.”
“Yeah, and I’m real sorry. I was playing too rough,” added Polanski. “Funny thing, but it’s ‘cause I like you. I think you’re really sexy and hot for a little skinny guy, and I got a thing for breath control. It’s just a thing I got.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “and it looked like you maybe got a thing for it too now by how much you came all over me.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t think I like it,” Chris said, rubbing his neck.
“Nah, nah,” said Polanski. “Not a lot of guys do, and if you, I mean you, me and Mac ever was to, you know, go at it again, and I hope we do, ‘cause the dirty cop ain’t coming back anytime soon,” he said darkly glancing at Mac, “so maybe, once we get the stash, maybe we can mess around again, if you want, but only if you want, and only what you want to do.”
Chris looked over at Mac. Mac crossed his heart and held up three Boy Scout fingers smiling.
“And no more choking,” Mac said soothingly, running his hand up and down Chris’ back. “Just fun stuff. I like you too. You’ve got a hot little hole like I rarely seen, and a real sexy little bubble butt, which if we didn’t have a job to do, I could right now, cause I’m still horny, right now fuck you again.” It was true. Both men were getting a rise in their shorts.
“Yeah,” said Polanski, getting back to business. “But we gotta finish the job, right Mac?”
“Nah, you’re right Nicky. So, buddy, what you say? You part of our gang, help us pull out the money? Then we get back here,” Mac padded the bed, “and we go at it for round two?”
“You’d let me be part of your gang?” Chris asked. Both men nodded. “Would I get some of the money?”
Polanski raised a brow and looked at Mac. Mac gave him a look back and said to Chris, “Sure, sure. Being in the gang means you get a cut. But we have to give most of it back to Mr. Jones. You understand that, right?”
“I guess. I never been in a gang before. And then we can get back here and have more sex? Cause right up till the choking, I really liked it. I never been double fucked before. I guess this’ll be night of firsts.” There was so much untruth dripping all around, as they all looked at each other they all knew they were full of shit, but had to pretend to buy it to keep up the ruse. “So let’s do this,” said Chris.
They went downstairs and headed out to the garage. The men’s tools were already laid out on the floor next to the washing machine near a vent. The grate was off. Mac gave Chris a small flashlight and a map of the ductwork maze where the cop had his son hide the money. Chris got down on his hands and knees and crawled inside. Even for him it was a tight fit. The two men leered as his ass scuttled away from them. Mac said admiringly, shining his flashlight on Chris’ butt, “Let’s get this done quickly ‘cause I gotta have some of that pretty pussy again.”
“Yeah, boy,” Polanski called through the duct, “Taking both our kielbasas at once means you’re ready for another game I like even better than choking called handballing.”
Mac slapped Polanski on his forehead again, but Chris had already rounded his first corner and his head was busy sorting through his options. All that stuff his brother had told him came back. Plan B. Look for a way out. They were going to kill him, he was certain of that, so how was he going to make an escape? Here he was, naked, crawling through ductwork. If he manage to get out he’d be running down the street naked yelling for help. Well, that was the least of his problems. From the moment he showed up at the house, now that they spilled their plans, he felt they were never going to let him out of their sight, even for one second. Except right now, this second. It was now or never.
Looking at the map there was one tunnel that led to the HVAC system’s main unit in the basement. If he got down to there, he might be able to crawl out of a basement windows. He scurried the direction he was sure was the route to the basement. It didn’t take him long but once he got down to the basement level he found the only vent into the room was sealed with a grate. He stomped his foot at it. It didn’t budge. He tried repeatedly, making an awful racket. Mac shouted into the vent asking what was the matter? He kick against the grate with all his might and it popped off.
“Nothing!” he shouted back. “I saw a rat and scared it away!”
He slipped out of the vent and landed on the cold cement. The floor was sticky and slippery in spots. In the darkened room he saw the basement windows glowing from outside streetlights. He went over to one of the windows and unlatched it. It was a lot narrower than he thought, only about six inches in height. He was small but not that small. Plan B. He walked over to the staircase and again felt the floor was slick and sticky. At the top of the stairs he tried to open the basement door but found it sealed with a deadbolt. A key had to be used to open the lock from either side. He figured there must be a key down here somewhere, and felt around for the light switch. He found it and flipped it on. The bright fluorescent lights flickered on and lit the basement dazzlingly, displaying a horrific scene of utter gore: blood pooling on the floor and flicked randomly all around the room, red handprints on walls, windows, and the door knob next to him. Evidence of struggle and violence was everywhere.
He slowly took the stairs down one step at a time. Four bodies came into view in various stages of dismemberment, each tied to a grey metal folding chairs, all facing each other. They were naked. A blond woman with several knife wounds on various parts of her body was nearest the stairs. The crooked cop, the one Chris now recognized from the Disney photo, was as big as Mac, and was tied up next to her. His neck was sliced ear to ear. Most of the floor’s blood was his, although each family member contributed to the red puddle between them. The oldest boy was the one Polanski had talked about. Three of his fingers on his left hand and all the fingers on his right were clipped off. Gardening clippers lay in a pool of blood at his feet. His neck was also sliced. But what the criminal waiting for him upstairs had done to the little kid caused him the most terror, caused him immediately to give up this plan B and get out of the basement as fast as he could.
Chris climbed back into the vent trying to un-see what he’d seen. This little kid he was so envious of, with his trophies and vacations and video games he could only dream of? No one deserved a fate like that. In the dark, he follow the map again. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he kept seeing the kid’s petrified face frozen in agony. Eyes wide with both ears clipped off, his blond hair matted in red blood. In his mouth, his ears peeked out and also a small bit of something pink. As Chris got close to his goal, where there was an X on the map, one glimpse, one flash he tried to push away, but couldn’t: the imprinted image of kid’s bloody lap missing a small part that protruded between his lips. His eyes had refused to exam the particulars of the boy's blood between his legs. He didn’t need to see the wound. He knew what Mac had done to coax the father. Suddenly he stumbled into something. Blocking his way was a black briefcase.
What kind of psychopaths was he dealing with? What reason could they have to produce such a nightmare? He flipped the clasps and opened the briefcase in the narrow vent. He shined his flashlight on stacks of hundreds neatly lining the case. He was no math wiz, but a quick count of rows times columns times ten stacks deep. The crooks had two million reasons to play out the nightmare in the basement.
There was a banging on metal, with Mac shouting what was taking so long? While he gazed at the money, he shouted he’d gotten to a dead end and got lost. He closed the clasps and turned around in the vent. He tried to keep his voice from shaking, shouting the map wasn’t accurate but he had found the briefcase. He was freaked but he knew his life depended on not showing any of it. As he started retracing his steps, he saw there were streaks of blood he’d trailed in from the basement. He had to wipe it off. He re-opening the briefcase and took out a couple of hundred dollar bills and wiped his feet. He had a couple of spots on his knees and hands too, and took out a few more bills and wiped himself off as best he could.
It didn’t take long to get back to Mac and Polanski. He pushed the briefcase out and Polanski grab it. Polanski couldn’t help himself and cracked the briefcase open. All three of them stared at the contents.
Mac was the first to speak. “Holy Mother of Christ. This is gotta be ten times what Mr. Jones had counted on.” He put his hand on Chris’ butt and started rubbing it. “I think this calls for a celebration fuck. Who’s up for a nightcap?” They exchanged excited glances at one another, and Mac took his finger and felt Chris’ hole. “Ah, boy. We’re going to have to give you a special reward.” Mac and Polanski shared an evil grin.
While they were climbing the stairs back to the bedroom, Chris saw his hand was shaking. He gripped the handrail tightly. Mac asked, “So the map was really off?”
“Big time,” Chris answered, his voice not shaking, almost cheerful. “The stuff wasn’t where the X was and the layout wasn’t right. That’s what took me so long.” Strangely enough, deceiving to the two cons gave him a peculiar confidence. Lying straight to their face emboldened him, made his mind focus and direct his racing thoughts.
Mac set the briefcase next to the door. “So,” said Mac, “whiskeys all around.”
“Me too?” Chris asked eagerly.
“Sure, little buddy,” Polanski said. “You earned it, didn’t he Mac?”
Mac gave a nod. Chris trotted into the bathroom ostensibly to fetch a glass but rinsed his hands quickly getting rid of any stains. Mac had taken off his boxers and was playing absently with his enormous member when Chris returned. Polanski wasn’t around. “Where’s Nick?” he asked starting to pour drinks for everyone.
“Dunno,” Mac responded, staring at the TV. Johnny Carson was joking around with Don Rickles, Ed McMahon guffawing next to him on the couch. “Hey,” he said lumbering off the bed, “We need better entertainment than this crap. How ‘bout you and Manetti entertain us while you entertain us?”
“Huh?” asked Chris as he topped off the final glass and recorked the whiskey.
“I want to see the recording of Manetti playing with you while we play with you. I got the tape downstairs.” He went to fetch it. Chris only had a few seconds. Manetti’s drug box was on the cart. He opened it and took out the bottle of G, splitting it into two of the drinks.
He replaced the empty vial in the box, just as Polanski reappeared. “Crisco!” the man announced, displaying the can of grease. “I told you I was gonna curl your toes, boy.”
Chris gave Polanski his biggest shark-tooth smile, biting down on his molars so his dimples stood out. “I feel ‘em curling already, Officer.” He handed Polanski the spiked whiskey.
Mac came in holding a VHS tape and popped it in the machine and pushed play. Chris handed him his drink, as the familiar grunts of Manetti fucking him played in the background. Mac held up his glass. “We, who are about to die, salute you.” They both looked at Chris and each of them downed their glasses in one gulp. The two men squished their faces. Chris followed suit and stuck out his tongue making a gah sound, which made the men laugh.
Polanski grabbed the almost empty bottle. “How about a chaser for a job well done, and to the newest member of our gang.” He divided the remains between them. “Bottoms up!” They raised their glasses again and kicked them back. “Okay, bottom boy. Up!” he ordered Chris. “On your back, head here,” Polanski barked. “Knees up.”
Not used to hard alcohol, the whiskey got to Chris’ head pretty quickly. Combined with the earlier crystal, he was starting to feel spaced on top of feeling horny. He got on the bed, listening to Manetti fuck him on TV. He forced his mind not to think about Manetti, but focused instead on Polanski. Even though he didn’t like the guy he had to admit he was a sexy fucker. Mac knelt next to him and pushed his head toward his erection. Polanski greased two fingers and slipped them into Chris’ asshole. It felt good to have Polanski in his chute. Not liking him somehow made him harder. He bore down on Polanski’s fingers and took them right down to the knuckles.
Polanski said to Mac, “This kid’s a natural. Look at this.” He greased up four fingers and slipped them into Chris with no resistance.
Mac gave out an excited moan. “How ‘bout being a real pig, kid. Eat daddy’s dirty hole.” He raised himself from feeding Chris his dick and lifted one leg over Chris’ head and sat his hairy butt on his face. “Dig in there, pig boy. Clean daddy’s dingleberries.” He complied eagerly, using his hands to spread Mac’s cheeks further apart, using his tongue to untangle each strand of clotted hair. The closer he came to Mac’s asshole, the more hardened knots he found.
Polanski added his thumb and Chris felt his whole hand pressing at his entrance. Again, he bore down and his asslips swallowed all of Polanski’s hand. “Woo-ee,” shouted Polanski. He wasn’t patient or caring like Manetti, he didn’t wait for Chris to adjust to his hand, just began pulling his hand out and pushing it back in again. Chris yowled under Mac’s ass each time Polanski yanked out his hand. He raised his hands to tell Polanski to take it easy, but Mac grabbed both hands. Mac’s ass was firmly on his face, and the big man started rutting impatiently for Chris to get his tongue deeper his hole. When Chris traced his tongue around his asslips, the man let out a huge fart. The skin vibrated lewdly on Chris’ mouth and Mac grabbed his head so he couldn’t get away. The smell was foul but he was stuck smelling it. Polanski was picking up the pace, pulling one of Chris’ legs over his muscular shoulders to get Chris to spread his legs wider. The helplessness of being pinned under such a big hairy butt with his legs forced apart while his hole was being wrecked, caused Chris to surrender completely. Polanski took the surrender to increase his attack, pulling out fiercely. He stopped for a second to admire the red pedals of a rosebud he was creating. “That’s it boy, push!” shouted Polanski, tapping on the rectum that was coming out of its hole.
“I want some of that,” Mac said woozily, getting off Chris’ face. He shuffled down to Polanski and each man took one of Chris’ legs and pulled him apart. “Look, this little fuck still has a boner.” He looked at Chris who was wiping bits of Mac’s shit off his face. “You gonna let us do whatever we want to you, ain’t ya, boy?” Chris nodded. Mac greased his big paw and stuck four fingers into Chris. His hand was too big to get in, but Mac stubbornly kept pushing his paw against Chris’ resisting hole. “Give it up, boy.”
“I can’t,” Chris said. “It’s too big.” That only made Mac more determined. He leaned into the boy, and forced his fist in. Chris gave out a cry of extreme pain. His torso shot up trying to expel Mac’s huge mitt, but Mac twisted and prodded his hole enjoying the convulsions he was causing Chris to overcome.
The hand popped out of the boy as he fell back on the bed. “You little punk,” said Mac, with weary eyes. “Let’s try that again. Daddy likes depth. C’mon, open your cunt for daddy.” His hand shot into Chris again, and though it was agonizing, Chris felt his rectum was prepared this time to accommodate the invasion. Mac was even rougher than Polanski, more aggressively tunneling deep into his hole.
Polanski watch amused, though his breathing was increasingly labored and shallow. Feeling increasingly wasted, Mac laid flat on his side to reach into Chris’ hole, Polanski fell from his knees to the side of a butt cheek. He looked at Chris’ hard on and reached out and smacked the kid’s balls. The kid jumped but with Mac’s fist in his ass, he was held in place. Polanski slapped his balls again, then took a fist and punched him in the nuts. Chris’ ass muscles reacted by baring down hard on Mac’s wrist and that egged Mac on to go in deeper. Chris’ intestines couldn't accept any more of the girth of Mac’s hand, yet Mac’s face showed that a little thing like Chris’ anatomy wasn’t going to stop him. “The goal is the heart of the boy, and you’re going to give it to me,” Mac slurred as he pushed in another inch. Polanski didn’t let up punching Chris in the balls either. Chris’ head was back on the bed struggling to resist these two psychopaths, his hands flying in the air. There was a bounce on the bed. He looked over to see Polanski laying on his back. Mac looked at Polanski laying there, said, “You lightweight.” He pushed himself up on his side and pulled one of Chris’ legs over his fleshy shoulder. He stop for a second and examined the bottom of Chris’ foot. His brows furrowed, his face appeared puzzled. “Boy,” he said having a hard time put words together, “why have you got a red foot?” His mystified expression suddenly sparked a jolt of understanding, which built into anger. He pulled up Chris’ other foot. “You been someplace you shouldn’t?” From his ominous tone, Chris knew the man figured out he’d been in the basement. He felt the man’s hand inside him starting to clutch but the man’s other hand went to his throat. He raked the air, breathing hollowly, “I’m gonna...fuckin’ rip...your heart...out of...your...” The big man went down.
Chris laid there for a moment. Mac’s hand was still far up his colon. He felt his fingers twitching slightly. His balls ached, was sure Polanski had damaged them. He started trying to pull his chute off of Mac’s hand, but at first only managed to pull Mac along with him as he slid across the bed. Before he realized it he found himself on the edge of the bed. As he crab walked back his hands suddenly gave out from under him, and he fell off the bed backward landing on his back. The quick, forceful drop pulled Mac’s whole hand out of him in one go, and also pulled out of Chris a gut-wrenching shriek. He now had that empty feeling once again, but this time he was very happy about it.
As he caught his breath, the bedroom phone rang on the nightstand. The alarm clock showed it was just after two in the morning. He knew who it was. He picked up the receiver without saying anything, just listening.
“Do you have it?” Master Drax said on the other end of the line.
Chris waited for a second, then answered, “Yes.” There followed a long pause, so long Chris thought the connection was lost. Then Master Drax continued. “Are they dead?”
He leaned over Polanski who hadn’t move since he fell over. He got in close to see if he was even breathing. He was, but just barely and very strained. His lips were dark blue and his skin sickly white. Mac was breathing hard, but Chris had noticed he was always breathing hard. “No, but they don’t look good.”
“Bring me what you found in the ventilation system. Leave the briefcase. It will attract undue attention. Put the contents in your bag and bring it to me.” Mac started to stir. Chris stepped back in alarm. The large man raised up on one hand, then vomited over the satin bedspread. He looked around the room disoriented, saw Chris, tried to focus, but his eyes closed and he collapsed into the middle of his spew. “Leave them. Move quickly, child.” There was a click, and then dial tone.
Chris went in the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then took a towel and wiped off his ass. What was he going to wear? His clothes in the washer were most likely wet. He ran into the large walk-in closet. Half the clothes were women’s clothes, the other half were the dead officer’s, all way too big for him. A bright red jogging suit with white stripes hung next to the door. It was also far too big, but there was a belt rack on the back of the door. He’d simply have to cinch up the waist with one of them. He grabbed the jogging suit. Hidden underneath revealed the officer’s holster and his police revolver. He wished he’d found that before, now it seemed after the fact.
After putting on the oversized jogging suit, he put the briefcase and his gym bag on the bed and began transferring the money. He looked over at Polanski. He’d quit breathing with a trickle of vomit running down his cheek. All the money fit with a little room left over. He set the bag down next the liquor cart, then ran downstairs to the garage and got his damp clothes out of the washer. Sprinting back upstairs he stopped off in Eddie’s bedroom, found his sneakers, and sat on the kid’s bed tying his shoes. He went back into the bedroom and fetched the bag. As he rose with the loot, Mac rolled off the side of the bed with great thud, and with even more determination pushed himself up. He stood teetering, blocking the door.
“You little fuck,” he said, looming menacingly, taking one step forward at a time toward Chris. Each step brought him back to angry coherence, though his eyes were still glazed. Chris matched each step he took backwards, but there wasn’t anywhere to run. He was cornered. He jumped up on the bed, but the big man grabbed his foot and Chris tumbled off onto the floor, banging his head on the closet door. The man lurched toward him and stepped on a shard of glass by the television. He fell on the bed cursing, holding his foot feeling for the shard to pull it out. His fury now made him fully awake and focused on destroying the boy. Chris scrambled up and backed into the closet, closing the door behind him. He grabbed the holster and moved to the back of the closet, far away the door. The door flew open and Mac charged at him with a monstrous roar intent on tearing him limb from limb. Chris pulled the Glock out of its holster, clicked off the safety, and emptied six bullets in the man’s gut. Mac was knocked backwards with each bullet, but stood his ground, taller, towering with a look of complete insanity, no trace of humanity in him, only the howeling sound of a crazed animal. “I’m fucking gonna reach inside your ass and tear out your lungs.” He charged again at Chris, grabbed the boy by the neck and lifted him to the ceiling. Chris unloaded a round into his shoulder, then another into his bicep, two into his chest, and, finally, feeling his throat strangled and about to be crushed, unloaded a final bullet into the convict's right eye spraying brain tissue over the rack of belts. He kept pulling the trigger, clicking away long after the clip had emptied.
Mac remained gripping his neck, teetered for a second, then fell backward dropping Chris to the floor on top of him. As he sprawled, arms wide on the emerald shag carpeting, red streams of blood slowly spread from his body in all directions. Chris jumped up off him dazed, in shock, watching the psychedelic colors of red and green blend. It wasn’t till the heavy revolver slipped from his hand and made a thud that his flight instinct took over. He jumped over the dead man, snatched up his gym bag, and sped out of the house never looking back.
A jet black Z28 Camaro sat at the curb. Its engine gunned once as Chris approached with mounting dread. It roared two more times like an angry lion. At curbside he bent down to view the driver and his fate. Inside a large shark-tooth grin spread from ear to ear. “Nice work, Chief,” Manetti said holding the wheel, gunning the engine again. “Love the jogging suit. Red’s definitely your color." He reached over and opened the passenger door. "C’mon. Get in.” Chris climbed in, slamming the car door behind him and collapse in the black vinyl seat. The car squealed down the street, wheels smoking, laying eight feet of rubber minutes before the cops arrived triggered by several neighbor’s reports of gun fire.