What Philip Did in Tulsa

Philip smelled pizza and his stomach grumbled and kicked. His ass throbbed and he felt an intense urge from deep down in his guts to move his bowels. He realized he was bent over and strapped down to some kind of low bench, his numb arms pinned behind his back.

 

“Hi.” The man stood in front of Philip and shook a pill bottle in his face. “These will keep you awake,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to do today.” The man plucked a syringe off the table and jabbed it into Philip’s arm. “And this,” the man said, “is some antibiotic so you don’t get septic shock.” He patted Philip on the back when he was done.

“What… why?” Philip choked on the cottony dryness in his mouth and gagged on the flavor of his own tongue. “Why are you doing this?”

“You can’t be serious.” The man bent down and looked at Philip, really studied his face. “Wow, you are. I can’t believe you don’t recognize me.”

Philip jerked his head side to side to confirm that he indeed did not recognize the man standing over him with the sizzling poker in his hand. It was more of a metal bar, really, with a pointed end that glowed orange. The pressure in Philip’s guts and backside pushed his stomach forward into his chest. Waves of nausea swept over him.





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