Situp

Situp
By Fred Venturini

The earth was wet, belching and slurping as Alex's steps left dents in
the sod at Grantville City Park. Soon, his boots found the concrete of
the basketball court. Yellow light fell from the buzzing street lamps
in the park, some of which were busted out by vandals with either a lot
of time on their hands or accurate throwing arms. One half of the court
was bathed in the light, the other side pure shadow. Neither basketball
rim had a net and the backboards were cracked, like the concrete, which
was pocked and decaying, rife with fissures and faults.
Alex waited in complete silence and serenity for two hours, crouched
by the basketball goal that was bathed in darkness. The court was
flanked by a swingset to his right, a pavilion to his left. The
pavilion housed a dozen rotting picnic tables. In getting know
Grantville City Park, Alex had decided that not even one of the four
hundred residents of the rural town used nor cared about the place.
Along with being deserted, the park was tucked away at the edge of
town-a perfect spot to meet his old friend, Ray.
Alex didn't wait long before he heard Ray's steps rapping against the
pavement of the adjacent street. Alex remained patient. Ray ran into a
curtain of light, then dark, then light, then dark as he shuttled in
and out of the yellow spotlights that adorned the street. As he
approached, Alex verified his identity-it was indeed Ray, a white
stocking cap perched on his head defended his ears from the balmy March
breeze and was the only highly visible piece of clothing he wore-his
black Adidas pants and plain gray sweatshirt were tougher to discern in
low light. A wreath of sweat grew on the sweatshirt. Ray was two miles
from his house, and had jogged the entire way.
Remaining patient, Alex rose from his crouch and stepped into the
lighted half of the court. Ray padded along the pavement, oblivious to
the world around him. Alex smiled.
"Hey! Ray!" he hollered. Ray's head immediately snapped in Alex's
direction. "You wanna come over here a second man?"
Ray looked around, as if Alex were addressing someone else, and then
submitted, approaching the court. The streetlights glinted in his
puzzled eyes. "Do I know you?"
"I don't know Ray-Ray, do you know me?"
"I . . . I'm sorry. You don't look familiar, but it's kind of dark,
you know? Can I help you?"
"Does the name Alex Foster ring a bell?"
Ray took a breath as the name registered. There was a slight delay as
he skimmed over his memories of Alex, then he emitted a counterfeit
laugh. Alex reveled in the uneasiness of the laughter.
"Alex?! Damn man, how have you been? What in the hell are you doing
out here at this time of night anyway?"
Alex laughed right along with him, but for reasons all his own. "What
am I doing? Something I've thought about for a long time, that's what."
He extended his arm, and Ray found himself staring at the muzzle of a
.38.
"Holy shit, Alex man, I mean . . . not about high school stuff.
Please. Not over that shit man, I'm sorry."
"Of course you're sorry now," Alex said through a smile. "Of course
you are. I expected as much. I'm going to make you even sorrier." He
reached into his waistband and tossed Ray a bandana. "Blindfold
yourself."
Ray turned the red bandana over in his hands, the whites of his eyes
seemingly swelling as fear filled them. "Are you serious?"
Alex took an aggressive step forward, and Ray flinched. "Put that
blindfold over your eyes, or I put a bullet in one of them. Simple
choice. Make it."
Ray's hands shook as he folded the bandana into a blindfold.
"Who's the bully now Ray? Huh? Who's scared now?"
"Stop it!" Ray screamed. "I'm scared enough, alright? Just, I'll do
whatever sick shit you have in mind, and then just let me go. Please. I
don't want to die over stupid high school shit. Please."
"Scream again. Call it stupid shit again. Do it, I dare you. I'll make
it hurt, I know just the right spots to shoot a man to make it fucking
hurt, Ray. That high school shit wasn't so stupid when you're the butt
of the joke, the victim of the pranks. You'll see."
Ray stared at him, and then his puffy, frightened eyes disappeared
behind the blindfold.
"Good, Ray. Real good. Now get on your back."
"Please don't hurt me," Ray whimpered, near tears, scooting onto his
rump and then lying down. "Please, please Alex, don't hurt me man, I'm
sorry. That was ten years ago. Please."
"OK OK, I'll leave you alone. But first, you have to do something for
me Ray. Something that may sound easy but it's actually kind of tough.
You ever do a situp blindfolded, Ray? It's called an atomic situp.
Really tough. Bet you can't do one. As a matter of fact, I'll let you
go if you can sit up and touch your elbows to your knees, how's that?
You ready? You ready Ray?"
He tried to choke back the sobs but he couldn't. Ray cried, whimpering
underneath the blindfold, cupping the back of his head with his
hands.
"Don't delay. Come one. Just do one."
Ray tensed his abs and lifted his torso towards his knees in classic
situp position. Just before his knee could touch his elbow, the knife
whistled through the air, like a lover's whisper, flaying his right
cheek open. He fell back, screaming, rolling, writhing.
Alex jumped on top of him, pinning his arms with his knees, jamming
the gun into his mouth. Blood gushed from the stray flap of cheek,
spilling onto Alex's windpants. His dogtags jingled and clinked as he
leaned in to whisper to Ray.
"You scream once more, you die. You stay the fuck quiet, Ray-Ray. Be a
man and stay quiet, you don't want all the girls to hear you crying, do
you? Just do the situp. Be a man. Do it, and it's over. I'll give you
another try."
Alex stood and waited, the blade nestled against the outside portion
of his forearm, a sign of a trained knifefighter. Ray quieted down and
tried again. Alex's accuracy was as good as his form-the tip of the
blade glided across Ray's forehead, creating a curtain of flesh just
above the blindfold.
Ray screamed again, louder, more violent, more urgent, filled with
torture-caliber pain. Alex had enough, kicking him in the temple,
stomping his head into the concrete, just kicking and stomping until
Ray stopped screaming, stopped moving.
Dropping to one knee, Alex checked Ray's vitals-he found a pulse, and
he was still breathing, although he exhaled in a high, whistling sound.
A quick stroke of the blade removed Ray's left cheek, and he scarcely
reacted.
"Nighty-night," Alex whispered, lifting Ray's limp body and dragging
him into the bathroom, which was lit by a solitary bulb, purchased
brand new and installed by Alex himself.
"Ray? You in there? You certainly remember these, don't you? What's
that? You don't? Need a refresher? Don't know what a swirlie is? Oh,
ok. I'll show you. Left you a surprise too!" Alex lowered Ray, stuffing
his head into the toilet. "Piece of shit, meet a piece of shit. Hope
you like Mexican, Ray-Ray." He flushed the toilet with his boot,
laughing as he left the bathroom and locked the door from the
outside.
Alex took in a deep breath of clean spring air. It felt
perfect-everything felt perfect. Everything was right again. It felt
just like he thought it would, and he noticed that his smile has spread
so wide the corners of his mouth were sore.
He crouched on the dark part of the basketball court. He would think
about Ray, whether he would live as a vegetable, live as a freak, or
die with a face full of blood and shit. Pleasant thoughts, and they
would keep him busy while he was waiting.
Ray's wife might not come looking for him for a few hours. Susan was
the most beautiful girl in high school even if she wasn't the most
kind, and remained beautiful ten years later.
But not for long, Alex thought. Not for long at all.