Sharing Space with Arkansas

We had no idea where we were.

There was a man tied to my back, as I was to his. I could feel the blood trickling from a cut on my forehead—a cut left from being smacked there with an empty Corona bottle, if my memory wasn’t too faulty, which made me feel all the better; if you’re gonna get snatched, might as well be by people with shitty taste in alcohol.

The man behind me was a big, burly guy with ebony skin and a booming voice to match. Introduced himself as Arkansas. I asked if it was his real name and he said of course it wasn’t, but he didn’t want to hand out information here. Not in this place. I could understand why. There had been one other man in the room with us some fifteen minutes earlier. Until, that is, a man in an executioner’s hood walked in, cut his ties loose, and dragged him out as he screamed and clawed at the ground.

Arkansas and I stopped making small talk soon enough.

I asked if he could stand.

“Too late now,” he said, and looked at the door.

The executioner came back in.

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