The Killing Game. J. Kerley A.

Gregory saw three whores plus two bone-skinny guys in outsize white tees and sideways ball caps and two grinning old drunks from the corner bar. More gawkers were pushing out the door.

      The young cop shone his flashlight in Gregory’s eyes, blinding him. The world turned white, like a sea of snow. The whiteness condensed into a ball that tolled back and forth like a bell. Gregory could actually hear the flashlight.

      “What is the light, Grigor?” the cop said.

      Gregory’s mouth fell open. His heart turned to ice. It seemed as if time stopped.

      “Uh, what did you say?”

      “What are you doing here this time of night?” the cop said.

      Gregory blinked. The young cop was staring from behind the flashlight, now scanning the rear of the car. The light returned to his face.

      “I asked you a question, sir,” the cop repeated. “Why are you here this time of night?”

      “I couldn’t sleep, officer,” Gregory replied quietly, though his jaw was tight with anger. “I was driving to relax.”

      “Get him outta the car, Mailey,” the older cop bayed. “I wanna look at him.”

      “Step out of the car please,” the young cop said, pulling the door open as though Gregory was some kind of criminal.

      “Is there a reason why I—”

      Again the sound of the damned light. Gregory winced.

      “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR!” the older cop yelled. Gregory exited his vehicle and stood with his hands at his side. The audience on the sidewalk started laughing as though this was a show they’d seen before. The older cop walked toward Gregory, the younger several steps behind. Gregory felt a rumble in his belly. For one strange and breathless second, the cops seemed to split into two pairs, one team walking left, the other walking right.

      Behind him, someone said, “What happened next?” Gregory turned and saw only the giggling whores. When he turned back, the big cop had reappeared a foot from Gregory’s face. His uniform seemed to pulse and shimmer in the soft light, like it was woven from dreams.

      “Breeeep,” the older cop said.

      “What?” Gregory said, frowning.

      Gregory felt a sharp poke in his side, looked down to see a shining black nightstick.

      “Breathe, dammit. Like I just told you.”

      Gregory heard gas bubbling in his intestines. A voice in his head said, Your guts are upset, Grigor; be careful. He exhaled. The cop stuck his nose in the outflow, made a big deal out of grimacing. The onlookers giggled. They had moved closer.

      “His breath stinks, Mailey,” the cop grinned. “But I don’t smell booze.” He turned back to Gregory. “Only two reasons people come down here at night, mister. Drugs and pussy. Which one are you after?”

      The whores giggled and chanted, “Pus-sy, pus-sy …” It was almost like they were singing. Gregory felt a trembling in his guts, moving lower. He heard squirting noises, bubbling.

      “I’m not looking for a woman,” he lied, “and I don’t use drugs.”

      “Pussy … pussy …”

      The older cop grinned and waved the girls into silence. “Check inside his pretty car, Mailey.”

      The young cop stepped close. His uniform was glowing in the light. “You don’t mind if I take a look inside your vehicle, do you, sir?”

      Gregory was seething but forced a nonchalant shrug. The pressure in his belly was starting to hurt.

      “Suit yourself, officer.”

      The cop leaned into the car, patting beneath the seats, opening the glove box, pulling down the visors.

      “Can I go now?” Gregory asked the older cop. His words seemed to come out half-sized and plaintive, like those of a frightened child.

      “I say when you can go, sir,” the cop said, tapping Gregory’s shoulder with the black baton. “But I haven’t said that yet, have I? Check the back seat, Mailey.”

      The young cop leaned into the rear, sliding his fingers between and underneath the cushions, reaching into the seatback pouches. He retreated holding a glossy magazine. Gregory felt his insides slosh and grind as the pain grew sharper.

      “What is it, Mailey?” the old cop asked.

      The cop named Mailey held up a page opened to a shot of a naked woman hanging upside down in chains, black clothespins clamped to her nipples and a red ball gag filling her mouth. Gregory stared in horror: How had he left the magazine in his car?

      “It’s one of them pervert magazines, Horse,” the young cop said. “Something called Women in Agony.”

      “Freak!” one of the women yelled, a gold incisor glinting.

      The older cop pulled reading glasses from his pocket. “Lemme see.”

      “I purchased that legally,” Gregory stammered, feeling a hot cascade through his intestines. He clenched his sphincter. “There’s … nothing wrong … with it.”

      “You’re a freak!” the woman yelled again. The others took up the chant. “Freak, freak, freak …”

      The young cop handed the magazine to the older one, who shook his head and tsk-ed through pages, reading glasses perched on the bulbous tip of his nose. “You like to tie ladies up, sir?” he asked in mocking sincerity. “Put those rubber balls in their mouths?”

      The drunks joined in the chorus. “Freak, freak …” They were getting louder and louder. Gregory couldn’t answer the cop, his intestines were squirming like cut worms. He felt his control slipping away.

      “You know, if you jam rubber balls in their mouths,” the cop grinned, “it doesn’t leave room for your dick.”

      “Freak, freak …”

      “I really … need to …”

      “You need to shut the fuck up and stand still,” the cop said, tapping Gregory’s belly with the stick. He went back to turning pages and tsk-ing loudly.

      What happened next?

      Gregory felt his bowels explode, a hot flood filling his pants and sliding down his legs. The stink rose as the liquid fell. The cop stared at Gregory’s pants, his eyes following the stain to the pavement.

      “Christ, Mailey,” the cop laughed, “the pervert just shit himself.”

      The audience exploded into hoots and catcalls. Several onlookers began chanting Shit boy. One of the drunks started a rap in the middle of the street, grabbing at his crotch and pointing at Gregory. “Look at the boy with his face inna trance, got shit dripping down the legs of his pants …”

      The cop named Horse didn’t seem to walk toward Gregory, but simply appeared in front of him like magic, a tower of threatening blue, his grin fierce and horrific. The cop put his huge callused hand over Gregory’s face and pushed him backward toward his car. He stumbled several steps before his legs tangled and he fell to the ground. When he tried to regain his legs, the cop’s big foot came down on Gregory’s chest and pushed him to the pavement, back into his own filth. The chorus of catcalls and laughter almost deafening, the big cop leaned over Gregory, grabbed his collar and jammed the magazine in the front of his shirt.

      “You stink like a sewage factory, poopy,” the cop laughed as he stood and pulled his boot from Gregory’s chest. “Go home and learn how to use a toilet.”

      What happened next?