Free Palindrome by E. Z. Rinsky

once I realize what I’ve done, I retract in horror.
    â€œWell that’s one way to say hello,” Orange laughs joylessly. This is like the sick analog of small talk before an important business meeting.
    â€œI’m sorry, Orange, I couldn’t see.”
    A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt grabs me by the shoulder and yanks me forward, pushes my butt onto a hard tile bench.
    â€œFrank?” I can make out Courtney’s form a few feet in front of me, writhing frantically, like a dying fish.
    The enormous form next to me emits a low, throaty laugh.
    â€œSit down and let’s get on with it,” Orange says, then extends a meaty arm and pulls Courtney onto a sliver of bench on the other side of his circumference. As my eyes slowly adjust, Matty “Orange” Julius’s form begins to take shape: a mountain of wet flesh rising from the mist, folds and creases that remind me of a brain in formaldehyde. I note that our host is not wearing a towel.
    â€œFrankie and Courtney.” Another low rumble that resonates in this tiny chamber like a subwoofer. “What do you want? I have a French lesson in a half hour.”
    Neither Courtney nor I speak. A sharp hiss of steam somewhere by our feet.
    â€œHere for a girl?” Orange asks. “I’ll give you an hour for half price. I recently acquired a new Thai beauty. Very flexible. And she has this delightful routine where she cuts a dime-­size hole in the top of a banana and sucks the meat out, leaving the peel untouched.”
    He’s baiting us. Testing Courtney, daring him to disrespect him again in his own lair, and asserting his dominance when Courtney stays silent—­ if he stays silent.
    I close my eyes and clench my teeth, praying Courtney sees this for what it is: establishing the pecking order here as a precondition to any sort of negotiation.
    â€œFirst of all, I’d like to apologize for disrespecting you by refusing payment,” Courtney says softly from the other side of Orange, and I exhale in relief, even though the disdain in his voice is obvious, anger at being forced to submit before this tower of flesh. I imagine that the heat in this room is being generated by Courtney’s blood boiling. “Please understand this was never my intention. We came here today because we need help. I hope we can put my uncouth behavior behind us.”
    â€œInteresting,” Orange says. I know he’ll at least hear us out. If there’s one thing you can bank on with Orange, it’s curiosity. He’s bored. It’s to be expected from someone who spends most of their life in an underground gym. He is, after all, sitting alone in a dark steam room at six on a Saturday evening.
    â€œWe brought you a gift,” I say hastily, before Courtney can retract his apology. “It’s in the locker room. An actual slice of cake from—­”
    â€œâ€”­the Treaty of Versailles,” Courtney interrupts. Clearly doesn’t trust me to get the details right. “Eaten in Paris in 1919. Immaculately preserved. Worth a small fortune. A true historical artifact. We thought you’d appreciate it.”
    â€œMmm,” he grunts. “Do you really think so little of me? That I can be bribed into forgiving you, Courtney?” He breathes in and out a few times.
    I’m already entirely coated in sweat.
    I try to make eye contact with Courtney to decide how we’re going to go about this, but before my eyes is only meat and steam. I suspect, however, that I’d better do most of the talking. If Courtney keeps talking, Orange is gonna keep provoking him. And if Courtney cracks—­not going ape-­shit like I do sometimes, but just getting seriously irked, his downturned lips twitching, hinting at the carefully controlled disdain behind his eyes—­we’re not going to get anything out of Orange. Hell, we might not even get out of here with all our