Free Greasing the Piñata by Tim Maleeny Page B

head and confirmed that the gun was held by Mustache, his recent acquaintance with the mismatched socks.
    “Where’s your friend?” asked Cape. “Or doesn’t he want to be seen with you, now that you’ve come out of the closet?”
    “Funny man.” Cyrano stepped out of the bathroom. In his right hand was a taser, a squat black device with two silver prongs on the end.
    “You’re persistent,” said Cape.
    Cyrano nodded. “Tenacious even.”
    Cape forced himself not to stare at the taser, though in the back of his mind he registered the absurd truth that he would have been less uncomfortable had Cyrano been holding a gun.
    “Thought we were gonna have to wait awhile longer, after seeing you with that Asian
chickadee
on the beach. What happened, she get a headache once you got back to her room? Maybe she got her period. Or you having problems getting the old soldier to salute?”
    “She’s a lesbian.”
    “Yeah, right,” snorted Cyrano. He held the taser at eye level and pressed the button, letting the tight blue arc of 10,000 volts emphasize his next point. “Now look, jerkoff, there’s no maid service for the rest of the night, so there won’t be any opportunity to take your clothes off and cry for help. Or do anything else stupid.”
    “Guess I’ll have to do something smart.”
    Cyrano hit the button again. The taser sounded like pine needles burning. “You won’t do shit, understand? We got permission to carry you out to the car, if it comes to that.”
    Cape eyed the taser. “It won’t come to that.”
    “Good choice.” Cyrano lowered the taser as Mustache lowered his gun and used it to sucker-punch Cape in the back. A balloon of pain exploded as the heavy metal of the gun collided with Cape’s right kidney, dropping him to his knees. He coughed involuntarily when his hands hit the floor, sending an aftershock of nausea into his gut. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he spat onto the carpet, barely resisting the urge to vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.
    Cyrano shook his head, a teacher disappointed in a star pupil, and stepped over to block the door. “That’s for being such a pain in the ass.” Mustache stepped over Cape to reclaim his old spot at the desk.
    “You’re welcome,” said Cape, his voice ragged. He opened his eyes and took a few more tentative breaths before standing. Cyrano watched from the door, a mild expression on his face as if Cape had just dropped his keys and bent to pick them up. None of this was personal for him.
    Cape took a deep breath and turned his attention to the closet. He was about to grab a shirt when he had a random thought and stepped past the bed to the nightstand, where he grabbed the remote for the TV.
    “The fuck you doing?” demanded Cyrano. He stood up straighter but held his position at the door. As long as Cape wasn’t trying to escape, Cyrano wasn’t all that concerned.
    Cape held up a hand for patience, then thumbed the remote until he’d navigated the on-screen menu to the adult entertainment channel. An instant later, the excruciatingly banal soft-core porn found on every hotel television around the globe shimmered into focus. Cape turned up the volume before walking past Mustache, opening the window, and flinging the remote across the patio into the swimming pool below. He turned toward Mustache and smiled, moving his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
    “Hate for you to get bored,” said Cape. “Just wanted you to know there’s no hard feelings.”
    Mustache scowled but his eyes darted to the TV, where a woman with impossibly large breasts was moaning as a man dressed like a fireman used a canvas hose to squirt a liquid with the consistency of baby oil onto her from ten feet away.
    “For the love of—” Cyrano pushed off the door. He was about to jam his left thumb against the on-off switch built into the base of the television when Mustache raised his gun and pointed it at Cyrano. Without taking his