Free Moist by Mark Haskell Smith

open. Then he heard a voice say, “Dude, we’re going to open the trunk. We have guns. Stay perfectly still or we’ll fucking toast you.”
    Bob nodded. Then realized he needed to talk. His voice croaked.
    â€œOkay.”
    The trunk popped open quickly. Bob blinked. There they were. The two Mexican-looking guys who’d rear-ended him. Behind them a white guy about his age.
    â€œGet out. Slow.”
    Bob decided to reason with them as he climbed gingerly out of the trunk.
    â€œListen. Guys. It’s not my car. I don’t care about the dent.”
    The young Mexican with the ponytail stuck a gun in Bob’s face.
    â€œDon’t talk.”
    The older one looked in the trunk at the two coolers. He turned to Bob. Bob couldn’t look in the man’s eyes. They were scary.
    â€œIs the arm in the cooler?”
    This caught Bob completely off guard.
    â€œArm? What arm?”
    The older, scary Mexican punched Bob hard in the stomach. Bob doubled over, unable to breathe, feeling like his balls had just been shot out of a cannon.
    â€œThe arm you’re delivering to Parker Center.”
    Oh.
    Bob nodded at one of the coolers. The white guy looked at Bob sympathetically.
    â€œTry to stand up, you’ll get your wind back faster.”
    Bob nodded and tried. He was starting to see spots and floaters in his vision. He thought he might black out. But thenshort, painful spurts of breathing began. First in the top of his lungs, then slowly working their way down until he was almost breathing normally. Bob noticed that the lump on his head was throbbing again.
    â€œCan I get an aspirin?”
    The white guy nodded.
    â€œThere’s some Tylenol inside.”
    The Mexican with the ponytail grabbed Bob’s arm and began to lead him into what looked like his parents’ house.
    . . .
    Maura entered her office and went right to the message machine. She played the messages and was disappointed that Bob hadn’t called. Maybe he was just playing a game with her, messing with her head a little. She knew that sometimes he just said stuff to get a reaction. But he’d seemed different this morning. Resolute. If Bob, the most liquid and malleable of personalities, could ever be called resolute. She smiled a little. Maybe her doing this was forcing Bob to grow up. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. She realized that she was ambivalent about leaving him. She didn’t really find his cock disgusting. She was just tired of him waving it in her face. She wanted him to be more sensitive. To listen to her. Was that asking too much?

Ten
    T HE ARM LAY unwrapped on the kitchen table. The three men stood there staring at it, looking slightly awestruck and puzzled. They obviously weren’t used to limbs and organs like Bob was. Bob didn’t care about the arm. He held a bag of frozen peas against the lump on his head and gingerly sipped a Coke.
    â€œI feel nauseous. I think you gave me a concussion.”
    The ponytail guy smiled at him.
    â€œSorry,
cabrón
. Had to knock you out. You might be a kung fu master or something. Couldn’t take no chances, man.”
    Bob understood. It made him feel a little better. He even felt slightly flattered: a kung fu master? Right on. But now he found himself in a strange position. Was he kidnapped? Were they going to kill him? Should he try to escape? He really didn’t know the answer.
    The older Mexican guy took a rubber spatula and nudged the arm.
    â€œI never realized he had so many tattoos.”
    The white guy spoke.
    â€œThe police will know that there are tattoos on the arm. We have to find out where he got them done.”
    The ponytail guy disagreed.
    â€œFirst we need an arm.”
    Bob twitched with alarm as the older guy turned toward him.
    â€œHe’s got two.”
    Bob shook his head.
    â€œNo way, man! No fucking way!”
    The older Mexican gave Bob a menacing look. Bob shifted gears.
    â€œC’mon