Now I'm in the ring facing Pillar with Rex under my arm, who's black as a raven, and who's dog-paddling beneath my elbow. My biceps flex to restrain him.
He's scowling at the white rooster, which Pillar's holding two feet away, and when Pillar inches forward with it, Rex crows and tears at the oxygen beneath him and boils against my forearm. I pet him but he lurches forward like a Doberman on a leash.
“Don't pet ‘im, foo',” says Pillar, “We want ‘im to get pissed. Not wag ‘is tail.
“Won't Spyder hate that he's fighting without him here?” I ask. “His bird.”
“He ain't gonna notice. We do it all the time.”
“Tick told me to ask you what happened to Roach.”
“Fooooo'. Horrible.”
“Well, what?” I ask.
“Really wanna know?”
“Christ.” But as I loosen my grip, Rex stabs forward and nearly breaks free.
“Squeeze ‘im, ese. They gots to get angry before we let ‘em go.”
“Can you please just f**ing tell me?” I ask.
Pillar says, “I didn't see ‘im waitin' outside his house like usual. So I went inside shoutin', ‘Roach, wake the f** up. Spyder's gonna k** us if we miss ‘ny pickups.' But when I found ‘im in ‘is room ...” He shakes his head.
“Shot? Stabbed?”
Pillar shifts the white gameco*k from his belly bu*ton to his arm pit, and with his vacant hand, pretends to wrap a noose around his neck. “Zip-tie.”
I ask, “Think it was Kings?”
“Foo', I ain't even done. Listen. Right next to ‘im, was ‘is, ‘is...”
“What?”
Pillar grimaces, then with his free hand makes a circular motion over his crotch.
“What?”
“'is dick and balls were right beside ‘im, ‘omes. The skin was slippin' off. And his sack was unwrapped and showin' ‘is balls—they're f**in' purple. Purple, ‘omes. And the tubes to ‘em are grey. I couldn't stop gaggin', ‘omes—and I—I threw up on ‘is ankles. They were purple and wet, and his dick was red like a dog's bo*er and his crotch was—”
“Alright, I get it.”
“Ain't done foo',” continues Pillar. “'is phone was on the bed and open to the note app. Said, ‘You show mercy, we don't.' The f** is that?”
I shake my head, and squeeze Rex. I need to hug something. I ask, “Well, now what?”
“We wait for Spyder to find out who did it,” says Pillar. “He'll want ‘em all stomped. You know he protects.”
“Putos, ‘urry” says Tick from outside the arena. “Look at Rex. Look at that monster. He's ready.”
Pillar glances at me, says, “Wait,” then he shakes the white rooster like a piggy bank and smacks its head.
“Whoa, chill,” I say.
“You chill, it's to piss it off. It's shy, so I gotta piss it off.” He rattles it again then says, “Take off Rex's boot. But careful, foo', it's sharp.”
I fumble below Rex for the leather glove that covers the knife attached to his thumb and unravel its string. With the boot off, the lancet sheens like the Grim Reaper's scythe. Longer than a scalpel, curled like a sickle, it could disembowel a man. “Now, what?” I ask.
Pillar whacks the co*k again, waits for its head to vibrate straight like a joystick, then says, “Drop ‘em.”