A terrible moan wakes us. It’s a woman pleading for mercy.
I pat my sleeping bag. Ötzi has shrunk to a skeleton, no, just a wig–wait, that’s my sheepskin. He’s not in my tent at all.
The prick has had s*x with me then left while I’ve been asleep. What the hell kind of loyalty is that?
Outside the tent everyone in Kmart is pulling on pants and walking towards the landing overlooking Dunkin’ Donuts. We peer down and there are our skaters, up and active and doing something awful.
In front of the donut stall, in the middle of the food court, the boys have six captives bound and gagged. The captives have been tortured; they have veils of blood trickling down from their scalps. It’s hard to recognise who the boys have tied up, at first. Six adults–all with breasts and long-ish faded hair, al
