5
They sit me in a chair. A damn uncomfortable one. They cuff my hands behind the chair and remove the hood—a brown sack that smells of old potatoes. They stand in front of me. Three of 'em. Like a country and western band with check shirts, messy long hair and beards.
I look around. The place is a garage. Empty. Brick walls and a concrete floor. It smells of diesel and dust.
"Where's the money?" one of my kidnappers asks. He's tall and rangy, with hair the colour of a red squirrel.
I don't say a word. Catch a punch in the gut for my silence. The guy who delivers it is pig-ugly and fat, with eyes and hair the colour of oil. Despite his size, he hits like a fairy. But I act hurt. Want 'em to think I'm suffering.
"Where's the f*****g money?" the third man says.
He's a blond kid with ar
