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The girl shrieked when the blond man started to hustle her toward the back door. Portafoy, without even thinking, leapt forward and pushed the blond man away, then stood in front of the girl.

“Sir?” the big man asked, incredulous. “What’cha think yer doin’?”

“I’ve been in this family’s employ for a long time, sir, and I am bound to protect this girl when she’s in my charge. I’m prepared…to fight.”

More chuckles. Then the girl rallied, “Yew tell ’em, Portafoy! Yew fight these fuckers! ’cos if’n yew don’t, my stepfather’ll drop your”—and she used the N-Word—“ass right into a fuckin’ wood-chipper!”

Again, silence.

The big man cleared his throat. “Sir, I admire a man who’ll fight fer what he feel it’s his duty ta fight fer. But now, if’n ya do, you’ll just wind up gettin’ yer butt whupped, and we don’t want that. Our fight ain’t with you, it’s with this Paulie fella.” He frowned at the girl, then shook his head. “And this chunky little trash-mouth here? You shore you wanna fight fer her?”

Portafoy considered the reasonable question.

“And go ahead’n tell me I’m wrong, but I’d bet the back’a my balls she been callin’ you that ugly word fer a long time. Ain’t I right?”

Portafoy sighed, answered in the affirmative, then stepped aside.

Th girl screamed her outrage. “Yew fuckin’ coward”—she used the N-Word —“piece’a shit! Yew fuckin’ yellow-ass”—she used the N-Word—“no-good, no-balls”—she used the N-Word—“motherfuck!” and then, finally, the blond man put her gag back in, threw her to the floor, and dragged her kicking and flailing out the back door by two handfuls of her bright-pink hair.

“Wise choice, sir,” the big man said. He took two small glasses from a cabinet, then, from another, pulled out a fancy liquor bottle that read LOUIS XIII on it. “Here, take a nip,” and he filled the glasses and passed one over. Meanwhile, the long-hair was filling plastic bags with food.

Portafoy and the big man each shot theirs back neat, but the big man’s brow twitched. “Don’t barely taste like nothin’. This what rich folks drink?”

Portafoy realized just then that he’d been serving the same brandy to white people for years and years, yet this was the first time he’d ever been offered any. It seemed to melt down his throat. “It’s $500 a bottle, sir, and… delicious.”

“Well, you can have it. Me, I’ll take corn liquor any day.” He gently turned Portafoy around and began to tie his wrists. “I gots ta tie ya up but don’t worry none. It won’t be tight. Figure you’ll be able ta git out’a it in a hour or so, then you just call the police’re do what ya gotta do.”

“I appreciate your consideration, sir.”

“Aw, don’t think nothin’ of it.” Next, he tied the servant’s ankles, then he picked up two more plastic bags off the floor that hung heavy with whatever filled them. Some kind of pilferage, evidently.

The big man winked. “Just you take care’a yerself now, and, again, I’se terrible sorry to roust up yer night like this,” and then he grabbed the other bags and began to follow the long-hair out.

“But, sir, I beg your pardon,” Portafoy said. “What…what are you going to do with the girl?”

The big man laughed. “After what she call you, do you really care?”

“Actually, no, sir, I don’t,” Portafoy admitted, “and I do hope you have a pleasant evening and wonderful holiday…”

(II)

It’s about time! Veronica thought when Helton loudly opened the back door to the truck. He had a great big grin for her. “Tolt ya we wouldn’t be long.” He set down several plastic bags, and then—

Veronica’s heart surged with joy.

—he pulled out the handcuff key.

“You’re letting me go!” she rejoiced. “Oh, Helton, I knew you were a nice guy!”

He unlocked the cuff hooked to the metal table. “Aw, shore. We’se’ll let ya go”—he took her arm and led her toward the front of the truck—“just…not yet.”

Veronica’s joy collapsed.

What now? What? she thought.

Helton sat her down in the front passenger seat, and he cuffed her right hand to the door handle. “You’ll be more comfortable up here,” he said. Then: “All right, fellas,” he called out behind him,” then—SWOOSH—he pulled the jury-rigged shower curtain across the back of the front seats.

“Couple’a things, if ya don’t mind,” he began and stepped right up close so his groin opposed her face. He pulled down his zipper.

“Oh, come on, Helton! Give me a break!”

“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t want the boys to hear.” He extracted his flaccid penis and began pulling on it. “All’s I need is a few more tweaks, ya know, on account I’se older than Micky-Mack’n Dumar—”

“I already gave you your tweak!” she complained, and already she could smell it. God! I want to THROW UP!

Now Helton isolated a testicle. “Ain’t no big deal, hon. Just a tad more, alls right?” He lowered his whisper. “I needs ta be able to perform proper in front’a the boys, ya know? But first, how’s about givin’ each nut a li’l suck first, huh? Ya don’t mind, do ya?”

Yes I do mind! VERY MUCH! Veronica’s face felt hard as a plaster mask. But then the grievous consideration recurred. If I don’t do what they want…

She sputtered, “Oh, all right!” and she pulled one horrendous testicle into her mouth, started to suck, then practically hacked it out. “Helton! Come on! Your balls smell worse than the rest of it!”

The large men chuckled. “Hon, it’s just a li’l male funk. Don’t be such a fuss- budget. Most gals, hail, they like the natural smell of a fella.”

Veronica stared at the slack scrotum and the proffered testicle. For Heaven’s sake! She took a deep breath, then did what he asked.

“Aw, dearie, that’s nice,” he guttered. As she sucked the second ball, his tacky, flaccid penis began to enlarge against the top of her cheek. She felt not only appalled but ridiculous.

“There, there, yeah.” Now the half-erect shaft hung before her face. “Now I’se need ya ta give the ole pipe some love too…”

What could she do?

She began to suck it.

“Aw, yeah, hon,” he kept whispering. “Just like we done taught ya—that’s just dandy, it is…”

With each awkward stroke of her head, she thought, Disgusting! Disgusting! Disgusting! but about twenty such strokes, Helton’s penis was hard and beating. He slipped it out, then, and put it back in his pants.

“There! Are you happy?”

“You’re a doll, Veronnerka.”

Yeah, I’m a doll, all right… All that smegma, the foul balls, and all that sheer odor—it was giving her a stomach ache.

“Now, lemme see—oh, yeah.” Helton seemed to remember something. “Be right? back,” and he pushed through the shower curtain.

“How you boys comin’?” Veronica heard but then her mind drifted where she sat.

She felt squashed down by the sheer weight of this turmoil. At least up here she could see a bit. Through the windshield, a clearing within heavy woods extended. A bright moon glimmered behind tree branches. She thought of asking them where they’d been but decided against it when she heard more noises and voices coming from the