There were two of them. The woodpecker with the bat continued to expertly peck at his legs, knees, and elbows, while the powerful strong-armed man spun him around, cranked a solid punch into Hammermeister’s solar plexus, and then let him free-fall to the ground. For the next moment Hammermeister was kicked and pounded mercilessly. He wondered if it was murder. The woodpecker was batting him in the head now but not with massive, clobbering blows. It felt like he was being poked with the knob end of the bat. Hammermeister felt himself sinking into the black vortex of hell, but then the shower of stars abruptly stopped, and in the frigid night air he heard his assailants’ cold, rasping breaths tear through his brain like the sandpaper tongue of a lion. It occurred to Hammermeister that the dictum “when you lose your sight you become all eardrums” was profoundly true. Hammermeister could distinctly hear the different ways the two men breathed. If he lived to be a thousand, he would never forget the way these men breathed.

The stronger man grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back. As a knee came down on his spine, Hammermeister heard the sound of duct tape being unreeled and torn again, and soon his hands were bound as tightly as if he were displayed in a pillory. Then, with a suddenness that was frightening, he felt himself being lifted like a suitcase and lugged away from the lighted parking stalls to a very dark place. Even though his eyes were masked, he had been able to see shadows—now nothing. All the while the hollow bat rapped away at him. Neither of the abductors said a word. Hammermeister attempted to scream through the sock, but it was a scream that just couldn’t get off the ground.

The pain in his shoulders felt like a crucifixion. Harold emitted a high-pitched scream through his nose as he was hauled off into yet a deeper forest of blackness. After what seemed like an interminable voyage, he was dropped roughly to the pavement, where he wet his pants in abject terror, waiting for the mechanical action of some sort of firearm—the rotation of a revolver cylinder, perhaps.

Both of the unseen men were panting heavily. Before they shot him, they were waiting to catch their breath. After a moment he felt their rough hands pulling at his pants, ripping them down to his knees as they turned him over on his stomach. Harold let his legs kick out wildly, and this only made the men laugh.

Suddenly there was a jolting, searing-hot pain in his right ass cheek. Hammermeister could smell his own smoldering flesh. The whole focus of his being gravitated to the burn.