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Ronny's Missing (Colombian Necktie) (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
Disclaimer- Some harsh language

I could make up some bullshit story about how I’m a big time kingpin who conducts business with drug lords out in Colombia, all the while raking in millions of dollars right under the government’s nose. I could lie and say any minute now, my men will come crashing through that door with guns ablaze to rescue me from this hellhole, annihilating everything in sight. Sounds pretty bold. But that’s not me. I’m Dennis Coleman. A small time pusher selling out of my one bedroom apartment, just trying to keep the lights on. Ironic as it may seem, drugs didn’t put me in this predicament: tied to a metal chair in the middle of an empty warehouse, with two black eyes and a broken nose. Distorted visions of success got me here and it’s gonna take a miracle to get me out of it. Everything happened so fast. One minute, I’m sitting in my living room, watching the evening news. The next thing I know, I’m being slapped around a group of thugs in black masks. The one in charge is a lanky man with a thick Spanish accent and skin that looks sun burnt. He gives off a stench of cigar smoke and liquor so strong that it burns my nostrils as he continues to move closer. He sits down in front of me and positions himself in an upright posture. He leans into my face and I get a clear glimpse into his fiery eyes. The same hue as the flame he uses to light his cigarette. He inhales as though it were his last before speaking.

“Despite the people I’m associated with, I myself am a man of strong morals. Everything my job consists of I do not out of personal desire, but necessity. Some call us ‘inhuman.’ I hate that term. You see…it’s those kinds of labels society uses to vilify us businessmen. We’re simply doing our job. Murder is merely a small component of it. It’s an extreme act that denotes a severe offense against our organization. An offense which brings harsh punishment upon those who try to screw us over. Which brings us back to your friend, who has taken something very dear to me: where’s Ronny Carson?”

By now, I’ve been locked away here for what seems like a week, but it’s hard to be exact. The room is windowless, damp, and filled with the distinct smell of gasoline. Now, I’ve got plenty of time to think. “What went wrong? Who found out? How did I get here?” But most importantly, “Where the hell is Ronny?” He had the bag last and while he’s running around town with $1.5 million in his pocket, I’m here paying the price. Blood continues to stream down my face and into my swollen eyes; stinging them, serving as a painful reminder that mercy is a million miles away. The trouble started when I woke up that morning.

Each morning, it’s only a matter of time before someone knocks at my door demanding the “good stuff.” That’s the price I pay for my line of business. Definitely not the most honorably part of my life, but it pays the bills and keeps the landlord off my back. I can check my voicemail at any given time and find at least 10 messages requesting an eight ball for some drug orgy out in the boondocks. Drugs tend to allure the more peculiar characters to my front door, but despite their eccentricities, they pay top dollar for my product. So I train myself to tolerate their ways.

This particular morning, I stepped out onto my balcony to smoke a cigarette while watching the sunrise over the city’s skyline. I just needed a brief moment of peace. But I barely had a chance to take my first drag before noticing the crowd of people growing around someone’s car. But who’s car? My car, of course. Now, the situation was personal. So much for a moment of peace. Once I got to the scene, the sight made my heart drop to my bowels. Lying across the windshield, which had been smashed in, was a bloody mess. “Did he jump,” a woman from the crowd asked. I was so dazed by the view; it was hard to be angry. So I just stood there, like all the others, ensnared in the spectacle. Out of all the balconies, out of all the cars; it had to be me. There are two police officers blocking off the crowd while investigators analyzed the scene. Completely forgetting the fact that I sell drugs on the side, I made my way over to the policemen. “What the hell happened to my car?”

One of the policemen looked back at the car, then at me again. “So you’re the lucky one? The victim got caught up in a drug ring that’s been making its way around the city. Apparently, he had gotten into some debt with the kingpin. Sometime early this morning, someone paid him a visit and ended up throwing him off a balcony. All the way from the top floor. That’s one hell of a fall.”

“Are you familiar with him,” the other one asked. I took a brief moment to view the face, which was covered with bruises around the eyes and shards of glass. “No.” There wasn’t much to be said after that and I made my way back inside. My insurance would cover the charges to fix my car, which put my mind at ease a bit. But I wish it had ended there.

“You’re not gonna believe this!” My friend Ronny was notorious for embellishing, but the degree of excitement in his voice was undeniably sincere today. “I’m at Marciano’s Pizzeria last night with Lex. I get up to go to the restroom and out of chance…I walk into the second stall. I don’t know why…I just choose the second one! Behind the toilet, in the center of the wall, there was this huge crack in the wall. It was like an impulse. I had to break it! I just…POW,” Ronny exclaimed, punching the air with his fist. “This is what was in it!” Ronny stopped waving his arms long enough for me to see what was in his hands. It was a small, purple satin bag.

I took it from him to see what all the hype was for. My jaw dropped once I saw what was inside. “Why the hell did you take it?”

“Why the hell not? This is a sign from God! Think about it: The place was packed last night. There were people coming in and out. There’s no way they could keep an eye on just one person! And what makes you think they were even there?”

“How much do you think they’re worth,” I asked.
“Don’t know. But we’re talking anywhere from a quarter million, half a million. Maybe more. I’m telling you, if we cash these in, it could be a nice investment on a brand new life. For both of us. It’s all up to you. What’s it gonna be?”

Out of nowhere, a splash of scalding hot water hits my face and I’m thrown off my train of thought. It burns like hell, but I won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream. So I scrunch my face instead, and then bite down on my bottom lip to hold it in. “What will they do to me next,” I continue to ask myself. They were notorious for using gruesome methods to kill their victims. Stories began surfacing only a year ago of how certain associates would go missing for weeks on end, only to turn up floating face down in the Hudson River with severed limbs. If I didn’t make it out, all I could wish for was a quick death, which I probably wasn’t gonna get. Maybe a shot to the head; execution style, of course.

“This can all be so simple. You tell me where Ronny Carson is and I might just let you go.” The emphasis on ‘might’ didn’t do much for my hope. But it was a far cry from being shot in the kneecap.

“I’d tell you…I just…I don’t know where he is! You gotta believe me…” The leader only shakes his head in disbelief.

“Ever heard of a ‘Colombian necktie’?” I hesitate for a moment before I reply. “No.” Common sense tells me I should have said yes. Whatever the hell it is, I don’t want to know. But I only open the door for him to take things a step further. A smirk comes across his face as he slowly pulls a switchblade from his coat pocket. It’s intimidating, but nothing compared to the defilement I’d been enduring. “Some credit the great Pablo Escobar with its creation, but that’s mere hearsay. Its true origin dates back to the late 40s, at the height of the Colombian civil war; La Violencia is what it’s referred to as. It’s a highly effective device in psychological warfare. When someone comes across a corpse; neck slit open, tongue hanging out, they tend to get the message. And the fear…the fear that comes across their face is…breathtaking; you can almost taste it from afar. It’s just that powerful.”

One of his henchmen steps behind me, tilting my head back while gripping my throat until my eyes began to water. My heart starts pounding again. “Before I begin this procedure, I feel it would only be fair to inform you of the excruciating pain you are about to experience. However, feel free to scream as loud as needed. No one will hear you anyway.”

The blade moves closer to my throat and time begins to slow down. I just want him to get it over with. But the true punishment comes in the form of anticipation. The blade finally touches my neck. It’s a chilling sensation that’s followed by the burn of the blade as it penetrates my skin.

The door suddenly swings open, and to my surprise, I see Ronny standing in front of two bodyguards. He’s clearly been roughed up, but nowhere near as bad as me. “Here are the diamonds! Just let him go! It was all my idea,” he yells frantically.

“Ronny Carson! My man! You’re just in time for the show. I was about to give your friend here a special gift from my homeland.

“Vince…I’m begging you…let him go.”

“No, I can’t do that.” Vince says unapologetically. “See…if I let him go, then I’ve got no one to kill. Now if you’re offering to take his place, that’s fine by me. Either way, someone’s gotta die.”

Instantly, I notice Ronny’s eyes light up the way they always do when he gets an idea. He sizes Vince up and Vince senses the tension build between the two of them. Ronny pulls his arm back and backhands Vince across the face, smacking the cigarette out of his mouth. Once it hits the ground, a flame ignites across the floor where puddles of gasoline had been carelessly left behind from previous torture sessions. It spawns a fiery barrier that separates the others from me while burning Vince alive. His men are scared stiff at the sight of him being mutilated. His bloodcurdling screams for help and the smell of burning flesh distracts them long enough for Ronny to come untie me. The henchmen start firing shots at Ronny, but miss as the flames began to rise higher.

Ronny throws my arm around his neck and carries me out of the warehouse as the fire grows into a raging inferno, devouring what was once a torture chamber. We make our way into a wooded area behind the burning warehouse to seek cover. Once we stop running, it’s obvious Ronny was shot. The amount of blood pouring from the gash on his right shoulder is absolutely horrific. “Your arm…you need help.”

“You’re the one who looks like hell,” he responds, half-jokingly.

”What happened…what happened to the bag?” Despite the situation, it all I can think about. Ronny reaches into his right pants pocket using his left hand, pulls out the small purple satin bag and sets it in my lap. For a brief moment, the pain I’m feeling is alleviated. I don’t know if we’ll make it back home, but we’re alive and in my hand is the opportunity for us to start anew.
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