“Wakey, Wakey, Officer Prescott–I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”
The gloved hand slapped his face, hard, palm and then backhand, making the man groan. He could smell smoke, and piss, and dank. He could remember being out on patrol, but after that–things got fuzzy. He opened his eyes. The room was dark, aside from red lighting overhead, and some man in a leather uniform he didn’t recognize was smiling at him a few inches from his face–close enough that he could feel the heat from the man’s cigar on his cheek. “Wha–where the fuck am I?” he said, struggling a bit, testing the strength of the ropes binding him to the metal bars behind him.
“Where you are isn’t important, officer. This is only going to be your home for a few days, while I get you sorted out. You’ve made quite a few enemies on the force, these last ten years–I haven’t had someone rack up the bidding like this in a long time.” The leather stranger stepped to the side, and Prescott saw, behind him, a laptop with some program running. Every few seconds, another line would pop up on the bottom. Squinting…he saw they were numbers–dollar amounts. “Let’s see here,” the man said, and looked closer at the screen. “Looks like we’re down to a bidding war between the Aryan Nationals, and the Lobos.”
Prescott had been working in the gang unit for quite a while, and he’d been instrumental in arresting several higher ups in both groups. Ironically, both groups were engaged in an on and off again turf war in a few neighborhoods. Still…had he said, bidding war?
“Yeah–looks like I’ll be getting over 10,000 for your ass.”
“You’re what, you’re fucking auctioning me off? For what, who gets my head?”
“Oh, nothing so easy as killing you, no,” the man said, taking a drag off your cigar. “No, I specialize in more…complex manners of revenge. If the Aryans win, they’ll probably want another pig, like a made a few years back–think the guy’s name was…Anderson?” Prescott recognized him, but his name had been Anderstone. He’d gone missing from the unit a few years back, but a body had never turned up. “You’ll be much more interested in scoring drugs, eating boots, and taking their fists than much else. The Lobos–you’re a bit old for what they usually ask for, which is young guys to whore out on the block. That said, I’ve heard a rumor that one of their new leaders, he likes white guys–but big ones. Fatties. Pretty crazy guy too–likes beating them pretty rough. Still, if you beg for me, I’ll let you…enjoy that part.”
“That’s fucking…that can’t fucking happen!”
“Oh?” the man said, and Prescott felt something…in his head. A presence, wiping things clean, removing memories, putting in new ones. He realized, after a few minutes, he was losing every memory of every woman he’d ever been with, including his wife, and each was being replaced with some dirty, brutal encounter with rough men off the street. When the man left, Prescott was shaking, and vomited a bit on his uniform, and looked back at the screen. Only a minute left on the auction, and then he’d learn what his new position on the block was going to be from here on out.