MaryAnn was right about one thing. I sure am a piece of shit.

There’re more slaves today than ever before and I’ve known some of them. The ones I’ve seen aren’t used to work a field or build a pyramid however. The places these modern-day slaves reside are in the back of repurposed meat lockers, strapped in semi-trailers, or locked up in the basements of big houses with perfectly manicured gardens with fountains and koi ponds and fleets golf carts for traversing their immense grounds.

I’s probably twenty-five when I’d gotten into the security business; being six and a half feet tall with a bald head has its perks. I’ve been a gym rat, a Christian camp counselor, and a bastard. Although there would be places more unique and beautiful and less fake than Las Vegas, I wasn’t looking for anything real in those days and watched doors at clubs; the outfit I was working with paid well, but the nights could get rowdy. Normally, it was some shit head that’d hit the tables at one of the casinos, they’d come off hot, and decide to get drunk and handsy with the waitstaff; the times I worked with escorts were the worst even if the girls were nice. I can’t tell you how many poor fools I roughed up while they cried and insisted that they were in love. Mad shit.

There I was, a kid practically, standing there beneath a neon club sign shortly after I’d gotten off work, the sun came across the desert flats and further out I could spot the Spring Mountains out west and mostly cast in deep shadow; I was chatting with the guy that worked the dayshift and we were standing outside of a place known for less business as it was on the outskirts of the city and way outside of the strip. It had been a slow night and he reached into his jacket pocket, dusted his index knuckle and sniffed a bump before shaking his head and returning the coke to his jacket. “Shit’s rough,” he said, “My back’s been giving me spasms for years now. I went to see the chiropractor and they don’t know what’s what. Coke’s the only thing that kills the pain.”

But I wasn’t listening to my coworker; I was staring off down the sidewalk where a man approached the front of the club from a side parking lot, sunglasses and hair gelled and a suit worth more than my ass.

“Gentlemen,” said the patron as he neared us. He shot us a pearly smile and shucked cards from his pocket before reaching out with them.

We each grabbed one; the card was black with white writing and incredibly plain, only containing a phone number.

The man continued, “If ever you two are looking for good pay, give that number a ring. We’re always looking for workers.”

The man brushed past us and ducked into the club; bombastic music was there and then as the door closed, it was not, and there was a moment of strangeness in the air only broken in spurts by cars passing on the street.

The dayshift guy looked over the card and tore it up before tossing it on the sidewalk. “I know him.” He glanced at the card I’d been given; I was holding it in my hand, still examining it. “I’d toss that. More trouble than it’s worth.”

And that’s how I got into the biz. It was a simple call, and I was offered a gig watching the stage at a rock concert and before long, I started driving places for the exorbitantly wealthy. Sometimes it was merely fetching groceries or drycleaning or maybe transport for drugs. I could get the hookup when necessary and the number of illicit substances that the rich go through is nothing short of impressive; at least regarding the rich fucks I knew.

Hedonism has its price, and I was paid very well.

The guy that’d initially given me the card was the one that ran the whole organization, and we all called him Mr. Pinky and didn’t know his real name. In fact, it was often that those of us working under Mr. Pinky went by codenames. Just like real fucking super spies. We were known for our discretion and attention to detail.

I still remember the first time I’d been called in the middle of the night. Upon ignoring it the first time, it started again, and I answered it.

The voice on the line was one I’d become very acquainted with in the years after. “Don’t you ever fucking ignore my call, pissant.” It was gruff and spoke with incredible enunciation. “Pink told me to call you up. We’ve got a delivery to make.”

“I was told I’d be off these next three days,” I said.

“You work when we tell you to.” The voice began to soften. “We’ve got a situation and need an extra set of hands.”

Once I’d been given directions, the phone hung up without so much as a fuck you and it wasn’t until that moment, holding the phone in my hand that I noticed I was shaking. I got dressed and took off in my old beater, a shitty Chevy truck that was half rusted underneath and before long I was on the outskirts of Boulder City, taking a back road long and without a name. At the end of that road was a magnificent ranch style mansion, and upon seeing it, I expected the worst. I pulled the truck alongside a group of distinguished sports cars; on the opposite end of the row of cars, I spied a very plain sedan. Before I’d even had the opportunity to kill the engine, I jumped from a tap on the driver’s side window.

There was an older gentleman there, decked in black, completely clean shaven; he seemed irritated. I hand cranked the window open and he leaned in so his body consumed the frame.

“We talk on the phone?”

I nodded.

He stepped from the truck’s door, and I hopped out, noticing him stuffing a pistol into the back of his pants; it dawned on me then that if I’d answered any other way, he might’ve blasted me on the spot. He went on, motioning me towards the house, “Ever do a job like this?”

Trying to keep my cool, I answered, steadying the quiver in my voice, “Depends. Drugs?”

He shook his head, and we pushed through the front of the house. Through a set of rear glass doors, I could see there was a pool out back. He led me there and we silently stepped back into the night. The backyard was an overwhelming display of opulence. Barbecue area with a brick oven, meticulously plotted gardens along walkways further out from the pool, privacy trees around the edge of the property, and a bar against the back of the house where it seemed there had been a party as there were bottles strewn across its surface. A single man sat at the bar, also dressed in black, smoking a cigar while chewing on it. Floating in the pool was a dead woman and I blinked.

“Who’s this?” asked the man at the bar.

The man that’d led me there looked at me questioningly, before shaking his head, “No real names.”

“B-bee.” It was the first thing that came to mind.

The man at the bar took a puff on the cigar and laughed. “Hi B-b-b-bee. I’m Grub.” He looked at the older man. “That’s Mick.”

I looked at the woman, face up in the pool, dead eyes staring up at the night sky. It was a stupid question, “Did you kill her?”

Mick sighed. “Fuckin’ greenhorns.”

Grub stood and waved the cigar around. “The man that killed her doesn’t concern you, Bee. She’s dead and you’re on company time so let’s get cracking.”

We fished her from the pool, bound her limbs with tape so they wouldn’t flail around when we moved her and chucked the corpse in the back of my truck; it was surreal seeing a dead woman there, but I didn’t get to think about it long before Mick covered her with a thick canvas tarp. I drove with the body and Mick rode alongside me while Grub followed in the plain sedan.

We took that woman out into the desert and dug a hole by headlights and put her in it and covered her with dirt. After the deed was done, Mick unlatched the trunk of the sedan and shoved a brown paper bag into my chest. I took it. It was full of cash.

I consoled myself, wrapped in a blanket while sitting at my kitchen table, just staring at the stacks of wrapped bills. The morning came while I watched the unmoving money, a cup of vodka and orange juice in hand.

We buried a lot of people out in the middle of nowhere; mostly they were women, but sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes they were smaller.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

This was a process that went on for years. I’d get a call and we’d clean, and I’d get a brown paper bag. Interspersed throughout these late-night shifts would be the regular runs, but occasionally, my phone would ring and the number would be restricted, Mick would give me directions, and my ulcers would burn like hell.

Once I’d established myself as someone among the ranks that could keep my mouth shut, I started moving livestock; that’s what they called it. I’d go as far as Albuquerque or Colorado Springs, meet up at a warehouse where I’d be greeted by Mick or Grub or both and we’d drive a semi from one big industrial building to another where other men would take over distribution. It was always livestock. Never people. But I knew what they were.

Mick let me look in the back of one of the trailers where I could see the scared faces of them tied in wire and gagged with leather. He always told me, “The pretty little young ones are the most expensive, so if you need to kill one to show them you mean business, make sure it’s an adult.”

It was bad business and to cope I started chewing Percocet or Vicodin or really whatever I could get my hands on. The opioids would make things fuzzy, and I’d chase them with some coke to keep me sharp. Then there was the liquor too; any kind did the job. I’m amazed, but the human body is resilient. If anyone knows, I do.

Some rich people keep exotic animals, some collect illegal weaponry, and others have darker desires still. Those in the last category are the ones we catered to. Some kept people in cages. Some cut them just to watch them squirm. Others were cannibals. Whatever your flavor, there’s a choice.

Then there was the time I was flown out to a lodge in a forest by Bighorn Lake in Wyoming. It was a gathering of great and big and important people; it wasn’t a place for celebrity, the truly powerful are unknown among the general public. Mr. Pinky was there, which was a surprise because I hardly ever saw him out of his professional attire. It seemed he’d dispensed with the suits in exchange for the look of a tourist in a strange land: wide brim hat, cargo shorts which exposed chicken legs, and floral beach shirts. It was a real laugh riot, let me tell you. That’s sarcasm. It was the worst experience of my life.

They had me on drug duty; I advised dosage and appropriate use for the elites that seemed intrigued.

The lodge was situated between two massive rock formations that looked out on many cabins, outbuildings, and picnic areas with pools and waterfalls for leisure. There was an open bar, and all were welcome, so I took up there at the tin-roof covered bar, drinking, singing karaoke, and dancing dumbly. Hey, I was the guy with the dope, I had to be seen having a good time. I saw at least a hundred people or more in attendance not including the staff, and none of them seemed the slightest bit worried about the terribleness hidden just beneath the surface. Within one of the outbuildings was where they kept the livestock, and no one went near it until nighttime.

Grub took up there at the bar with me, smoking his cigars, ordering the same every time: a thing he called a Salty Dog.

“You know what this is?” he asked me.

“No.”

“It’s a mix of gin and grapefruit juice.” He took a sip and let go of a satisfied sigh. “Get my friend here one,” he said to the bartender.

“It’s nice here,” I said.

Grub nodded. “Fresh air.” Then he seemed to ruminate. “It’s nice now. Wait till night though. I’d stay in your cabin once it gets dark. Last year was nuts.”

“You come every year?”

“Not every year, but Mr. Pinky never misses one of these.”

“Why’s he called that?”

Grub shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” A Jimmy Buffet song came over the speakers dangling above the bar, and he shifted around on his stool to look me over. His eyes then moved across the scene toward some of the picnic tables where a handful of richies were chatting. I’d never once seen Grub look nervous, but he looked nervous right then. “You do alright with everything?”

“What do you mean?” I asked as the bartender pushed the Salty Dog concoction at me and I took a sip from it.

“With what we do.”

“I don’t know.”

“I never talk to Mick about it. I think it’d be nice to leave one day. Put it all behind me. You think a person can do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You got a family?”

A chill ran through me. “No.” Was he attempting to subtly threaten me?

“That’s good. I’ve got one,” he admitted. Smoke swirled over his head from his cigar. “Heh. It’s a living!” He laughed dryly.

I raised my glass, and he raised his.

When evening came, they ran a man through with a spit just like you’d do with a pig, asshole first, and cooked him over a fire; he was alive, kicking, groaning when they started in. His blood dripped and steamed across the flames. I rushed behind one of the outbuildings used for vehicle and tool storage and tasted the Salty Dog on the way up. A strange shiver entered my body that I could not shake.

The richies gathered around the fire, perhaps drawn by the scent of barbecue and danced chaotic and disjointed, stripping of clothes, marching out the livestock for bloodletting, and doused their naked pale bodies in the wild spurts that they opened from the necks of those poor bought souls.

I took to the cabin I shared with Mick, and he was already in his bed, but still awake.

“Haven’t the stomach for it?” he asked me.

I said nothing, sat in my bed across from his and chewed a Vicodin.

Mick shook his head, “Fuckin’ junkie.”

In the night, I had wild visions of those sick fucks looking through our cabin windows. They tapped on the glass and chanted and then all was black for a while at least.

Upon waking, I rushed from bed and saw the smoking embers of a dying fire without a trace of any livestock; the staff was quite good at cleaning.

Moving directly to the bar, I saw Grub speaking with Mr. Pinky over a picnic table and on Mr. Pinky’s knee was a small boy no older than five or six. The kid looked happy, wore a blue pajama onesie, and it seemed that Mr. Pinky had plucked several strands of grass to teach the kid how to blow through them to make a whistling noise. I drew nearer, Grub nodded at me; something in his eyes was like a psychic message I couldn’t decipher. The boy giggled as Mr. Pinky dug his fingers into his sides to tickle him.

Each night was worse than the last—it was like the waning of a moon as days passed and they all wanted to get their hunger sated before the soiree was done.

On my last day, I caught Mick throwing a blue onesie into the incinerator that stood in one of the outbuildings; we said nothing about it.

Things went on, business as usual, and I took back to Vegas for a while, cleaning, running errands, and only infrequently was I brought in for transportation.

That is until one night in midsummer when even the night was warm. I answered after the first ring and Mick told me to meet him out by the Nevada Arizona border on Mesquite Heights. My stomach was killing me, but I knew better than to disappoint and when I met him out there, Grub was already there too. We parked just off the road and Mick instructed us to take shovels and march off into the desert.

“Leave any guns,” he told us, “We need this to be quiet.” Neither of us questioned when he snatched a machete from his sedan.

We marched in single file with Mick trailing behind. The air was thick, and the shovel was heavy against my shoulder, but the stars were as beautiful as they could be against that deep night.

“How much farther?” asked Grub.

“Just up the way and over the next hill there,” said Mick.

“You already brought what we’re burying? Why didn’t you bury it yourself?” I asked.

“No sass,” said Mick.

We took on, stumbled over the next hill and came to an open spot.

Mild confusion took both me and Grub as we stood in a small valley of dust.

“Stacy Williams,” said Mick, “She’s graduating from USC this semester, isn’t she?”

Grub dropped his shovel.

“Maybe I’ll see her around.”

Grub remained silent. He didn’t beg. His head came off immediately and bounced by his feet, blood dancing from his neck in ropes before he hit the ground.

Mick wiped the machete clean, and we buried him out there. I did not ask why.

More calls came after that—we were a man short after all—at least until they brought a new kid into the fold; he was in his twenties and reminded me of myself when I’d started. The main difference, however, came in him seemingly enjoying the work rather than seeing it as an avenue to for cash. We called him Pip I guess because he liked Great Expectations. I had none for him.

Without saying a word, I planned my escape.

I found some dirt-cheap property way out east where maybe they couldn’t find me and purchased the land through an LLC.

It’s in the Appalachians somewhere.

The last time I answered my phone for Mick was a treat.

“Be ready,” he said, “I’m coming by with a drop off I need you to run upstate.”

“I won’t be there,” I said.

“Excuse the fuck out of you? Have you fallen and hit your head?”

“Goodbye.” I hung up the phone and chucked it into a sewer drain outside of the Hairy Reid airport.

Months went by and the habits of paranoia subsided, but perhaps they shouldn’t have. Suboxones are supposed to help with opioid addiction and for a long time I wondered if Grub was onto something about living a life and putting it all behind me. For a long time, I thought it was possible.

That was, until last night when I saw the approach of a plain sedan; moonlight reflected off the windshield. I’ve the only house for miles so I knew what was coming.

The plain faced Mick stepped from the car just outside of my home, checked his pistol and moved to the front door; I watched him from behind a curtain through one of the anterior windows. When his shoes sounded on the porch, I moved toward the door. He jostled the handle; I wouldn’t give him the opportunity no matter how scared I was, no matter how scared I’d been for years.

After kicking the door open, he stumbled in and without hesitation, I took the knife in my hand and jabbed it beneath his jaw; cartilage popped around his Adam’s apple as I twisted and blood shot from his neck then his mouth as he twisted around bewildered. The room illuminated in white light for a millisecond, and I was sure it must’ve been lightning for how bright it was, but my ears were ringing. The muzzle flash of his pistol came again, and he fell dead in my doorway, red pooling around him.

The adrenaline saved me only for a moment before I slipped in his blood. It wasn’t his blood.

Mick got me both times in the stomach.

The sun is coming up and I’m getting tired.

They finally got me.

It’s not such a bad place to go, I guess.

I’m getting off easy.

If anyone can, tell MaryAnn she was right.

It’s getting cold, but the sunrise sure is beautiful.