Stiggy had worked for King a few times back during the Recession in his "wilderness" days. Actually, it was more than a few times, though to Stiggy it only felt like a few times since Stiggy didn't remember much of his "wilderness" days. It was actually about three or four years of consistent freelance contract work. Over six figures in services rendered. It had been a good gig-- one that Stiggy Ramirez had lived on solely for the first part of the 2010's.

Stiggy had done pretty much everything for the old goat, up to and including stuff he'd rather not remember anyway.

Rupert King was a frightening yellow-toothed limey fuckface, a transplant from the grimy streets of London who'd operated in the Midwest for decades now. He was bespectacled and silver-tongued and apple-cheeked and hairpin-tempered, his shiny balt pate surrounded by a crest of snow-white hair. He wore Armani suits and had offices in every one of his clubs. He ran every kind of racket there was, had connections from Los Zetas to the Yakuza to the Detroit Mafia itself.

Still, as far as Stiggy knew, this dom wasn't King himself, and likely had no authority to be making such threats over a fucking leather collar.

So rather than be concerned, Stiggy was fucking incensed at the audacity of this person-- treating him as if he was some sort of common suburbanite whiteboy cunt who would shrivel and die at the slightest threat. As if Stiggy had never even had a gun pointed at him before.

Stiggy paced his living room, thinking and getting angrier. He longed for a cigarette, for a bump. All he had was a bit of weed and his fucking vape pen which was nearly empty.

Who the fuck did this guy think he was? First he wakes Stiggy up at fucking 7 am, has his fucking pimple-chested girlfriend calling him to make threats in the wee hours of the morning. Then he has the nerve to think Stiggy would just give him 100 dollars for hanging up. Then he has the AUDACITY to add a zero to that and make further demands, telling Stiggy to come in and give it to him himself. That was unacceptable. And that wasn't even mentioning the face full of diarrhea that Stiggy HAD TECHNICALLY PAID FOR.

It's cause I paid her, Stiggy thought. I shouldn't have paid her. I figured I'd make a clean cut but it was taken as weakness and now this. I paid a heroin addict to spray diarrhea in my face and on my furniture.

How to change their minds? By showing force. By showing he didn't give a fuck. Stiggy had been to jail. He'd been shot at. He'd been beaten up and knifed and slashed and burned and casually disrespected more times than he could remember.

Just who the fuck did this "dom" think they were? Stiggy seemed to remember Kenzie saying he was a DJ at the club. Quite the high roller. We'd see how big he was once Stiggy got him face to face. Stiggy was a skinny bitch but he knew how to snap wrists and snap knees and bust noses and rupture testicles. Fucking cunts.

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Stiggy kept pacing, trying to calm down, anger boiling his brain. Maybe it was the fact he'd paid Kenzie-- he'd only wanted to be rid of her altogether so best honor the deal, and what the fuck was 450 to a guy with six figures in his fucking bank account anyway? Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't had a real lay in years. Maybe it was the fact that even though he had six figures in the bank, he was even further in debt with many varied interests, all of them breathing down his neck and several even scarier than Rupert King. Maybe it was the fact she'd been the one to forget the fucking collar on the nightstand. Maybe it was the fact that he'd forgotten it after taking it off her. Maybe it was the fact he'd only taken it off to secure the illusion she was fucking him for some reason other than money.

In any case, a rational response didn't occur.

Stiggy went to the dresser, got the collar, took it to his kitchen, whipped it into the trash can, held the lid open with his foot, took out his phone, snapped a picture, saved the picture, shared the picture to a text message on the Burner app, and furiously typed a response.

Come get your fucking shit yourself, he typed. Fuck that limey cocksucker and fuck you, too.

Send.

There was no going back now. Who fucking cared. Stiggy would answer the door with his .45 loaded, cocked and ready. See how tough this "dom" was when he had some steel in his face. She'd sprayed him in the face with shit, he'd spray her and her little boyfriend with fucking lead.

The reply was nearly instant, Stiggy's phone buzzing.

I am that limey cocksucker, Mr. Ramirez. So glad we'll be seeing you soon.

Stiggy stared stupidly down at his phone, not fully registering what he'd just done.

Fuck.

Wait, what?

Apparently the dom was indeed Rupert King after all. Or was he?

But how? Why would Kenzie not name him specifically? She'd been bragging out her ass all night. Why not reveal the true identity?

How the fuck had Stiggy not connected this? What just happened? What the fuck was going on?

Why hadn't Stiggy paid more attention to Kenzie's ramblings?

FUCK.

This was bad.

Stiggy stared at his phone, reading the latest message again and again. The little ellipsis appeared again for a brief moment, King about to say something else, but then it disappeared and nothing else came up.

The first message sat there on his screen, grey and final.

King knew where Stiggy lived. King knew Stiggy personally. Stiggy had lived in this shithole for years. How the fuck had this happened?

Stiggy kept pacing his apartment, walking feverishly from his bedroom to his living room and back again. He ran his hand through his hair. He stared at his phone. He put it down. He picked it up again.

Oh, fuck.

Stiggy and King had not parted on good terms. There was a tenuous peace between them, as long as Stiggy made himself scarce around the area and didn't show up in anything owned by King, but King had made it clear he wouldn't need much of a reason to change that. Had this all been a set up? No way. But fuck, Stiggy was in big shit.

They'd probably be here in an hour if not before.

Why was this happening? All Stiggy had wanted was some ass.

Though he may have been a fuck-up and a pervert and a skinny one-eighth-Mexican stoner, Bartholemew "Stiggy" Ramirez wasn't a pussy or a sucker. He knew what he'd have to do.

A bright moment of clarity shot through his below-average brain.

It was time to get Sully.