What a Drag

What a drag
         I grabbed him from the backseat of the car by the collar of his shirt and his belt, and tossed him like a bag of grain near the rear bumper. I reached into the pockets of the worn-out, brown leather jacket I was wearing. Smokes in the left, zippo in the right, just like always. I flipped open the top of the carton, and slipped out the long, thin, sensual cigarette. I placed it in my mouth, with my lips curled around my teeth. I flicked the wheel of the lighter, but it only produced sparks. Damn, outta juice, piece ‘a shit. I walked over to the man, bent over and dug through his pockets. They say 20% of Americans smoke; and luck was always on my side. I found a throw-away bic lighter in the front pocket of his jeans. It produced a flame immediately, but it wasn’t the same as the zippo. The smell of the wick like the scent of a woman, the ping of the lid like the sweet ring of her voice.
         I lit my cig and tossed the lighter onto the man’s back. “Thanks,” I said through my tight lips with a smile. But he wasn’t awake yet, so it didn’t matter. My mom always told me to say thank you to people that helped you, and I wasn’t one to disappoint her. I took a deep drag of my cigarette, held it for a moment, and then let it out into the dry country air. I stuck the key into the trunk of the old car. It was an Oldsmobile, but the nameplate on the rear just said “Old.” I lifted the trunk, and grabbed a towing rope. I got down on my back and slid on the shadowy gravel underneath the car. I looked for something sturdy, and clipped the metal hook around it. I writhed my way back to the sunlight, adjusting my big mirrored pilot’s sunglasses. I took another long drag of my smoke, coughed a little, and bent down over the unconscious man. I took the other hook of the rope and clipped in the man’s black leather belt.
         His mouth was gagged, and his hands were zip-tied together. He started to moan a little, lifted his head and opened his eyes. His face was scratched and covered with gravel dust. I could imagine he was a little sore. I crouched down near his face and he did his best to look at me.
“Hi…” I said, dragging it out a little. He thrashed around a little, swearing at me through his gag. I responded with a mouth full of smoke in his face. He wheezed and tried to kick me with his bound feet. I put my cigarette out on the back of his neck. I stood up and walked my way to the driver’s side door, pulling the keys out of the trunk as I went. I pulled the handle, swung the door open, and sat down inside. I inhaled, grinning. I never met anybody who had been dragged behind a car, no one alive anyway. I imagined it was like wiping your ass with sandpaper; except your ass was your face, and the sandpaper was 5 miles of gravel.
         If he was lucky, he’d be a dead, bloody skeleton at the end of the drive. If not…he’d be breathing hamburger meat. I plugged in my Ipod, and selected shuffle. First, Sodomy and Lust by Cradle of Filth. Haha, no. Next, I Love My Sex by Benny Benassi. I didn’t feel like draggin’ to fuckin’ music; it kills the mood. But next came The Antichrist by Slayer.
         “Screams, from a life I live. Torment, is what I give. Torture, is what I love. The down fall, of the heavens above.”
         It was so perfect it put a stupid grin on my face.
         I stuck my key in the ignition and turned it, but couldn’t even hear the engine roar over the music. I put in it reverse, and inched the car back just to give him a good scare. I’m just a dick like that I guess. I put in 1st and started to slowly drive away, slightly rocking my head to the beat of the song…