Content Warning: This story contains graphic violence, human exploitation, and explicit sexual assault involving bodily fluids. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

“I’m sorry about all the locks. We’re pretty serious about security here.” He was tall and pale, with barely buzzed brown hair that grew like moss on his scalp. Sergio wasn’t sure the door was big enough for him. “We’ve had some incidents in the past,” the man said as he removed the final padlock.

The room was dark and cold. The window was left open all night, allowing dew and dust to stick to every surface. The debris dulled, but didn’t mask, that which dripped off the broken chairs and warped tabletops. Sergio smelled it as soon as he entered, and watched its puddles reject white sunlight from the wooden floors: blood.

”I’m sorry, I forgot to…” the man chuckled. “I’m Adam.” He reached out for a handshake.

”Sergio.” Firm grip.

”Yeah. I know it’s a lot, but Vincent said you two had cleaned a lot worse in your motel days. If it’s too much for one person, we can…”

A plaque hung above the bar. At some point it was one of many, if Sergio believed the sun stains. On it was a silver face over a red felt. Or maybe it was a skull. Sergios couldn’t tell from down here. He only recognized how it broke in the bottom half. The jaw was missing.

”So two-hundred is good? And you’ll toss it in the dumpster in Woodshire?” Adam held the cash. It looked like ten twenties.

”I’ll take care of it.”

Adam smiled. “Good,” he said as he pocketed the bills. “I’ll check back in an hour? See how it’s going?”

”Sure.”

Adam left, leaving Sergio alone with the blood.

—-

It took about three hours to clean everything. Sergio was surprised to learn that cleaning blood didn’t feel too different from any other liquid. He’d easily filled eight black trash bags. It wasn’t until he lifted the first that he noticed a leak had collected under the pile. One of the bags must have ripped. He should have seen it, but black and red look the same in the dark.

—-

The truck was loaded. Sergio waited for fifteen minutes before looking for Adam. The bar was spotless, and the windows were closed.

Sergio let the overhead lights guide him through the back rooms. Someone was back there, clanging around, just not inside the water-stained offices. Sergio killed the lights in each room after checking them, until only the restroom remained. It closed from the inside, with enough light for him to register moving shadows.

Sergio opened the door, but his eyes stayed on the floor. Perhaps he had an idea of what those low sighs and squeaks really were, or maybe his mind was still on the job, but it came as no surprise to see a line of thin crimson scratch the white tile flooring. Its source was a stranger on his knees, and the blood spilled between his legs in wet, rhythmic dumps. His clothes, tattered and loose, were soaked. He was servicing Adam, whose heavy eyelids froze as he grabbed the back of the man’s hair. He clamped his lips before exhaling a sudden red relief. The other man gagged as Adam pulled out, and he only turned to Sergio after swallowing a glob of semen and blood.

His pink eyes shone away from the grime on his skin. In between his clumps of hair were damp scabs. Grool dripped off his bottom lip, escaping from where his bottom teeth used to be. Skin sagged from the sharp of his bone.

”Sergio!” Adam exclaimed as he stored his bloody, flaccid penis. “You finished early.” He withdrew the bills from his pocket, letting them collect gunk off his hands as he counted.

“Here y’ar. Oh, actually—” Adam stopped himself, then pulled another hundred from his wallet. “Think you can cover this too? I’m taking him back to the pen.”

The man wilted over the mess underneath him. His spine supported the other limbs with labored, wet breaths. Sergio slowly took the money, all too aware of how the bills stuck to his fingers. “I can do that.”

Adam adjusted his belt buckle as he instructed his slave to stand. The frail man rose, then limped away, and his owner followed. Their steps squished and splattered fresh droplets on the seamless tile. The smell attacked the back of Sergio’s throat. He made a note to himself: next time, bring a mask. Sergio let the sound of footsteps sputter into silence before counting his money. ◆

R.E. Duenas is an author from San Francisco, California.

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