Every Last Drop Read Online Free PDF

nostril, yanking her head down as she tries to pull back. —This is nothing, child, nothing at all. Be still.
A long whine comes from her throat as he forces the gum farther inside, his index finger pushed in past the second knuckle, blood trickling out. —Don't fret so, child, but a little farther and it will be back in your mouth.
She coughs and gags and he shoves her onto the floor. —Nothing,
He holds out his saliva and mucous covered hands. —Pathetic.
The boy with the police cap steps forward with a box of tissues, and the man plucks several and wipes his fingers.
—The ends I went to, the sacrifices I made, the labors endured to bring you here for your betterment. And yet here you are, even now, defying my most basic edicts and commands.
The girl hacks loud three times and the gum coughs out of her mouth, elongated and glossy.
He mashes the tissues and throws them at her. —Wipe your spittle, child.
She takes the tissues, still hacking, picks up the gum and wipes her phlegm and spit and tears, creating wet trails in the grime on the filthy linoleum.
He lifts his chin high, looks down his nose. —Disgusting. Foul. Those names, too, would be apt. —You know, next time he sticks his fingers in your mouth, you should really
bite them off.
The girl and the man and the three boys look at me in my dark corner of the room where I lie in my own blood, bound in the twisted lengths of barbwire. —Seriously. You snap off a couple of those digits, I guarantee he'll be thinking twice before he goes mining for your gum again. Those things don't grow back too well. Makes a real impression when you bite one off. —Low!
Moustache pushes the mans wheelchair forward, into the overhead light. —Closer, boy, closer.
He rolls until his feet are inches from my face, the long gnarled nails almost poking me, reeking of toe jam and rot. —A biter, are you? Like something to chew on, would you?
His foot lashes and the nail of his big toe cuts into my lips and he forces it inside. —There. Tasty? How you most like it, is it?
I bare my teeth, the toe between them.
And he pulls a cap-and-ball .44 from the greasy bathrobe draped over his shoulders and puts it against my head.
—Yes, now bite. It will please me if you do.
So I bite.
But I don't think it pleases him much at all.
He doesn't shoot me. He just watches as I rip his toe off and spit it onto the floor. And he laughs as he has the three boys work together to keep me from thrashing too much while they take one of my boots off and the girl lifts my foot to the man and he shares with me just what it feels like to have a toe bitten off.
Me, if I had the gun, I'd definitely shoot him. A lot.
—You see, yes, you see how they task me, yes? This, this is what they bring me. This paltry offering. This soupcon. And out of this I am to feed us all? How, I ask you, how?
He takes one of the bags of blood from the TV tray and unzips the top a little, places his mouth over the opening and tilts his head back and sucks and swallows and the blood runs too fast and wells over his cheeks and down his chin and onto the collar of the robe and the pleated front of his wilted tuxedo shirt.
He finishes and tosses the bag aside and lifts his chin. —Miserable.
Do-rag takes a crusted square of linen from the TV tray and wipes the man's mouth and chin and neck, careful not to pull on any of the long strands of oily reddish hair that hang to the mans shoulders. —Yes, good, enough.
The boy steps back.
The man lifts the second swollen bag of blood.
—And this to last for how long? How long until they can find some other feeble and crippled runt that they might manage to bring down? Barely worth keeping. Pathetic.
Police Cap takes the bag from him, to a fridge wheezing in the corner, and slips it inside onto shelves loaded with bags of pig trotters and chicken feet.
The man picks up the last and smallest of the bags, the dregs of the dealer the girl drained in the vacant lot.
—Since you still resist the