“(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya
(Now you’re under control) And now you do what they told ya…”
I was lost in a lurid frenzy, screaming along with the radio and thrashing wildly behind the wheel. It’s a good thing Sam didn’t see me dad rocking like this because he would be deceased. The music had me too hyped to care and the more wound up I got, the more radical and defiant I became. I chanted the lyrics like they were a war cry.
“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME
MOTHERFUCKER”
At the very instant that I hit that echoing “Ugh” at the end of the song, I suddenly spun the wheel, the tires on my Subaru station wagon chirping as I fishtailed into a U-turn. I was done playing by their rules. I was done playing to lose. I was going back to Bridget’s house to let that cunt know she and Rocco can count me out of their sick little game. Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me. Let’s see how Mr. “Redmen Redemption” likes it when he hears that I’m off the fucking reservation.
I was in a manic state. I felt powered up. My soaring confidence had me feeling ready to bust back in there and tell ’em all to go to hell. The motherfuckers don’t know it, but they’re already there.
I pulled into Bridget’s driveway like I was David Carradine in Death Race 2000, parked wherever the fuck I wanted to and swaggered up to the house like I owned the joint. I had my balls back. I swear to God I was glowing a little. Just as I was about to pound my fist on the door, I heard Rocco’s raised voice coming from inside.
Instinctively I crouched down to get out of sight. I was half-exposed behind the beautiful, recently-pruned hydrangeas in front of Bob’s house. Using my colorful camouflage as best I could, I peered furtively into the bay window, where I found just the right angle to see through the small gap in the curtains. Rocco was on his feet, pacing the living room like a caged tiger, his huge organ dangling in front of him and his leash dragging behind. He wasn’t tall and he wasn’t especially muscular, but the old prick was sturdy, broad-chested and tauriform — he had presence. Right then, he was yelling at Bridget, who remained seated on the couch. Even though I was outside, they were loud enough for me to hear most of what was said. Occasionally Bridget said something too muffled to apprehend, but mostly I could figure it out.
“I did my part,” he hissed angrily. “I got Big Pussy’s autograph for you. I got the body cam on him. I’m fucking done. I don’t owe you shit any more, you got that?”
“You don’t owe me anything any more?” Bridget asked mockingly. “I don’t know what is going through that fucked up head of yours. I’ll wipe out your debts when MasterBettor gets what it wants — until then, we own you. You got that?”
“Oh? What the company wants, is that all you’re after? Because I thought this might be a tad more personal for you, hon,” Rocco responded, his North Jersey accent starting to show.
“Fine,” Bridget said, speaking slowly to emphasize her annoyance. “When I get what I want.”
“I wipe my ass with what you want,” Rocco said as he unfastened the dog collar constricting his fat neck and let it fall to the floor. “You wanted Chesty’s signature on the contract and I got that for you too.”
“She didn’t exactly know she was signing a contract,” Bridget snapped, her voice shrill and thick with sarcasm. “Let’s be real.”
“Yeah, let’s be real, sweetheart,” Rocco shot back, his voice growing deeper and his eyes narrowing to slits. “I told you I could get the bitch’s signature and I was right. ‘If you don’t want me to call you Chesty, just sign your name to this piece of paper and I’ll call you whatever you want, Dr. Rosen,'” he recited in a mawkish voice, mimicking what he must have told my wife before she left his house. Then he slammed the table with a meaty fist. “I took care of my end! I don’t owe you shit anymore!”
I gasped out loud at that revelation, but Bridget was unruffled. She stood up straight, brushed off her shoulders, stepped to Rocco until they were toe to toe and looked him dead in the eye, stone-faced. “You don’t owe me shit? You’re in a hole that is six figures deep, my friend. Don’t make it six feet.”
I was outside, but even I could feel the energy in the room shift with that comment. Rocco didn’t reply right away. He just shook his head and mugged, letting the silence grow uncomfortable before he finally spoke. “Who is telling me not to make it six feet? Is that you saying that shit? Or is that your Uncle Anthony?”
“That’s none of your –”
“Because with all due respect, you shouldn’t make threats,” Rocco continued, blithely speaking over Bridget, “if you can’t follow through. I may not be straightened out, but I’m an earner. The old man ain’t having me clipped over some two-bit beef with a piece of cooze. I don’t care if you are his niece.”
A deranged look flashed across Rocco’s roughcast face as he snapped his hand in Bridget’s direction, mimicking a crab’s pincers. She stumbled a few steps back, then, without breaking eye contact with her, the hairy old Italian reached down to the floor, picked up the leash, still hooked to his discarded dog collar, and without warning began strapping Bob’s naked ass with it. Bob howled in pain as Rocco thrashed him mercilessly with the makeshift whip. He was sending a message.
At first Bridget tried to act tough. “I whip Sissy harder on date nights,” she said sarcastically. But before long she was screaming and begging him to stop as her husband bawled incoherently.
Rocco was impervious to their sobs. He was an engine driven by umbrage, relentlessly cracking the leather against Bob’s tiger-striped backside. It was fully uncomfortable to watch a grown man reduce another man to a blubbering mess of tears. I’m sure it didn’t help matters that my friend was taking this vicious hiding with his cock already locked in a golden chastity ring.
At last, Bridget broke. “Enough.”
I could see the fear on her face when she said it.
Rocco stopped his arm mid-swing, holding it still for a beat, eyes locked onto Bridget, his chest sweaty and heaving, then he brought the leash down one last time across her husband’s horribly welted ass, giving him a final lick that elicited the most inhuman howls yet.