The Warhol Incident by G.K. Parks

me in my own apartment. Ski Mask stepped back and nodded almost imperceptibly to my captor. He grabbed both of my wrists in one hand and used his other meaty paw to slam my head against the wall. Pain erupted through the side of my face, and I crumpled to the ground once he released my wrists. Fighting away the waves of blackness, I was taken by surprise when the man slammed his boot down on my stitched-up thigh. White hot pain shot through me, and I screamed as every single stitch ripped through my flesh. Instinctively, I curled myself into a ball as he delivered another few kicks to my injured leg.
    “That’s enough. We need to go before the neighbors report her screams,” Ski Mask commanded, and the onslaught stopped. Ski Mask then leaned down, grabbing a fistful of my hair and jerking my head off the ground. “Remember what I said.” He slammed my face against the ground for emphasis. As soon as he stepped away, I opened and closed my mouth carefully, checking to see if my jaw was broken. Two sets of footsteps walked to my door, and then the door opened and closed.
    I forced myself into a seated position and looked around the room cautiously. When no other attackers presented themselves, I dragged myself to my desk drawer and pulled out my nine millimeter. Loading a clip into it, I leaned against the desk and waited for them to return. After a few minutes passed and no one came back to finish the job, I got off the floor. Using the desk for support, I slumped into my chair. My leg was bleeding profusely, and my vision was impaired by my quickly swelling left eye.
    “Holy shit,” I gasped , reining in my thoughts. The painting was delivered. My job was finished, so why did some goon and his henchman threaten me? “I’m just going to sit here for a minute and regroup,” I said aloud to myself. Between the bloody, sticky mess that was my leg and my damaged, swollen face, I couldn’t bring myself to move. Finally, I got up, limping, and made my way to the front door. No one was in the hallway. Locking the door, I put the small security chain into the latch and picked up the phone to call Detective Nick O’Connell. He had helped me before, and I knew I could trust him.
    “O’Connell,” he answered as I slowly made my way through my apartment, making sure Ski Mas k and his friend didn’t leave any other unpleasant surprises.
    “I t’s Alex Parker. How good are you at changing some locks?”
    “W hat’s wrong?” He knew I would never call unless the shit hit the fan.
    “I need your help. I don’t know if I want this to be official.” I was uncertain how well-connected Ski Mask was and if he’d know I ratted out his conversation to the cops.
    “Ok ay, I’ll meet you. Where are you?”
    “At home.”
    Sterilizing a pair of manicuring scissors and tweezers, I was in the process of removing the remnants of my stitches. Having pieces of thread attached to only one side of my injured flesh wasn’t doing me any good. “Holy fucking hell,” I cursed, pulling the last piece of thread out of my leg. As I poured rubbing alcohol over the gaping hole in my thigh, I tried not to scream. Finally, I wrapped it in gauze and taped it in place, anything to avoid a trip to the ER after being awake for the last twenty-four hours.
    After slipping on a pair of loose fitting shorts, I assessed my face. My left eye was swollen shut, and the area from my eyebrow to my cheekbone was red and swollen. I was about to go in search of an icepack when there was a knock at my door. Immediately tensing up, I grabbed my handgun off the bathroom vanity and headed toward the door.
    “It’s Nick,” O’Conn ell called from the hallway. Cautiously, I unlatched and then unlocked my door, stepping aside and allowing him to enter. “What’s the other guy look like?”
    “I wouldn’t know. This was a present from my welcome home party,” I retorted, relocking the door. From the freezer, I pulled out a bag of peas. Taking a seat on the