C22 You've been incinerated in your Bentley

Chauncey lay in the dark. The two lumps on his head were throbbing. The handcuffs were cutting his wrist. The ropes burnt his ankles.

He had a speed rush for a moment from the coke and had the illusion that he could break free of the things that bound him. He had torn at his bindings, immune to the pain. Then he collapsed, exhausted. Now he had no energy, except to stay there and feel his pain.

His teeth were aching. He had lumps on his head. He could only breathe out of one nostril. The other one was clotted closed. The door opened to the sound of an explosion. The rat was home.

As soon as it shut the door, the sound of the explosion was gone. Chauncey was even more frightened.

There would be no chance of anyone hearing him, even if he got the tie out of his mouth, should he call out for help.

The rat went to the table and lit the candle. It turned back to Chauncey and smiled at him. All its teeth were rotten and black. Its gums were encrusted with a fungus. It smelled like a rotting corpse. “You’re dead now,” the rat said. “You don’t exist anymore.” Chauncey began to realize the rat was a human being. The

human rat reached in the back pocket of Chauncey’s herringbone pants and pulled out his wallet. It opened the wallet and showed Chauncey his driver’s license.

“You’re not Chauncey Gibbons anymore,” it said. “You’ve been incinerated in your Bentley.”

Chauncey closed his eyes.

Was it just the fucking coke? Had he sneaked in too many lines that he couldn’t even remember now? What was the opium doing?

The bitch had dosed him with amyl nitrate. It had to be a dream.

The Beretta, the rat, the little Asian beauty—was he still asleep—had he actually gone to Nora’s? The hail—of course it was a dream—San Francisco never had hail like that.

And the engagement ring—what would his therapist say? That it was the most important things that were the most difficult to let go of?

Of course!

He was still swallowed up in a dream that had gone on since the moment he dropped in bed after getting back from Joe China’s.

But it was Christmas! It was time to wake up!

Come on, Chauncey, he badgered himself, get up! Pull yourself out of it! You’ve got to get to Nora’s! And don’t forget the engagement ring on the mantelpiece!

Chauncey slowly opened his eyes, hoping against hope.

The human rat was sitting on his little mat, a couple feet away. It was still smiling. The smell of his breath made him gag behind his gag.

The rat reached in the breast pocket of Chauncey’s herringbone suit and took out the silver cigarette case that had once belonged to Rudolph Valentino. It opened the cigarette case and took the gold razor blade that had once belonged to John Belushi The rat scooped some raw coke onto the silver mirror and chopped it up with the razor blade until it was a fine white powder. It laid two fat lines out on the small mirror.

Then it took the black diamond snooter that had once belonged to Marline Dietrich and inserted one end up Chauncey’s only open nostril.

Chauncey held back for a moment. He held his breath as long as he could. Chauncey tried to bring a little bit of air up his clotted nostril.

It was impossible.

What was this game about?

He held his breath as long as he could. Then he let himself inhale through his open nostril. He felt the nasty rush at the top of his nostril. He was glad to feel it sink into his blood.

When he finished the line, the rat fed him another one. Chauncey gave into it this time. He could feel the dream returning. He had woken up and drifted back to sleep again. He was back in the dream. He welcomed it now. It was just a little delay and everything would be made right. It was deeper this time.

Christmas or not, he knew that nothing bad could befall him as long as he stayed in the dream.

Then somewhere in another valley, someone called out from a distant mountain top.

“You’re not Chauncey Gibbons anymore,” the distant voice said. “You’ve been incinerated in your Bentley.”