Farbo heard a shovel moving sand not far from where he laid. The cool desert wind shook the sackcloth over his head, but not enough that he could peek out from under it. His captor began to cough and paused the dig.
The sackcloth smelled like blood. Some of it was Farbo's. He managed to keep as much of it in his mouth as he could handle, but the trunk ride out here came with its bumps and potholes and it was either spit or swallow. In his case, swallow. He figured he'd have to save hydration on this field trip.
The coughing stopped. He heard liquid sloshing around inside something metal, and the unscrewing of a metal cap. A pause in his captor's breathing, a few pulls on the flask, and a satisfied exhale. The cap was screwed back on and the digging resumed.
Farbo weighed the notion of death by being buried alive in the desert against the notion of being eaten alive by coyotes and felt better about the sand. He figured it was better than being reincarnated as an animal's next bowel movement. The ropes were rough against his wrists, wiry and biting into his skin. He would be in pain with this next trick anyway, but the scratchy hempen rope didn't make things any better.
Save for the fact that it had been fraying from picking at it this whole ride. Farbo managed to loosen the rope a bit, but pushing one wrist down caused the other one to tighten up. So he resorted to a trick he "learned" from one of the Fantastic Fabianne's BDSM scenes he had been in years prior.
He sucked in a chest full of air, and began to cough as loud as he could. This was to mask the sound of him dislocating his right thumb. The first time Fabianne broke his hand he was so far into subspace that he didn't even cry out the safeword. But it gave him enough room in the wrist to wiggle out of her best bindings. And it won him an advantage here in the desert night.
He clutched the rope in his left hand and shimmied his right hand free. Another cough and he popped his thumb back into place. He held the bundle of rope and waited for the digging to stop. The bodyguard/gravedigger's cologne drew near.
---
Two nights prior he was working his second show and tried to drum up a little audience participation. He had hoped for the large, bodyguard-type of dope in the front row, but instead his charge volunteered. Slick hair. Heavy gold watch. Expensive suit and shoes.
It was Farbo's take on the classic rabbit-out-of-a-hat object production trick. His oilslick of a subject stood and turned on stage to model himself for the audience. Scattered applause, a sarcastic boo from his squeeze still seated in the front row. He started with some harmless fun. A poker chip behind the ear, "not ready to cash out?" A little pickpocketing to show off the man's wad of cash in a gold money clip, "well, hell's bells there, sir, what's that, like ten k plus the cash?" A few chuckles from both his subject and the audience.
But this was the late show and the kids would all be in bed by now. Half a dozen innocent items in, then from the man's belt Farbo pulled out a twenty- four inch pink double-ended dildo. "Whoops, sorry about that, sir. Y'know, I know a guy that can get you pills for that." Hoots and hollers from the crowd, a wolf whistle, and a red faced man standing next to him on stage. Suddenly he began to feel steam coming off his subject. He tossed the dong aside and reached for the man's tie. "Just gonna...clean you up here," he stammered. Another pat down and he urgently felt the need to get this man back to his seat lest his audience viewed a live execution with the cannon tucked under the man's arm.
He held the man's shoulder to turn him to the audience. "Let's hear it for this gentleman, he's been a great sport tonight! They call me the Phenomenal Farbo and that's all the time the manager can give me!" A short wave of applause, the man kept his eyes on Farbo as he descended from the stage.
Twenty four hours and an amateur dentist appointment later, Farbo was dealt body blows and a cross to the jaw by the bodyguard he meant to humiliate. Waves of some cologne he didn't recognize covered the slabs of meat adorned in half a dozen rings that served as his wake up call. Oilslick dragged on a cigar behind the brick shithouse.
"This wouldn't have been a problem had you played nice." A cloud of smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke. "I mean, yeah, it's the twenty first century and all, so the dildo thing I can forgive. Who isn't a little kinky, right?" Another drag. The guard's left to the solar plexus.
"But the money..." he exhaled, followed by a snort. "You just had to try to scam me. In front of, what, thirty, maybe forty bar flies?" He took out the wad of cash, slipped the clip off the bills, and began rifling through them. "You were pretty close, kid," he said as he counted. "The clip's worth twelve thousand. But the $1500 in cash that was in it felt a little lighter when you gave it back to me." He snapped his fingers against the unfolded cash. "About $500 lighter."
Farbo was doing some mental math of his own. As he counted the fact that he still had all his teeth in the correct place, he thought that might be useful in identifying the body if he was ever found. "Tommy, give it a rest," the man tapped on his guard's left shoulder. The mountain of muscle shuffled aside to let the man through and the Pig-Pen cloud of cologne lingered. "Now, you look at me. Yeah? That bitch I had with me last night? Ten grand for the night on the town. This watch?" He flicked the gold band open with a twist of his wrist and held it in front of Farbo's face. "Worth more than every car you've ever owned put together. The suit? The shoes? How'd that song go? 'I'm a man of wealth and taste.'" He smiled. Farbo grinned back and a bubble of blood popped on his lip. "Nah, Fantastic Farbo, this ain't about the cash. I'm walking cash. It's the principle of the thing. Pull all the sick toys you want out of my ass, but nobody robs from me. That's my job. That's what it takes to be me in this town."
"Phenomenal," Farbo slurred.
"What's that?," the man asked.
A spittle of blood seeped out again. "It's... the Phenomenal F...arbo..."
The man scratched behind his left ear. "Wow. Oh man. I'm... I'm so sorry. But I think I just heard you try to correct me?" He put his hand down.
Farbo swallowed. "My teacher was Fantastic." His mouth filled up again and he spit. "I'm the Phenomenal Farbo."
The man stepped back and spied the blood on the tip of his shoe. "Real fuckin' funny, Phenomenal Farbo. Tell me, you wanna play a gig at the Mojave?"
---
A hand adorned in rings grabbed Farbo by the arm and lifted him up off the ground. He fumbled at his feet before standing upright, and he was marched forward, sackcloth still over his face. His toes felt the edge of something that gave way. The bodyguard began to cough again. Farbo tried to think of anything. He took a shot in the dark. "Got a smoke, Tommy?"
The coughing turned into a wheezing laugh. "You the funny Mr. Farbo," he spit. "Sure. Yeah, I got a pack."
"You're a life-saver, Tommy. Well, for like the length of a cigarette. Mind I turn around?"
Tommy turned Farbo with one hand while groping for his pack with the other. Farbo heard the pack rustle. "Oh. Um. You won't be needing this." Chubby, ringed fingers rolled up the sackcloth over Farbo's swollen nose. The night air was cool as it entered Farbo's airway, and with the slightest crack of light from the car's headlights he saw Tommy's elbows start to go slack.
His hands flew forward, the rope knotted and ready in his left hand as it came around from his back. He had underestimated his captor's hamfists slightly and took a bit longer to get the knot around both Tommy's wrists. That extra second gave Tommy time to curl a hand around Farbo's right wrist.
Farbo furrowed his brow, still covered in the sackcloth, and lunged forward for a headbutt. He connected with Tommy's nose and heard garbled cursing. But the large man maintained a grip on Farbo's wrist. Farbo popped the thumb again and twisted out of grip. His left hand pulled the rope tight and Tommy's wrists clamped together.
Not so light on his feet, Farbo stumbled back into the grave and landed on his tailbone. He popped his thumb back in and tore the sackcloth off his face. Tommy's nose was hamburger, a river of blood running down the front of him as he pitched forward, arms outstretched to try to grab Farbo. The massive weight falling on him knocked the wind out of Farbo's chest, and the purple hands kept it out as they closed around his throat.
He thought maybe the sackcloth was back on his face, but it was just the blackout coming on. He gave up clawing at the meat hooks and his hand hit something as he flailed. He waved again and blindly caught the handle of a shovel.
As his vision went dark, he swung the shovel down right in front of him, and a beautiful clang rang out and down his arms. It felt and sounded terrific, so much so that he did it again. And again. The clang grew weaker and a bit wetter. The hands around his throat went slack. And with the last breath he had, let out a wet, gargling roar as he rolled Tommy's body off of him.