Decisions, decisions.

Mark’s clothes were soaked through with sweat. He had been locked in the vehicle for only ten minutes but the hundred degree weather wastes no time wringing the moisture out of the body. The man watching him sat on the hood of the Tahoe, legs crossed, sucking his teeth. His gums bled gently. In his lifeless brown eyes flashed genuine curiosity. His eyes seemed to have no knowledge of the events that led here. It was as if the man was at home watching this on TV. He was disassociated from Mark’s terror, yet if there was indeed a bomb as the madman said, then he would be well within its blast radius sitting there on the hood.

Mark was tempted to try the door handle. The madman had to be bluffing. He was sitting on the engine block for Christ’s sake. As Mark reached for the lock button, the madman’s head tilted the way a confused dog’s will. Though this man was clearly confused about a lot of things he should not have been about Mark’s desperation. That was delight on his face. He may as well have been clapping and saying “Oh goody”. He wanted Mark to try the door. He was insane. That was a fact Mark had no inclination to refute at this point. He was well aware of it for days now and through all the torture never questioned it. This man only provided him with evidence of increasing validity with every passing second.

But how insane was he? Was he prepared to die along with Mark? Something told Mark that he was. That he would be wholly gratified to eat it in such a fucked up manner. He could still be bluffing, though. Locking Mark in this predicament, leading him to believe his life was in grave danger, while all the while nothing was on the line. Mark was just afraid to open a car door; that was its own kind of gratification. A slightly saner one. A sick prank and nothing more.

That’s ultimately what it boiled down to though, wasn’t it? Mark was afraid to open a car door. A three inch piece of plastic and Mark could not bring himself to even touch it. This was absurd. Then Mark remembered the passenger door. It had no explosives rigged to it, real or fake. Neither did the two rear doors or the trunk hatch. Thinking this caused Mark to make a barely perceptible movement with his right shoulder. Nowhere near enough to do anything to remedy his current predicament, his shoulder tick, for that’s all it really was, served only to give away his intentions. The madman’s gleeful look changed into one of disappointment. He casually raised the pistol he had in his lap in marks direction. Mark stared at him as the madman mouthed the words “pop, pop” and imitated an exaggerated pistol kick. Although, judging by the limp wristed way he was holding the pistol, the kick might indeed be that extreme. The madman’s grip irrationally unnerved Mark. Instead of making him out as an inexperienced gunman, it painted a picture of a man with little regard for dangerous things; with little regard for taking a life.

Mark thought this was the more accurate picture. Wasn’t it more frightening to see a man wielding an instrument that had the capability to steal your life without respect than to see a man brandishing one confidently at you? The second man may be reasoned with. The second man may never accidentally blow your fucking head off. The second man also wouldn’t have this madman’s dead eyes. Mark was completely terrified and clinging to his quickly vanishing ability to reason.

It was daytime. Three p.m. broad daylight. That this parking lot was empty was an oddity, not business as usual for the area. And the businesses, surely someone would notice a man sitting on the hood of Mark’s Tahoe and wonder what was going on. They would squint and see Mark still inside. Perhaps they would even see the gun. The madman had been careful to tuck it away whenever Mark was still, bringing it out only when Mark’s body or his eyes shifted to Mark’s right side. Look only at me the madman seemed to say. Look and decide. Me or the driver’s door. Look only at your fates and choose. Someone still might see the gun, Mark hoped. The madman was only careful in concealing it. Whenever he decided to make a show of it, it was deliberate. It lingered.

So what if someone did see? What rules did this man play by? Suppose he was found out, and all that happened was that look of disappoint would flash across his face and he would have to put Mark out of his misery in a less gratifying way. Then he would walk away pouting like a child sent to bed without dessert and Mark would remain in the Tahoe indefinitely. Or who is to say the madman wouldn’t take as much pleasure in the prospect of a new victim as he had thus far in Mark. He’d tire of waiting for Mark to decide or be interrupted and play with a new toy, again leaving Mark lifeless in his Tahoe. Either way Mark did not think an interruption would work things out in his favor.

Mark realized that he had to make a choice soon. He felt that he stood a better chance risking the possible bluff and opening the door. Sure he might get shot right afterwards, but it was just as likely that there would be a tremendous fireball waiting to engulf the both of them. At least he’d take the bastard with him. The only thing stopping Mark from trying the door now was the fact that that was so clearly what the madman wanted. Mark felt that no matter the outcome, if he opened that door the madman won. It was irrational. Mark knew he stood a better chance to survive going that route, but after this psycho had emotionally hijacked him he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He was thinking of acting against his best physical interests to achieve some sort of high ground in the test of his mental constitution.

That was his pride talking. His sense spoke to him as well but it sounded foreign to Mark. It rang of cowardice. Open the fucking door Mark. Beg. Plead. Suck his fucking dick if only it means you get to go home to your children. What good is winning a test of wills if you can’t fuck your ever wife again. Melinda had a body Mark would suck a dick for. He loved her, too. He wanted to just go home. He was scared and alone and so fucking weak and why couldn’t he just open the christing door? He hated feeling like this. He resented this man on the hood of his Tahoe. He shared as intense an interest in Mark’s fate as did Mark, only he had the confidence of knowledge. He either was sure of his safety in regards to Mark’s choice or he was excited to see if Mark would kill them both. Of what Mark would ultimately choose, he was unsure, but he knew if he was bluffing about the bomb or not. The things Mark did not know were driving him mad with terror and the one thing the madman did not know, Mark’s choice, was getting the madman’s rocks off.

Mark let out a tear choked primal scream. And then another. The second was not stifled by his emotions. It was fueled by them. If the first was the frustrated scream of a piddling pre-teen then the second was that of a rage filled warrior entering battle. Mark stared deep into the curious, but otherwise emotionless eyes of the madman and let out another war cry. He was gaining steam. He didn’t yell anything intelligible; he didn’t plead for his life or call for help, he simply screamed. The rage in his voice indicated that he was making the madman a promise. That he wasn’t playing his sick game, that, in this life or the next, he would find this madman and do to him what he had done to Mark. Take from him what he had taken from Mark. The madman only frowned slightly. Mark clenched his fists, roared through gritted teeth, and made his move.