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Challenge of the Week CCXXXI
You're in an alley, against a wall, and you're in deep. You really let go of the wheel this time, took a loan from a certain group of, well, shiny dark-haired gentlemen of the city streets. You changed your looks, moved to the east side of town to avoid them, but they have you now, by the wrist, modified cigar cutter ready, two of them smiling at you while the third has your neck in the crease of his elbow. Your four fingers and thumb splayed above your wrist in grip, you have to answer the question, "Which one? If you don't pick now, we take two." Write a poem or story about what put you in that alley, your pick of digit, and the experience, the aftermath of adaptation, if you want, the whole story, if the story goes that far for you. And don't even think about not entering, because we know people, you know? - Winner gets 25 bucks. Go.
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Incidenttent
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Childish Tricks

"Wait!" I shouted. "If you cut my finger, my hand is going to be bleeding! How are you going to be able to escape if everyone takes notice of it?"

The two gentlemen's smiles turn into confused frowns. They glance at the third man holding me by my neck, yet the shrug of his shoulders shows that he is confused by my statement as well.

"What do you mean by bleeding?" One of them asks.

The absurdity of this question was so striking that I actually stop struggling for a bit. How do they not know what bleeding meant? Surely, at some point in their lives, they must have tripped over a rock or got a paper cut and see fresh blood pouring out of their wounds.

While one part of me is dismissing his question as irrelevant, another part of me can't help but ask: "Did your parents not taught you what blood is?"

"Our parents? We had not meet them in a long time. The last time we heard from them was that the boss had a surprise for them. They never came back." The man holding me answers. "Since then, we were too young to work in any of the 'adult' jobs, so we had to beg on the street and exercise until we are big and strong. Just recently, the boss allows us to come after you as our first task. He says that you have the choice to take one of your fingers, and if you don't choose, we can chop off two."

While I am tempted to ponder the implications behind the lack of education, the absence of parental figures, or any inherent traits that hinder the intelligential growth, the logical part of my brain convinces me that I take advantage of this situation.

"Well, if your boss only says to take my finger, you don't necessarily need to use that device there, right?" I gesture at the modified cigar cutter. "In fact, I can hand you my finger myself, if you wish."

"Really?" The two men in front of me (and I assume the one behind me as well) widen their eyes. "Please do; we actually don't know how to use this device."

"Gladly, but you will have to unhand me first."

The man holding me gladly obliges, and he moves in front to stand alongside his comrades. For a moment, I consider if I should run for it. Still, this situation has became somewhat amusing. Hence, I decided to stay and amuse the three stooges.

"I shall now take off my pinkie finger."

While showing them my right hand, I use my left hand to cover my pinkie and pretend to pull on it. In reality, by flexing my pinkie, I hid it behind my index finger. Upon pulling my left hand away, my pinkie appears to be gone from their perspective.

"Wow! You did it!" The three dunces in front of me were as shocked as when apes first discover the miracle of fire, and they talk excitedly among themselves.

"Well, gentlemen." I place both hands into my pockets. "It appears that I have fulfilled your conditions. In that case, I bid you farewell."

"Wait!" One of the simpleton calls out. "We still need your finger as proof to our boss."

I froze, realizing that the jig might be up. Although I consider fleeing again, my hands frantically search my pocket for any substitute. Alas, I only have a cigar in my pocket, but mayhaps...no...surely it's not possible...

"Sure. Here is my finger." I pull out my cigar.

"What happened to it?"

"Well, when a piece of the body falls off, it decomposes and looks like this."

"Oh." To my shock, they actually accept this outlandish explanation.

"Still, my finger is precious to me, and I will need to exact a price on it."

"Seriously? Ah man... All right, what is the price?"

I thought to myself. I could demand cold, hard cash, but I have another idea.

"Each of you need to give me your address."

"Oh, that's it? That's easy." The three buffoons immediately set to writing. "Just don't call the cops on us. Boss says that what we do need to be kept secret from the police."

"I won't."

They handed me their slips of paper, and I handed them the cigar. As I walk away, I look over each of their addresses. Having paid for my membership in the Organ Harvesting ring using the money their boss lended me, maybe I'll call my organization to pay these three a visit.

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