Bound to chains that do not make the slightest sound

I wake up, furious and spitting, each wrist encircled in plastic with a daisy chain of loops leading to a single metal ring anchored in the concrete floor. It’s near invisible in here and it smells rank. My leash doesn’t reach, but I shouted myself horse and I’m pretty sure the shadowy humps along the back wall are long gone. There’s a stained grate underneath my feet. It might be for pee, but I know better.

The house alarm chirped just after midnight. Flent tipped me, so I was waiting, gun on my lap. But I hadn’t slept since Alvaro blew the deal, almost forty hours, and I blacked out. Head back, snoring upright in the old lady’s prissy chair by the window. My eyes had just clicked open when tattooed hands reached through the window and closed around my neck. The chair tipped back, banging against the window frame and I saw he was missing his ring finger. Cochran, that burnout piece of shit! Then he stripped the glock off and smacked a gas rag over my nose. After that, nothing.

So now I’m sitting, criss-cross applesauce staring at my wrists. They took my boot knife and chewing it will only split my gums. I know better than to try twisting or kicking. I’ll break my wrists before the damn things snap. Stronger than steel and a perfect fit every time. How many stringy meth-heads had I put into the ground, still in ties? How many beefy, obese fucks? Ties were cheaper than cuffs, no key, no lock to pick and you could smuggle them anywhere, even on the inside. Shit!

I can hear them arguing outside, so it’s not long now. I should do a life flashback, start thinking about who I’m going to miss, but I’m too amped up for that. Knowing it’s useless, I jam my thumb down hard on one tie. I get two fingers underneath and start pulling, grunting from the effort. The plastic chains stay dead quiet as I struggle. Blood is coursing down my fingertips and plinking the grate when the door opens. Here we go…