The Sugar Coated Nutsack
“I can’t sugar-coat this, I’m afraid”, the doctor stated, alarmingly, “It is not good news.”
Hector swallowed hard. He hadn’t even wanted to go that day, although he would never have imagined the eventual reason to avoid going. He just usually found it dull. In the end, on this occasion, it was anything but dull.
Nothing appeared amiss when they knocked on the door. It creaked open and he remembers – how oh innocent then! – giggling to himself and thinking that was so cliched, if this were a horror movie. Which is wasn’t, this was life. The frail and gentle old lady behind the door not only put his mind at rest, but also gave him that surge of excitement he had forgotten about.
Here was the easiest of easy marks.
Or so they thought.
It may have been hours, it may even have been days ago, Hector thought as he lay in the hospital. They gained entrance well enough, and started the patter happily. She seemed attentive and responsive. And gull-i-ble. Before they knew what was happening, she was giving them the tour of her modest home. Including the cellar.
Ah. The cellar.
They were found on the street, knocked out, and riddled with pain which got worse as their consciousness increased. The scoring and burning all over their skin was horrendous. Evidence of extreme temperatures, of hot oil, and worse, was everywhere. Sugar melts at 186 degrees Celsius. That is hot.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is completely covered. It will be extremely painful removing it, and then the burns below. Uff. It will be a long, slow, and painful process, I’m afraid. It’ll be a while before you are going door-to-door again, I’m sorry.” The doctor was kindly, but you could tell he wasn’t keen on their shady way of making a living. He hadn’t been noticeably gentle so far. He, like the police, didn’t believe their story for one second.
She was, after all, such a sweet old lady.
Today I wrote between 12:32 and 12:42. I was prompted by an idea here.
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