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I put up a good fight.

But once they get me on the ground, facedown, with the big guy holding my arms and pressing his weight into my back, there isn’t much I can do. I call them every name I can think of, but they don’t say a word. I tell them they can take my wallet, my car, anything they want, if they just get the fuck off me.

Still nothing.

I try to roll to the side, but the big guy grinds his knee into my spine and pulls up on my arms. My shoulder starts to slip in the socket and I scream, more out of frustration than pain.

Inside the bar, everyone is still drinking. Doug is telling stories about the sixties and getting high with the Beats, while the rest of the faculty listens and laughs and pretends to be impressed. I know this because up until five minutes ago, I was one of them.

Now I’m out here with these two, and I have no idea who they are.

I’d seen them earlier, sitting at the end of the bar and staring at our table, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was a quiet place, and Doug was loud. Everyone was staring. The only reason I noticed them at all was because of the jagged scar on the little one’s neck. It ran from one ear to the other like a swollen pink worm, bright and impressive.

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