Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN, a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER SEVEN: D-DAY

Previously: As the Little Big Man "competition" began, the contestants were led through a series of contests that resulted in the losers shedding clothing until three of them wound up nude and pelted with tomatoes. Afterwards, they were told these contests didn't count, but were designed to get the contestants to discard their preconceived ideas of what the competition would be like.

Round One of the "real" competition was to be held in four separate groups, two on Sunday and two on Monday. Neither Alex nor Matti took part on Sunday. Knowing their competition would be held Monday, both were understandably curious but not enough to make them nervous. Regardless of the outcome, they had still won $25,000 from their state contest – and were beginning a world cruise. What was not to like?

They're about to find out.

FLASHFORWARD: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14 – ST. PETERSBURG RUSSIA [Author's note: excerpted from Prologue]

• The story of my life? You want me to write the story of my life?

• Yes.

• . . . When should I start from? When I arrived here? Or earlier, like June 6th? That was the day that changed everything.

ALEX: MONDAY, JUNE 6, MORNING AND AFTERNOON – ATLANTIC OCEAN

I know I'm supposed to be writing this as if I'm experiencing it live, not remembering it months later, but I can't help thinking about the fact that this was the day.

D-Day, the 6th of June. The day that changed everything in a war decades ago. The day that changed the course of my life. Permanently. Or so it would seem.

Let's be honest – the events of that morning and afternoon are not that important. We went to breakfast to find all the Sunday competitors absent. Matti and Alabama and Delaware and I discussed it and concluded that LBMF just didn't want us to discover the nature of the competitions. The reason for which became obvious later.

We adopted the convention of calling each other by nicknames based on our states – Alabama was Al', Delaware was Del', I was Wes'. We figured that was allowed, as they weren't our real names. Matti understandably refused to be called Minnie' so he remained `Minnesota'.

The most important part of that morning was that we made two new friends: Illinois, whom Del had invited to join us, and Rhode Island. The same Rhode Island who had publicly humiliated Alabama yesterday by pinning him and pulling down his pants. But he later apologized to Al for having embarrassed him; Al said water under the bridge' and just a game' and they made nice.

Illinois (`Noisy') was a handsome black dude from Chicago with one of those smooth, carpet-style beards over the lower half of his face. His father, a gang member, had been gunned down in the street by another gang; his mother was an addict and part-time prostitute.

Was anybody on this ship from a stable family? Alabama had been kicked out of his home by his mom's new boyfriend. Delaware had just turned away in disgust when Matti had politely inquired after his family. Matti was an orphan. This contest seemed to be a magnet for guys from dysfunctional families.

Rhode Island (`Rhody') – with whom I seemed to hit it off – fit the bill. His father was an alcoholic who beat him and had made a pass at his sister. His mother had left long ago, sick of being brutalized herself. He found the protection of a non-pedophile priest, who nominated him for a scholarship to Providence sponsored by the Diocese. His freshman year, he got hooked on heroin, but he had been clean now for two years. He started to mist up at the memory of how close he had once come to killing himself.

I was astonished at how open he was about all this – and also that he had fully disclosed all of this to LBMF and still won the state competition. Well, he had a great body – that was evident from his wrestling match – and a face that resembled a young Matt Damon. So aside from the Character element, I could see how he had won.

I was also astonished at how I reacted to his story – and wound up telling him mine. All of it, even about Adam, something I had not even shared with Matti. We hugged – awkwardly. I suggested a swim – he was reluctant to skinny-dip but agreed to `try it' after lunch.

That never happened. He was called for the afternoon round of competition, as were Del and Noisy. Neither Matti nor I was chosen, which meant we were in the evening group and might have to compete against each other. At least we'd get to hang out for the rest of the day first, along with Al.

They kept us in our cabins until nearly five. Free at last, Matti and I opted for a swim. Two other dudes, Nebraska and Texas, were in the pool at the time but we didn't talk to them much.

One interchange was enough. Nebraska I had no beef with – I'd never spoken to him, really, but Texas was an asshole. He saw me approaching the pool after I'd shed my underwear.

• (Texas) Man, if I had a dick that small I wouldn't show it in public.

I was all out of rejoinders, but Matti came to the rescue:

• (Matti) If I had a personality that disgusting, I wouldn't show THAT in public. But if you want to be a dick, be a dick.

• (Texas) At least I HAVE a dick.

• (Matti) I guess you have to compensate for your inadequacies somehow.

Nebraska, in the background, was madly motioning "he's not my friend, I didn't come here with him".

Fortunately, Texas decided his swim was over and the rest of us could enjoy the water for a bit.

With only thirteen of us there, dinner was what Al called "spooky". It was like being on a ghost ship, as if three quarters of our fellow competitors had mysteriously vanished through some supernatural force. My brain said, "Hey, it's a contest" but my gut said, "Something's wrong here."

Pay attention to your gut.

ALEX: MONDAY, JUNE 6, EVENING – ATLANTIC OCEAN

At 8:45 precisely, the monitor clicked on with a "charge!" fanfare to get our attention, and then a single disembodied voice spoke:

• Gentlemen, you are required to shower in preparation for the competition. Do that now, even if you feel clean.

An odd way to announce that they were calling us, but I remembered how they insisted that we `freshen up' before the state contest, in that trailer with the communal shower [cf. Ch. 3]. So it didn't seem that weird.

DMITRI: Exactly why we had them shower at the state contests: So it wouldn't seem that weird when we did it on the boat. Through the tracking devices in their headbands, we could make sure they all complied.

ALEX: Already barefoot, I slipped out of my jeans and pulled off my shirt, leaving them on the bed. I walked into the bathroom, where I shed my briefs and hung them on a high hook. Then I stepped into the shower and started the water running as the stall door slid closed behind me.

The hot water was soothing and I let myself enjoy the moment as I rubbed the soap all over my body. I stood with the water running over my head until I decided it was time to end this and get dressed for the competition. I pressed my palm against the pad to open the door and step out.

Nothing happened.

I pressed it again. Still nothing.

Oh, fabulous. I'd been waiting for two days to get this damn competition over with and when the moment finally comes I'm locked in the shower?

I palmed it once more. No reaction. I was trapped inside the damn shower stall.

I banged my hand against the door, as if it would burst open by my doing so. It was nonsensical; it was a sliding door and wouldn't respond to pressure. The palm pad SHOULD respond to pressure but it didn't. Was it failing to recognize me because my hand was too wet? That made no sense; it had worked fine when I'd showered before.

Dammit, I couldn't afford to be late. I mean, I wasn't going to win the competition anyway but I didn't want to lose it by default because I didn't show up. Or if I did manage to get there, but late, would they throw tomatoes at me or something?

This was ridiculous. I started to shout, "Hey! I'm stuck! Let me out!"

Which wouldn't do anything. The cabins were pretty sound-insulated: from inside, I couldn't even hear stuff in the hallway very well. Who could possibly hear me from a locked shower stall inside a bathroom inside a cabin?

On the other hand, what choice did I have? I shouted again, visions in my head of people, days from now, discovering my body after I'd starved to death. I knew that was silly: they'd come looking when I didn't show up for the competition – or at least when I didn't show up for breakfast. I wouldn't be trapped in here forever.

It just FELT like forever and I felt like SCREAMING MY FUCKING HEAD OFF! I just wanted this thing to respond when I pressed my palm against the pad, if I just kept pressing my fucking palm against the fucking pad again and again and again and –

Oh.

It opened. I breathed in a gallon or two of air, the tension draining from my body as if I'd been rescued from a firing squad. I grabbed a towel and dried myself hurriedly. I'd have to dress with lightning speed to avoid being late.

So I reached up to grab my underpants and –

They weren't there.

WTF?

I'd put them on the hook, THIS hook right here, I know I did.

Only I must not have. They weren't hanging on the hook, and I hadn't gone anywhere. Could I have brushed them off the hook somehow? No, they'd be on the floor, I'd see them. Where are they? They have to be somewhere in the bathroom, could I have kicked them behind the toilet or –

HOW COULD I HAVE LOST MY FUCKING UNDERPANTS?!

This was a nightmare. First I get stuck in the shower and then I can't find my fucking underpants, which HAVE to be in plain sight.

And then I heard a voice from the monitor: "An escort will pick you up in two minutes."

Two minutes? Shit! And I'm wearing a fucking towel!

Now I was mad. Part of me wanted to meticulously search every inch of that cabin for my briefs. It is FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE to lose them, they have to be here somewhere, they can't have just fucking vanished into thin air! I will not be defeated by this! I will –

Shit, I've really got to move. Fuck it, just get another pair, I'll find them later. And I ran to the dresser where my underwear was and –

Empty.

EMPTY???!!!

I opened another drawer. Empty. And another. Empty.

My clothes were gone. All of them.

Every drawer in the dresser was empty, the closets where I'd hung stuff was empty, there were no shoes on the floor of the closet where I'd stored them.

And my suitcases were missing.

What the fuck was going on? Well, screw the underwear, I'll go commando, I'll just put on the clothes I was wearing and –

There were no clothes on my bed.

WHAT THE FUCK???! Everything, every shred of clothing I had brought with me was missing. I was wearing a towel, and there was not a single item of clothing in the entire cabin.

Someone was playing an enormous practical joke on me. Only it wasn't very goddamned funny.

And then the door slid open, revealing a maroon the size of one of the Packers' linebackers. His name patch read 'Rumeal'. He burst into my room and grabbed me by the arm.

• Get your ass out here!

• (me, bewildered) What the fuck?

Before I knew it he had yanked me into the hallway.

• And lose this!

He ripped the towel from my waist and tossed it aside.

I was in the hallway, stark naked. In front of me was chaos. Up and down the corridor, guys were being dragged bare-assed into the hallway. Matti was one of them, squirming uncomfortable in an unfriendly bear hug administered by a hulking maroon who could have been Rumeal's twin. Across the hall a door slid open and out came Joey with a nude Tennessee slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

Rumeal pushed me against the wall, hard.

• Okay, boy. We can do this two ways. You can come quietly or I can pick you up and carry you like your friend Tennessee here.

Tennessee wasn't my friend, I wanted to say. I haven't spoken two words to him. I don't know why I wanted to say that, but at the moment, I was outraged by everything, including the assumption that this mammoth maroon knew who my friends were.

But Alabama WAS my friend, and down the hall I saw his ass – literally – lifted over the shoulders of the hulk who had wrested him from his room.

• I'll come quietly.

• Smart move.

I fell in line behind Tennessee, draped over the shoulder of the hyper-aggressive Joey. Behind me, a surly Texas was being dragged along by a startlingly brutal version of Nelson, all of us being propelled toward the far end of the corridor. As we neared it, two big brutes were dragging a screaming Latino out of his room. Florida, I realized.

One of the maroons grabbed him by the waist and shoved him against the wall so hard it made a thud you could have heard yards away.

• (Maroon) Now are you going to fucking behave or not?

His face was inches from the Latino's face, yelling at him like a drill sergeant.

• (Florida) Fuck you, asshole.

At which point the maroon backhanded him across the mouth so hard I gasped in shock.

Florida was bleeding.

• (Texas, sounding like he wanted to start a fight) What the hell did you do that for?

• (Nelson) Shut the fuck up or you'll get the same thing.

I looked over at Florida as I passed him. He was stunned, shaken, he couldn't believe what was happening to him.

• (Florida) Okay, okay. I'll come with you. I see everyone else is –

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Everyone else is being driven naked out of their rooms and herded toward . . . where? As Rumeal led me up the stairs, I was guessing our destination was the gymnasium.

Gymnasium – whose name derived from the fact that the ancient Greeks exercised there in the nude. Gymnos' meant naked' in Greek.

What kind of sick joke was this? Locking you in the shower is not funny. Stealing your clothes is not funny. Rushing you up the stairs stark naked with a viselike grip on your neck is not funny. Striking Florida is the furthest thing from funny.

I would give them a piece of my mind about their idea of what a contest was. Someone had better lose their job over this.

This no longer looked like a joke. But if it was not a joke – what the fuck WAS it?

As Rumeal frog-marched me up the stairs, I thought about all the moments where something seemed off. I had dismissed it (mostly) as LBM pulling our chains, trying to keep the event fun by surprising us and keeping us off guard. But when did the fun part start? Yesterday started off fun, but then – well, ask Alabama if it was fun having tomatoes thrown at your junk.

There was a line outside the entrance to the gymnasium. I was about eighth in line. Texas, West Virginia and Florida were behind me but that was it. The door suddenly slid open and a maroon carried Alabama inside. Immediately the door slid shut and the rest of us remained outside. We were on the top deck, exposed to the sea air. It was dark, past sundown, and chilly for a June evening. Or maybe it was just chilly because I was naked.

They admitted us one by one, a minute or so apart. The maroons warned us to remain silent. With Rumeal's paw on my right shoulder, within easy striking distance of my neck, I wasn't about to say a word. I was behind Tennessee; when he went in, I caught a glimpse of the room. I could see maroons but not Matti or any contestants other than Tennessee.

A minute or so later, it was my turn. Rumeal shoved me into the gymnasium with such force that I stumbled and nearly fell. I caught my balance and looked around. It looked much like it did yesterday – the stocks were still there, as were the card tables with boxes on them. The main difference I could see was a large video screen hanging on one wall.

Everyone I could see was clothed – Matti, Al, and the other contestants were nowhere to be seen. But DeJuan Brooks was there, and the big shots John, Thomas, Richard and Peter. And the maroons who had brought us here.

Two of whom grabbed me and pushed me roughly against the wall. They turned me around and pulled my arms behind my back. I felt metal against my wrists.

Shit, what was this? Fucking handcuffs?!

With my hands secured behind my back I was spun around to face my abusers. One of them pushed my shoulders against the wall while the other approached with a piece of duct tape about six inches in length. This was pressed firmly over my mouth, effectively sealing it shut.

A hand grabbed me by the elbow and shoved me toward the center of the room.

• Get into the shower area.

And I suddenly realized where all the others were. At least, I thought, he hadn't shackled my legs.

• Move it!

I moved it, scurrying as best as I could into the recess that led into the showers, where I found all of the other contestants. A single guard stood watch – there was no need for more. With our arms cuffed behind us, even if we ganged up on him, what could we do? If we rushed past him, where could we go?

I spotted Matti and Al and joined them. Matti looked worried. Al was on the verge of tears.

After Texas and West Virginia joined us, we were summoned into the gymnasium proper; there had been no need to send Florida to the shower area, as he was the last to arrive.

To my relief, they uncuffed us and allowed us to remove our tape gags. They sat us against the wall by the entrance. I expected someone to address us but no one said a word. Instead the lights dimmed and a video began to play.

It was the same video of Drake Belsen that they had showed us twice before – yesterday morning and at our state contests. But it was different. There was no Morganfreemanesque narration or music. Instead – for the first time – you could hear the actual conversations that had been filmed: Drake Belsen with his professor, Drake Belsen having a beer with friends, Drake Belsen flirting with a girl, Drake Belsen talking to his father over the dining room table.

I could hear every word of their conversation. But I couldn't understand a word of it.

They were speaking Russian.

Matti and I stared at each other.

• (under my breath) What the hell is this?

• (Matti, shaking his head) I think we're in deep trouble. This is seriously wrong. Seriously.

At the end of the video came a series of slides, each bearing a text with no spoken voiceover:

DRAKE BELSEN'S NAME IS NOT DRAKE BELSEN.

IT IS EVGENI OSTRUZHENKO.

HE LIVES IN KRASNOYARSK, RUSSIA.

HE DOESN'T GO TO GEORGIA TECH.

HE NEVER WON THE LITTLE BIG MAN NATIONAL CONTEST.

BECAUSE . . .

(wait for it)

THE LITTLE BIG MAN NATIONAL CONTEST DOES NOT EXIST.

DMITRI: The deafening silence you hear at this moment is the sound of thirteen young men being knocked in the jaw. The boom has been lowered. At least the first boom. They now know what the contest is not. They do not yet know what it is.

Doubtless some of them are still holding on to the hope that this is all just an elaborate prank. But we had told the enforcers to make an example of one or two of the less cooperative boys. Florida showing up with a bloody lip made a real impression.

It was dawning on them that they had been duped – but into what?

And now we watch the rest of the boom being lowered.

ALEX: We were in shock. At first, I thought: oh, they dubbed this into Russian as a joke but the more I watched, the more I knew it was real. Last year's National Little Big Man was speaking Russian. And so was everyone he was talking to. Which explained why they had shown the voiceover version at the state contests.

What rang true about the claims made at the end of the video was the fact that nothing we'd experienced since coming onto the boat was what it should have been, nothing was what we had been led to believe. This all fit with it all being a big lie. But . . .

But if this was all a big lie, it was a HUGE lie. An extraordinarily expensive lie. Who was spending all of this money to set us up for this?

And more importantly – why?

I was expecting DeJuan Brooks to come forward and explain something – hopefully to burst out laughing at how he had pranked us – but instead another video started.

This one was not professionally produced. It looked like it had been taken with someone's phone. And it took place on this ship.

A group of maroons descended a staircase and walked into a corridor of cabins.

From the opposite end of the corridor more maroons appeared, dragging luggage carts, moving with lightning speed and efficiency, like a pit crew for the Indianapolis 500. It was so smooth and choreographed that it was obviously well-rehearsed.

The luggage carts were distributed evenly throughout the corridor – and the men filtered down the hall, each stopping at a different door. The first room on the left was labeled "West Virginia".

This was Deck 2. My deck.

In a choreographed move, all of the maroons simultaneously pressed the palm pads, opening the cabin doors. The camera followed a maroon into the first room on the right.

The one labeled "Wisconsin".

MY cabin!

I watched him open my suitcases and fill them with clothes he dug out of my dresser drawers. There was no packing, just dumping, so not all of them fit, but he forced the suitcases shut and lugged them into the hallway. He returned to clean out my closets. On a third visit, he took my shoes and anything else he hadn't been able to carry before. On a fourth trip, he double-checked to make sure he'd gotten it all before grabbing the shirt and jeans I had left on the bed.

The camera followed him into the bathroom, where he whisked my briefs off the hook where I had hung them and glanced around, apparently for any other vestige of clothing. Suddenly there was a shout – "Hey!"

On film, the maroon looked startled. In the gymnasium, watching it, I looked startled. That was my voice. That was me yelling for help when I'd discovered I couldn't get out of the shower.

There was banging and more yelling which grew more distant as the man walked out of the bathroom into the main room and then to the hallway. In the hallway, all the luggage carts were full of suitcases. The men were stuffing the loose clothing into large sacks, paying no attention to who they belonged to. I recognized a shirt Texas had been wearing being lumped in with some of my clothes. When we got them back, we'd have trouble sorting them out – I mean, I knew that was Texas' shirt, but how do we identify whose underwear is whose?

We would get them back, wouldn't we?

A quick check down the corridor and the team rolled the carts down the hallway. The camera followed them as they continued beyond the hallway to an open area of the ship. The maroons parked the carts near the railing along the port side of the ship and unloaded the suitcases.

And, one by one, tossed them into the sea. Followed by the huge sacks into which loose clothing had been stuffed. I watched my two suitcases go over the railing into the Atlantic Ocean, followed by the bag that contained Texas' shirt and several items that belonged to me.

Into the Atlantic Ocean. All of my clothing. All of everyone's clothing.

This was not a joke. It was not even a sick joke. It was sick, but not a joke or anything close to it. Every one of us had been intentionally trapped in the shower while our rooms were being ransacked. And our clothing stolen – and irretrievable.

I was sitting here naked, with twelve other naked dudes. Elsewhere on this ship there were surely thirty-nine more naked dudes who earlier had watched their clothing dumped into the Atlantic.

WHY?

DMITRI: That was it. That was the moment. We first came upon this idea three years ago and were amazed how effective it was.

When they watched their own clothes being tossed into the sea, and saw how thoroughly the rooms had been searched – and that every last vestige of clothing had been taken away from them, that was when it became real.

That was when they knew.

That was when they recognized that they were utterly defenseless. That they were totally vulnerable, and without resources. That they were totally dependent upon us for everything. They were literally naked and figuratively, as well. They had no assets. The only way they were going to get clothing was if we handed it to them.

And they wanted clothing.

Which meant they needed to please us. Which meant they were not going to rebel. Because even if they rebelled, what could they gain? They'd still be naked and unarmed.

We are not naked. And we are not unarmed. We hold all the cards. All the cards.

Cue DeJuan.

ALEX: At last it was time for them to talk to us. As expected, it was DeJuan Brooks, but it was a different DeJuan Brooks than we had ever seen. The previous DeJuan Brooks was almost like a game-show host. This one was like a prison guard.

• (Brooks) You will not speak.

Not a good beginning.

• Whenever we are assembled, you will not speak unless given permission or asked a direct question. This is a rule. If you break a rule, you will be punished. One of our rules is that you do not say "Fuck you" to any of us. You got that, Florida?

• (Florida) Yes. (A sigh in his voice.)

• (Brooks) Yes, sir.

• (Florida, echoing sarcastically) Yes, sir!

• (Brooks) You will be respectful or you will pay the price.

Florida didn't respond, but his expression spoke volumes.

The video screen zoomed in on part of the message previously displayed: THE LITTLE BIG MAN NATIONAL CONTEST DOES NOT EXIST

• (Brooks) You will be addressed now by one of my bosses. One of the leaders of this entire enterprise. No matter what you hear, you are not to say a word. If you do, your face will become bloodier than Florida's is now.

His eyes scanned down the line of naked, anxious men – he met every one of our eyes individually. It was clear he meant business.

DMITRI: We chose Sergei for this task, and not only because he had the best English. We were all businessmen, we all looked at these boys dispassionately for what they were and what they were about to become; it was inappropriate to empathize with their plight. Sergei, a mathematician, was perhaps the most clinical, the most cold-blooded, the most manipulative. He could cower the boys into submission, and he could smile like a crocodile.

ALEX: The man called Thomas stepped forward. He was about forty, six-one, lean. He was dark-haired with sharp features and piercing eyes. Though a little bit more handsome, he reminded me of Martin Landau in North by Northwest, and looked just as menacing.

• (with a wicked smile) Don't worry. We have no plans to toss you into the Atlantic Ocean like a piece of luggage. Although we could if necessary.

Well that was a non-subtle warning, wasn't it. This guy was downright terrifying. And I realized that although it was slight, he was speaking with an accent. An eastern European accent. Given the "Drake Belsen" video we had just seen, probably a Russian accent.

• You are afraid right now, yes? Good. You should be afraid. You are in a very bad situation. We outnumber you, and you are naked and under our control. And we have guns.

At which point the maroons produced pistols that materialized from god-knows-where. And pointed them at us. Damn right I was afraid.

• Relax. We're not going to kill you. Promise. But your life is about to change forever. The direction in which it changes depends upon how well you obey our instructions. I hope it is clear that disobedience is not an option. Neither is disrespect, as Florida can tell you.

Definitely a Russian accent. Or Polish. Something like that.

• I know you have questions. Many questions. You may not ask them. But perhaps I can anticipate what some of those questions might be. You are wondering, number one, who the fuck are you people?

His phrasing made me smile. Spot on, Thomas – or whatever your name really is. That is exactly what I was thinking.

• I see from his smile that that was indeed one of Wisconsin's questions.

Oh, shit, he saw that. And, oh shit, he knows who I am – and not from my headband, he's too far away. And oh shit, he just singled me out, when I wanted to just melt into the background and not be noticed.

To summarize: oh, shit.

• You are wondering, number two, why am I here? Why me? Why not someone else? Number three, why have you taken my clothes? And number four, what is going to happen to me? What are your plans? Am I right? Are these not your questions?

They'll do for starters.

The screen displayed a cleaned-up version of his four questions, as if this were a Power-Point presentation: 1) Who are You? 2) Why Me? 3) Why Am I Naked? 4) What's Going to Happen Now?

• I am going to answer the first three questions and part of the fourth. They are all connected.

• Who are we? We are, in fact, the Little Big Man Foundation. It is true there is no National Little Big Man Contest, but we did form a corporation called Little Big Man Foundation. Four of us run this organization. The other three you know as Peter, John, and Richard. Our real names do not concern you. The fact that we are Russian is significant only because some of you may wind up living in Russia. None of you will ever set foot on American soil again.

I heard a muttered "What the fuck" somewhere to my right.

Two maroons rushed over and pulled the offender (Florida, not a surprise) up to a standing position. The maroons proceeded to gut-punch him and pistol-whipped him across the side of the head.

• Apparently you haven't learned your lesson, Florida.

Florida did not answer. He was doubled over and rolling on the floor in pain, blood on his forehead. Matti and I exchanged fretful glances. It was fair to say we were going to keep our mouths shut.

• The next person who utters a word out of turn will find himself strung up under the high bar like Alabama here was yesterday. Only it won't be tomatoes we'll be throwing at you.

Joey walked over to one of the cardboard boxes, reached inside, and pulled out . . . a baseball. He then threw it full-force at a spot about two feet above Florida's head, making a loud bang as it struck the wall. The noise alone made me jump.

I imagined that thing being hurled at my body and the amount of pain that would cause. Then I imagined that being aimed at the crown jewels. And then I imagined that being repeated a dozen times or more.

It was fair to say that ALL of us were going to keep our mouths shut. `Thomas' continued:

• The purpose of the Little Big Man Foundation is to organize this journey. This is why we exist. Everything that preceded your arrival on this boat was designed for one and only one purpose – to bring you here. The applications, the websites, the e-mails, the physicals, the very state contests themselves – all for one purpose: to bring YOU here. Which brings us to the second question:

• Why Me? Why was I chosen, not somebody else?

• Now I am not saying that we knew in advance which fifty-two of you would be here now. We used the contest as a process. We had to find you in order to lure you on board. We had to promise you twenty-five thousand dollars, with the chance at more, to get you to show up. And we needed the contests to choose among several qualified candidates in your various states. So the question you should be asking is `Why did I win the state contest?'

• You might have noticed that you have some things in common, aside from being short. For example: Each of you comes from a family that is dysfunctional in some significant way. Why is that important? Because in a few weeks your family will receive an email in which you state that you have decided to stay overseas. Perhaps you were offered a job, or you have met a girl, or a certain country just sings to you – in any case, you aren't coming home. And you know what? No one will care. What family you do have does not give a shit. You will disappear and they will be none the wiser and more to the point, they won't call up the State Department to try to find you.

• There is another reason you are here. I know you think you are all healthy young heterosexuals. But you are actually bisexual. Your dominant sexual attraction may indeed be to females, but there are homosexual elements within you. This was revealed – and measured –when we showed you subliminal images of penises and men having sex during your physical exams – and you responded to them. Not enough to produce an erection, but enough to let us know that you are far from one hundred percent straight.

Texas, to my left, was shaking his head vehemently. No, no, I AM one hundred percent straight, he was saying – but wisely without uttering his thoughts aloud.

• So that brings us to question number three: Why am I naked? You are naked for several reasons. One is to make you aware of just how helpless you are. You are utterly dependent upon us now. Perhaps if you behave we will give you some clothing. Perhaps not – you don't know. But you have no means of obtaining clothing that does not rely on us. The second reason is because we like looking at you naked. The four of us, you see, ARE homosexual, and your bodies are beautiful in our eyes. By the way, everyone else on board, from the enforcers to the doctors to the cooks and mechanics, are also homosexual, and enjoy seeing your naked bodies.

• But the most important reason you are naked is because you need to be naked in order to fulfill the answer to the fourth question – what is going to happen now? At least the part of it we are going to tell you tonight.

• What is going to happen now is that you are going to have sex.

I remembered the stories Drew Simmons had told about bringing in strippers who wound up in guys' cabins. But they were not going to bring in strippers. Drew Simmons was no more real than Drake Belsen, was he. Some guy in Moscow had responded to my emails.

They had just told us that everyone on the ship was homosexual. And that we were going to have sex. I gazed at those hulking maroons. Please, please don't say what I think you're going to say.

He didn't.

But what he did say was even more shocking:

• You are going to have sex with each other.

Excuse me? Did he just say we were going to have sex with EACH OTHER? It was a relief to learn that Rumeal wasn't going to force his cock down my throat, but – with each other? He might claim we have some gay in us, but I can tell you, if it's in me, it's down around two percent. I'm not going to get it up for doin' some DUDE.

• It is one hundred percent guaranteed that you are going to have sex this evening. Accept it. Get it into your heads.

• Because you have some decisions to make. You will need to choose – or have chosen for you – your sex partner. And you will need to choose – or have chosen for you – which role you will take.

• There are only two roles – top and bottom. There will be no mutual hand-jobs. Hand jobs do not count. There will be no sixty-nining. Blow jobs do not count. Only one kind of sex will take place and that is fucking.

• You will either fuck or be fucked. That is your only choice. Give it up the ass or take it up the ass. One or the other. Tonight. And you may not have sex with more than one of your fellow contestants.

• This last requirement may confuse you. But it is important. Before the night is over, at least one of you will be desperate to have sex, perhaps to the point of begging someone to fuck you in the ass. You don't believe me. You will.

• You will have two hours to determine the time, place, and circumstances of your mating. Anywhere on decks 2, 3, or 4, except for your cabins, which have been locked.

• At the end of the two hours, you must either have your sexual partner's sperm up your ass, deposited your sperm in his, or be engaged in a battle which results in the winner fucking the loser. There will be no faking it - we will gather here and physically inspect you. If you have not fulfilled your obligation, you will pay a price. A very severe price.

• One of you is guaranteed to pay that price. For the simple reason of mathematics. None of you can engage in sex twice. That means that six of you will fuck another six. But that's only twelve. You are thirteen. The one left out will be the big loser of the evening. And he will be joined by anyone who has voluntarily abstained rather than engage in sex. So far that has not happened – everyone wishes to avoid being the thirteenth man.

• Why? What happens to the thirteenth man? Well, as I promised you earlier, you will ALL have sex tonight, guaranteed. The thirteenth man will be fucked, not by one man, but by seven – six of our enforcers and one of our sponsors – tonight it is my colleague Peter's turn.

• But that's not all that's in store for this unfortunate loser. Gentlemen, would you bring in our surprise guest?

This last was addressed to two maroons standing near the gymnasium entrance.

I felt myself gripping Matti's arm. He put his hand gently on my thigh in response. Crazy thoughts passed through my head: they were going to bring in an executioner. (No, he promised they wouldn't kill us.) My feverish brain summoned up images of the prisoners at Abu Ghraib prison being tortured with electricity. Was the surprise guest a sadist bearing whips? Or a victim, bearing wounds?

Evidently the latter. The door opened, and the two maroons wheeled in someone in a wheelchair, a sheet covering him from neck to ankles. The man was bald – no, his head had been shaved. I had no idea who it was until I felt Matti's grip tighten on my thigh.

I looked at him. He mouthed the word, "Colorado".

I looked again. It WAS Colorado, the same Colorado who had befriended us at the first breakfast – was that only yesterday? But he looked a shell of his former self.

• This is Colorado. He was yesterday afternoon's thirteenth man. As a result of that, this happened.

With that, the lights dimmed abruptly, and an image appeared on the screen of Colorado tied down over a vaulting horse while a dark-skinned maroon hammered his backside. Behind the maroon were three others, holding their cocks in anticipation of their turn. Colorado was grunting and crying out in pain and pleading. I closed my eyes – I couldn't watch – but I couldn't turn the sound off and so I had to listen to his protests.

It ran for nearly a minute before the ordeal was over. On the video, at least. It was evident the real ordeal lasted much longer. I looked at Colorado, who was crying at the memory of it. The poor guy.

But we already knew that the loser would be gang-raped. Painful as it was to watch and listen to, it was not new information. Thomas' had said that something else had befallen the unfortunate' loser, something that we would see when they brought in the `surprise guest'.

The two maroons lifted the sheet from Colorado who was, of course, naked. I saw that he had been shaved from head to toe – his pubic hair was gone. They dropped the sheet at Colorado's feet and grabbed his arms, lifting him up. He looked unsteady – I guess you would be too if you'd been raped six or seven times. There was something else odd about him, but I couldn't place what it was immediately.

The maroons looked expectantly at `Thomas', who nodded. One of the maroons then grabbed Colorado's cock. And lifted it.

He had no balls. There was nothing underneath his cock but skin.

• That's right, boys, Colorado is not a man anymore. He's lost his balls. Oh, wait.

He walked over to the table nearest us where there was a small box, and reached inside it.

• We found them. Here they are.

He pulled out a Mason jar filled with a clear liquid – and a pair of testicles. A strip of tape across the top bore the label COLORADO.

• Just about twenty-four hours ago, Colorado here went under Dr. Tafriq's knife. And we made ourselves a eunuch. Probably you have never seen a eunuch before. They are not so rare in certain parts of the world. And he's not the only one, either. Early this morning, Dr. Haddad, our other surgeon, gave us this.

He reached inside the box and pulled out another Mason jar. It contained another pair of testicles and the label INDIANA.

New Mexico started to dry retch. Michigan covered his mouth. I wonder if they were friends with Indiana. Astonishingly, I heard someone snicker off to my right. I would have thought Texas, but Texas was on my left. There was more than one asshole in this group, apparently.

I'd barely known Colorado, but I felt such empathy with him I could not control what I was feeling. Tears were streaming down my face – as they were his, confronted with the sight of his own balls in a jar.

• And, just in time for this presentation, Dr. Tafriq provided us with this.

A third Mason jar was produced, this one labeled VERMONT.

• And you wondered why we needed a fully-equipped operating room. I should have told you that Doctor Tafriq and Doctor Haddad both have the same surgical specialty: orchiectomy – removal of the testicles. And they have to be good at their job, because we neglected to bring an anesthesiologist on board. Colorado here felt every cut of the knife, didn't you, boy?

`Thomas' smiled the world's worst smile.

• I'll bet that hurt.

I wanted to hurt HIM. Very badly.

The maroons sat Colorado back down and wheeled him out of the room, without bothering to cover him with the sheet. I didn't know which emotion was stronger – terror or rage. I was bursting with emotion, both at fear for what could befall me – and fury at the knowledge that this outrage was about to befall one of us.

One of us – me, Matti, Al, Arizona, Florida, Hawaii, Michigan, Nebraska, New Mexico, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, or Wyoming – one of us would be a eunuch in less than twenty-four hours.

I would have thought it was an elaborate prank with fake props to scare the shit out of us, had I not seen them lift Colorado's penis and show his empty nutsack. You can't fake that. The man's balls were gone. And I had no doubt that what lay inside that Mason jar were in fact his very gonads.

One of us would have that done to him.

God, let it not be Matti. I have to be sure it's not Matti. I didn't want it to be me, either, but I was struck by the fact that my primary instinct at that moment was to protect Matti.

The solution was obvious. I'd let him fuck me. There had been times when I wondered if that wasn't really what he wanted, whether he craved my body underneath his own. I was no faggot, and if I were going to do it with another guy, I'd want to be on top. But if Matti didn't want it like that, I'd let him fuck me. That way, we'd both be safe. We'd get it over with early, so no one else could try to force themselves on either of us. I knew it would be painful and humiliating, but it would be once and it would be done with. To save my balls and Matti's, I would have to sacrifice my ass.

`Thomas' took back the microphone.

• In a few minutes, we will begin the two-hour Sex Period. We can't expect you to dry-fuck a virgin easily, so we will give each of you a tube of lubricant, suspended from a lanyard. And – in case some of you can't motivate yourselves to get it up – as you leave the room, Dr. Zawahiri will give you an injection that will produce an erection in about ten minutes – whether you want it or not.

• As I said before, you have decisions to make – who to have sex with and who is on top. We suggest combat as a good best way of settling the issue.

• Some of you may be thinking, `I'll surrender myself to my friend and that way we'll both save our balls.' But before you make that choice, consider the following.

• This is not the only time you will have sex on this journey – on average, you will have sex more than once a day. And once you're a bottom, you're forever a bottom. Top or bottom, you'll remain in that role in the coming days.

• Oh yes, one other little consequence. Of the six of you who wind up on the bottom tonight – later in the week, one of you will also surrender his testicles just like Colorado. So if you want to keep them, man up and fuck a competitor tonight. Because two of you – tonight's thirteenth man and one of tonight's six bottoms – will depart this ship leaving a part of you behind.

DMITRI: I watched their faces as Sergei told them about the future. They had no doubt been thinking of this sexual escapade as a one-off. Some of them might have given themselves up in order to guarantee safety. But now being fucked once meant getting fucked often, plus a realistic threat of castration.

They knew the threat of castration was real, because they had seen Colorado, and, even more devastating, seen his balls in a jar. I'm not a particular fan of gelding, but some clients wanted it, so it had to be done. And it had to be shown to the boys. They had to realize just how serious we were, had to fear us, had to accept a new reality where they were powerless and compliance was essential. The fear of castration would make it easier for them to get through the next two hours, and to justify their actions to themselves afterwards. As for the unfortunate loser – well, best to get it over with so he could adjust to it. From a business perspective, we needed to geld eight of the fifty-two; it didn't much matter which ones and there was no point in pitying those who lost the lottery.

ALEX: My head is spinning. An hour ago, I was alone in my cabin waiting to see what kind of crazy competition they had planned for us, imagining nothing any worse than having tomatoes thrown at my nuts. And now my whole world is blown apart.

There is too much to absorb: The Little Big Man Contest is a hoax. My clothes have been thrown into the sea and unless they give us clothes I will be naked for the rest of the journey. We're not ever going back to the United States. And now I'm about to have sex – with a dude – whether I like it or not – and the penalty for failure was castration.

There is only one explanation.

Karma.

This is my punishment for killing Adam. Even though it was an accident, I should have come clean about it and I should have gone to jail for it. And now I'm in jail, a worse kind of jail that I brought on myself.

But there is no time for following that line of thought. I cannot help but think that Adam would forgive me. And I certainly can't imagine he would want me to lose my balls over this. So now I just have to worry about keeping them. I'll sort out the rest of this later.