“Get me a drink,” Lawn Boy’s voice demanded boldly from right outside her window. Miss Rosalie shrieked and yanked down her skirts. “Get me a ...rink,” he repeated, “and then I will finish what you have so wickedly started.” When she obliged with a sweating glass and perspiring bosom, it was if she had handed him a knife. “Inside,” he gestured with the glass, “to that room off the porch, the one you watch me from.”She sank to her knees in the mosaic-tiled sunroom, her face pressed to his groin,. I fumbled for a light switch but failed to find anything, so I pulled out my phone and turned the light on, casting it around the room in a wide arc. It took me a second to process what I was seeing, and when I did I staggered backwards. It looked like a bunch of furniture storage at first, a jumble of irregular shapes, some draped with tarps. But as my eyes adjusted I realized that one of the things I was looking at was a torture rack, complete with crank wheels at either end. Off to the side. More

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