Thirty-two inch waist. Forty-three inches in the chest. Fifteen inch biceps, if you could call them biceps at all. And thirty-six inches in the stomach. The guy probably wanted to lose weight at the gym, but never got around to it. Too many Christmases, birthdays, and T.G.I.F. dinners on every night except Friday. One hundred ninety-five pounds, five feet nine inches tall, forty-one years old.
Merle had carefully solicited the man’s measurements. This one was two years younger, but he was out of shape by comparison to Merle's rock-hard frame. Good - he'd handle him well. And he always had to know sizing, so that he could get the materials prepared correctly. There would be the industrial plastic bags, the towels, the elastic tape, the arm and leg bandages. And the right set of tools. A machete, a serrated knife, and a steel saw.
They had to be the right size, too. And the anchor he bought – this one had to support two hundred pounds. He never used an anchor heavier than he needed. Why put that kind of strain on his lower back?
And then there was the decision about which vehicle to use, the one he’d take to the wharf south of Baton Rouge, right on Lake Pontchartrain. Would it be the Suburban or the Escape? Depended ... for this man, the Suburban. He’d have to lay him out flat afterwards.
Okay, his shopping list was made out. He and the man had a date this evening. They’d be going to Hamburger Mary’s. Merle needed to be prepared once they entered the dungeon.
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