A small midnight wind made its way through the branches of the home’s one lone oak tree. The branches creaked as they bent, scraping wooden fingers across the yellowing square siding of the house. The darkness was total, interrupted only by a single streetlamp casting three long shadows in the night. The three figures looked from the blackened house to the buzzing powerlines above. Moe spoke first, as always.
‘Trouble late in the house, that’s definite.’
His two companions silently agreed.
‘Power company probably got their wires all tangled up.’
The three men continued gazing up the length of the telephone poll. The tangle of cables swayed precariously in the wind. Moe’s hat threated to blow off and he straightened it against his mop of greasy black hair. He turned back toward Curly.
‘Go on up and straighten up the mess.’
Curly gave a curt nod and looked back up the pole. He was a broad man, a known oaf, and despite his name there was not a curl to be found on his bald pate. He watched the cables above as they swung back and forth, wondering again why he always listened to Moe. Moe was better suited for the work. He was stoat, but nimbler than Curly, and a notably better climber. Then of course there was Curly’s fear of heights. The cables twisted and rocked, straining against the iron hubs dug deep into the soft wood of the pole. The effect was like an old pocket watch, Curly became lost in the wire’s hypnotic dance. Entranced, the big man tipped backwards and stumbled into Moe nearly knocking him and their third companion, Larry, off their feet.
‘Ah ah!’ said Moe in surprise.
Larry got his footing again, the insanity of the task dawning on him. He began to protest.
‘Wait a minute. What am I doing? You know I get dizzy in high places.’
‘You’re dizzy in low places. Get up there!’ commanded Moe.
His voice was rough and careless like a grindstone. Curly felt hurt. They had known each other a long time and Curly had come to realize Moe was as selfish as he was cruel. He had had enough of this blackguard, this brute! If he didn’t stand up for himself now he never would.
‘No!’ Curly shot back, throwing down his wrench in anger.
The gesture was meant as a harmless punctuation to the sentiment, but in a malicious twist of fate, the heavy metal wrench did not bounce innocently off the pavement. It instead landed square in the middle of Moe’s foot. Moe cried out and grabbed his injured foot in pain. Larry let out a light chuckle, but Curly wasn’t amused. He immediately regrated his outburst. He had gone too far. He had hurt Moe and Moe was not one to let even the smallest accidents pass. Curly knew a dark vengeance would soon be upon him. He backed up against the telephone pole, terrified like a scared dog as Moe composed himself. In the nearby bushes lay the men’s assortment of tools. A tire iron flashed evil in the lamplight. Moe picked it up and came for Curly.
‘No, don’t… no please…’ Curly begged.
Moe was silent and precise, uncaring as an arrow. In one smooth fluid movement Moe had Curly’s nose latched firmly in the tire iron. The cold steel burned as it tightened around his soft, tender flesh. He knew it would be pointless to struggle. The most he could do was scream as Moe began to turn the iron, stretching his nose along the rusty grooves of the tool. Larry chuckled idlily, admiring the torture unfolding before him as if he was watching chipmunks play instead of brutal violence on a friend. Moe shot him an angry glace and Larry briskly moved to help him turn the tire iron. The iron made an unnatural screech against Curly’s nose as if it was made of sand instead of cartilage. Curly stopped his screaming, too shocked even to feel pain. It was all he could do now but hope Moe’s wrath was short. After three quick turns, Moe turned to Larry.
‘Ready? Off. Heave… ho! Heave… ho!’
The two men struggled to disentangle the metal from the pulsing mess of Curly’s nose.
‘Heave…’
The tire iron flew backwards with a sickening pop. Curly immediately reached for his nose. He brushed his fingers against the twisted and misshapen flesh. He would be maimed forever. A freak. He tried to stop himself, but the words were already blubbering out of his mouth.
‘Oh…oh…oh no. You’ve squished my nose all out of shape!’
He could hardly believe his own stupidity. It took everything to hold back the tears. Why did he talk back to Moe again? Why was he such an idiot? Did he never learn his lesson? Moe’s eyes lit up, fiery with rage.
‘Oh yeah? I’ll fix that. Come on.’
Moe grabbed Curly by the ear and dragged him over to a power sander they had assembled earlier on the corner of the driveway. The shrubbery thrashed behind them as the wind picked up to an unsettling gale. Larry giggled in the shadows as he plugged in the machine and turned on the power. Larry’s lips twisted in a grotesque smile, eyes thirsty, eager like a wolf. The belt sander began to spin into a hellish saw. Curly let go of his nose, sweat soaking the plaid golfing cap that had miraculously managed to stay on his bald head. He cried out in fear of the torture to come, begging for mercy.
Just a little mercy, Moe. Surely you have it in your heart to be merciful.
Moe grabbed Curly by the back of the head and pushed. Curly’s face smashed down hard onto the rough spinning wheel.
‘Put your nose on that.’ he said.
Moe’s thin lips stretched out to form a cruel, slightly crooked, grin. He was unhinged, lusty with the violence playing out before him. The wheel was hot and sparks flew up as Curly felt the skin flay from his nose, the saw ripping into the tender tissue beneath.
‘Oh! Oh! It’s hot! Oh!’ he cried out in agony.
Curly’s cries fell on deaf ears. Moe held a firm grip on his head, hands rough and callused from years of dark work. Curly could take no more. He was on the verge of passing out, just as Moe released his head.
‘Now I don’t want anymore arguments out of you. Get up that poll.’ Moe grated.
Larry continued his maniacal giggling by the repurposed sander. Curly let out a loaded gasp. It was a gasp of relief, of pain, of submission. He would have to climb the poll. He knew that now. It was pointless to fight Moe. He was as immense and immovable a presence as the mountains and the sea. How could Curly win against something like that? His gasp was of defeat, however Moe took it as a further act of defiance.
‘Go on!’ he prodded like a man might to a stray dog.
It was a choice between two fears. The abstract fear of the heights and the immediate fear of Moe’s brutality. The choice was no choice at all. He would have to turn back on the power. Resigned, Curly walked over to the tower of staple-pocked wood. He took one more dizzying look upward before he grabbed a fist full of cold iron rung, inhaled deep, and began to climb.