Dave didn't lose consciousness, but he had been hit hard enough that he couldn't see for a few minutes. Hours, it felt like. One of the guys grabbed his arms and, practically wrenching them from the sockets pulled them behind his back. One of the others, there were four total, punched him straight in the face, hitting him directly in the mouth and nose. Dave instantly tasted blood running over his lips. The puncher kept on punching him, while the biggest continued to pinion his arms behind his back. Dave was strong; the idea of someone stronger than him terrified him. The unknown usually did.

Several more hits to the face and David couldn't even struggle any more. His attackers didn't care. One kneed him the groin for good measure. The big guy let David go and he collapsed into the fetal position. As if fate were trying to add insult to injury, he tripped on the bottom bleacher seat as he was going down.

Someone started grabbing at his letterman jacket. As they pulled it up and over his head, dragging most his shirt with it, David once again felt like they were pulling his arms from their sockets. You can fuck with my face, Dave thought but leave my arms alone, I need them to play hockey. Once the jacket was off, they pulled his shirt off the rest of the way. What…the…fuh? David made a half-assed attempt at pulling away, but got a swift kick in the jaw in response.

After his shirt was off, the big one, once again, pulled Dave's arms behind his back. One of the others had duct tape. Dave could feel his arms being duct taped together; round and round he could feel the duct tape encircling his wrists while accompanied by its orchestra of ripping noises. David tried to scream. He was terrified. But his jaw…it hurt so, so very much.

Dave couldn't imagine how this could get any worse…until he felt someone tugging at the waist line of his sweat pants. Oh God, they're going to rape me. Dave started praying, more fervently than he ever had before in his life. He couldn't really remember any specific prayers, except what he had memorized for his bar mitzvah, so he repeated it over and over again in his head.

Once his pants were off (and shoes, when had that happened?) the duct tape guy went to work wrapping it around his ankles. The big guy and the one who had yet to do anything other than carry a book bag, hoisted him up by his armpits and dragged him to the center of the track field. Why?

Those two left while the one who had hit him, both with his fists, his foot and the bat, and the duct tape guru started kicking him everywhere they could. Dave was pretty sure he could hear his spine crack once or twice. He whimpered pitifully. The baseball bat guy waved the other off him. Thank you; Dave thought, thinking they were finally done with him. Instead, he lifted the baseball bat and brought it down on David's arm. David let out a scream. The duct tape dude went back to work, this time putting the tape over David's mouth.

The baseball bat bastard went back to work, repeatedly hitting David in the arm, the chest, and the leg.

Through blurred, starry vision he could see the other two returning, dragging something between him. Dave was in too much pain to try and reason out what it was, but as they got closer he could just tell. It was another poor, miserable bastard, probably tied up the same as him. All too soon he could see them drop their bloody, limp prisoner a few feet away.

The other boy wasn't nearly as battered as Dave…as far as Dave could tell. But he was much scrawnier, probably not used to getting tackled by 200lb linebackers, or getting slammed into plexiglass at 25 mph. The other boy slowly pushed himself to his knees; his hands were duct taped in front. He ripped the duct tape off his mouth; his bottom lip was split, off-centered and bleeding copiously. It was the perfect compliment to his swollen eye.

A hoarse, yet strangely melodic voice choked out "Karofsky"?

One of them men, Dave wasn't sure which one any longer, ripped the duct tape off his own mouth. Dave tried to call out Kurt's name. Instead, he coughed up blood.

Finally, one of the attackers spoke. "We're doing you a favor, Karofsky." Dave recognized the voice, but his addled brain couldn't place it. "This faggot made you sick: gave you the disease. The Karofsky I know wouldn't want that. So we're going to make sure this cock-whore doesn't infect anyone ever again." One of them kicked Kurt in the back of the head for emphasis.

David whimpered, still unable to get his jaw to work properly. A softer voice, soothing almost, spoke next. "We know that, when you weren't sick, you wouldn't have wished this crap on anyone. So we're going to take care of you; we're going to make sure you can't spread it any worse than it already is."

That's when David realized it. Neither he, nor Kurt, were going to walk away this night.