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What are you waiting for?
My arms are tired from beating this guy's head in.
I dunno where he's been.
Didn't get any in my mouth.
He started talking after we got the table leg.
I told him he'd tell me what I wanted to hear.
...then I kept hitting him til he told me what I wanted to know.
Like wet meat slapped on a cutting board.
See- you don't stop when they stop screaming.
You don't stop when they stop crying.
You don't stop when everything goes limp and you hear a gurgling gasp come out of what used to be their mouth.
This is why we keep industrial grade acid on sight.
Those big metal drums they use to clean salvage.
This is why I'm already in a rubber smock and elbow gloves that roll over your arms like condoms.
In a few days he's gonna be soup.
In a few weeks he's going to be a chemical stain in a small town's trash yard.
I gleefully tug on my cig, and joylessly push him headfirst into the half full vat.
I've had a couple of them scream and thrash at this point.
Goggles kids. Safety first.
This guy was lucky enough to be all the way gone.
Would a bullet in the frontal lobe and a pig field be less stylish, more efficient?
Sure... but it wasn't about what he knows.
It's about what his boss knows.
And what his boss will shortly be telling me after he watched this.
