“You might feel so,” I agree, “when they’re yours.”
“Mark!” grunts Moneybags.
“Yes, Mark,” I say as the prod rises. “Stay here and you too can become a pile of dry bones.” The cattle prod stays, holding itself just an inch from my leg. “Cause they aren’t bones when they go into the box.”
Goon’s eyes meet mine, his ringing hands stilled.
“Run,” I groan. “You’ll live longer.”
“Give me that,” shouts Moneybags.
He takes the cattle prod and shoves it up into my groin. As the icy fire makes my body shiver, the meet hook tears my feeble flesh.
Tale Told 