I found Eugene Lacey walking through his estate on the edge of Yonkers, New York. He was quicker and sharper than I imagined he would be, and he took a good chunk of my right forearm when he shot at me with his bird gun.
The wound did not leave me in the best of moods.
I didn’t kill him, but only because I knew I needed information. So, with both barrels of his shotgun empty, I put a single slug into his stomach. He was a strong bastard, though, and he had almost reloaded the weapon by the time I reached him.
Getting him to talk would be difficult, and it would require work on my part.
I bound him to a tree and did my best to make sure he wouldn’t die right away. Then, I bandaged my arm and decided on how to force him to speak.
Mr. Lacey’s eyes were pits of hatred and fire, and the words which came out of his mouth were far from pleasant. Which suited me fine.
His wound was bad but not as large as I needed it to be. So, I widened it with my knife, just enough. Again, the man impressed me. He didn’t faint, although his torrent of verbal abuse did lessen for a moment.
When I was done with the incision, his volume and creativity increased, and so did mine.
I rested my hand on his stomach and informed him that I was going to be slipping my fingers into his wound and finding a good bit of intestine to work on if he didn’t tell me who was next. Mr. Lacey didn’t believe me, and he told me as much, but with far more colorful vocabulary.
After I dragged a few feet of innards out and coiled them steaming around his neck, he believed me, and he whispered a single name.
Elizabeth Stanton of Brooklyn, NYC.
I finished loading his shotgun for him, handed it over, and walked away. A blast rang out a minute later, and a glance back showed Mr. Lacey’s head was significantly smaller than before.
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