My wrists were bleeding from the cuffs that supported most of my weight and the back of my head stung from where Stockton had planted his nightstick. It made me think of those kids and how I’d walloped them with my blackjack. I was about to feel bad about it when the door behind me opened. I didn’t twist around to see who it was. I already knew.

“Thought you’d never wake up,” Stockton said behind me.

“Gotta get my beauty sleep.”

I heard him shut the door, then a hard clack as the lock slipped into place. “You’re gonna go out smart-assin’, huh?”

Go out? What the hell was he talking about? I mean, we didn’t like each other, but this was out of left field. Years of unfriendly snipes, the occasional fisticuffs was one thing. This was beyond bitter dislike. This was nuts. I began to feel scared for the first time in a long while.

“You know, Stocky,” I said. “This kind of thing is frowned upon these days. I could sue.” I was half telling the truth, half fishing. I heard my voice shake.

He grabbed me by the hair and jerked my face around to his. He was red-faced and spitting. “Not if you’re dead, funny man!”

“Have you considered an anger management course?”

That was the last thing I remember saying. The next twenty minutes were a blur of kicks and punches. Stockton was good at it. He knew all the places to hit and just how hard to strike for maximum pain. I just went limp and tried not to make a sound. I figured even a raging psycho like him would get sick of beating on a wet sack of mud after a while.

But he just went on and on until my face was puffed like a bloody bundt-cake and my body was tender to the touch. What amazed me even as I was being beaten was his skill at keeping me conscious. He wanted me awake, and awake I stayed. Finally he tired of hitting me and pulled a blade from his back pocket.

I spat a wad of thick blood. “Come on, Stockton. You made your point.”

He ignored me. “You ever hear of hamstringing? It’s supposed to hurt a lot.”

I shivered. Nobody walks after having the backs of their knees sliced. If he truly meant to hamstring me, I was through.

Luckily, I have a merciful angel that watches over me. That angel happens to be a big cop named Jefferson Blout.

My eyes were nearly swollen shut, but I heard him come crashing into that room like a diesel. I had the pleasure of hearing Stockton give a little baby yelp right before Blout shattered his jaw with a roundhouse punch that would have made a Viking weep. It was beautiful.

When it was all said and done, I was banged up pretty good, but I could still walk. Blout talked me into going to the hospital where I got a couple dozen stitches and a jumbo Band-Aid or two. I made sure to whine until the doctor ordered some painkillers, so in the end I came out okay. Shit, I’d gone through a lot worse to get drugs before.