Kong repeats his message, which seems to indicate that he is going to attempt some tech wizardry to empty the room. “If I can get them out of there for a few minutes,” he yells, “can you get free?”

At the same time, Herkimer says, “Do you know where the Nakamura sword is?”

With my legs I push against the floor to see just how insecure my chair is. With a gusher of adrenaline—and with two fully fuctioning legs—I might be able to break it. With 1.5 legs, who knows? But what choice do I have?

“Yes!” I yell to Kong.

“Goodie,” Herk says. “Tell me and I won’t do to you what I did to your dog.”

“Screw you.”

“Do you know what this is?”

He raises the curling iron in front of my face, moving it in a threatening circle.

“Wax on?” I say.

He punches me in the side of the head. It’s not as bad as a hammer, but it’s close.

“Try again,” he says, rotating slowly.

“Wax off?”

“No, don’t,” Charlie says.

But he does. He punches me in the mouth and I bleed assiduously upon the concrete. The red Rorschach on the floor looks like a pattern of augury telling me who is going to die, and in what manner. But I don’t need clairvoyance to tell that. Common sense can handle that on its own.

“Last chance,” he says.

I should just say it. When you think in terms of syllables-per-ounces-of-blood-lost, there is really no viable reason that I shouldn’t just say “curling iron” and then move forward with the normal assembly of teeth still in my head. But I can’t stop thinking about Pink, and when he gestures threateningly in front of my face I hear myself say the words “Paint the fence?”

He smites me again and a curdlike froth starts dribbling out of my mouth.

“He doesn’t know anything, Jimmy!” Charlie pleads.

Again I am battering-rammed. My head rings in full Dolby Digital, but I do not whimper; I just smile with whatever mouth I have left. In one respect this is becoming pointless; in another it’s a relief. It hurts, but the hurt is real. It isn’t fooling; there is no question about its cause or its intent. It’s an honest assault. After the incomprehensible pain of Charlie, it’s almost refreshing.

I spit a mouthful of blood at him, flecking his face tribally. “You punch like a mime,” I say.

This gets me punched again. It’s still painful, and a set of side-by-side photos will reveal clearly who’s winning and who’s losing in the exchange, but for some reason I feel as if I’m scoring points. He is hitting me without getting hit, true, but I have that one-up feeling of being in an argument with someone who keeps repeating the same insult. He’s losing creativity points.