Don't Step On The Flowers

Reno was pacing, casually, back and forth in front of the captive that he had duct taped to a tree that he, himself, had made painful acquaintance to a month and a half before.

His Electromag-Rod was resting on his shoulder, and every now and again, he'd give it a very casual sort of tap. Letting his prisoner know that he meant business.

"You ain't been very cooperative with me this week," he spat, then took a mouthful from the bottle of Everclear that was in the hand not currently holding a stun weapon. "I tell you to do your job, and you don't want to, yo. You're supposed to work, when I want you to work. And instead you sit there, like you got some kinda right to it, and you know what? That just don't sit right with me. You understand?"

The rod got another tap on his shoulder. He took another mouthful of the booze, and he turned to face his duct taped captive, pointing his weapon dangerously, sneering.

"I think you're laughin' at me inside. You laughin' at me on the inside?"

No answer.

'No answer' was a bad answer.

The poor, totally demolished laptop learned the meaning of pain, right there. A thorough beating by a drunken Turk with an electrified stick. That would sure teach it a lesson.


[Open if you have some reason to be out in the middle of nowhere in the woods in the dead of night. But otherwise, Reno's content to drunkenly brutalize the hardware in peace.]