"Max, would you excuse us for a moment?" Bruce stood over one particularly large member of the T-gang. He was a rough, meaty-looking fellow who lay flat on his stomach, defeated by a grizzled old man nearly four times his age.

Max was terrified, her eyes wide as saucers as she backed slowly out of the room, her bosom heaving. Bruce saw in the way she looked at him that she was searching desperately for something to say that would not bring his wrath upon her, yet would stop him from doing whatever it was that he was going to do next. Damn, she had great breasts. He guessed she couldn't come up with anything, because the door slammed faster than he could say "foolproof interrogation methods."

Bruce lifted his cane and felt the weight of it in his hands, running his fingers over its length. The T-gangster was breathing noisily, as though his throat was packed with phlegm. It annoyed him.

"So, are you gonna tell me how you got Terry's backpack?"
"Forget it old man."
"I really wish you'd tell me."
"I really wish you'd lay down and die, and from the looks o' ya, I imagine I don't have long to wait."

"I'm really glad you said that."

Bruce lay his cane upon the floor and knelt down beside the man. He removed a small Swiss army knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade.

"Ya gotta be kiddin' me. I have seventeen scars and a bullet still lodged in my ribcage. You think you're gonna hurt me with that thing?"

Bruce shook his head and in one swift motion cut a slit in the seat of the man's pants.

"What the hell?! Look, old man, I don't know what you think you're doing, but there's no way I'm talking, so you might as well go back to your nursemaid out there."

Bruce unbuckled his belt and slid his pants zipper down along its track.

"Look, man, you're old. You think I'm shaking? I know you'll never get it up."

"Slag it," Bruce muttered as he zipped his pants back up and lifted his cane from the floor. "I guess you're right."

END.