Last Stop

Walter stared at the simple metal table in front of him. He had wondered when he first came into the room why they would have a table made of metal in there, but then he saw that it was bolted to the floor, and then they shackeld him to it with the handcuffs and it all became clear. Wooden tables are easier to smash than metal ones.

He flipped through the typed statement that had been left in front of him; they had been smart enough to secure his left hand, leaving him his right hand to write with. Stupid pigs – they never even asked if he was right-handed. Still he was not going to sign this fiction, so it really did not matter. They had left him some smokes and a coffee, so he lit one up and settled back to try and enjoy his alone time; it would not be long now. He drew in a large lungful of smoke and gave the customary, defiant eye-fuck to the one-way glass mirror that the detectives were hiding behind.

He heard the commotion start as he was dimping out the cigarette; clearly James was here. Time to die.

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