He collapses with a pained howl because standing on two feet is a thing of the past.
Gripping him by the hair, I drag him to the front of the stage, then stop and breathe. I take a moment to really appreciate my surroundings, because inflicting screams on those who are usually the abusers gives me great pleasure.
The lights suddenly flicker back on, showcasing the glorious sight I’ve created.
Men and women stop mid-flee, blinking quickly as they adjust to the change in lighting. When they see the exit is manned by Ron Brady with a machine gun in hand, they gasp. That gasp turns to screams when their eyes are riveted my way.
“I’m awful sorry I messed up yer black and white theme,” I say with a smirk when I see the trail of red I left while dragging Brody to his impending death.
“Liam!”
