Ching, Chang, Chong

He was a tough old bugger and wouldn't talk. A quality I used to admire when I first started out in this business. Good old British stiff-upper-lip. You don't see it much these days.

Now, I find it annoying. I just want the bastards to break. Whether they scream and cry, plead and piss their pants, or tough it out, curse me and spit in my eye, it's all the same to me. They're only wasting my time and theirs. It will end the same, either way. They may as well save themselves a world of pain.

I started by tenderising his left hand with a mallet. He grunted with each blow and there were tears running down his cheeks. But that was most likely due to biting his own tongue, which can smart more than a broken bone. Clever dick might have done it deliberately, to distract himself.

So I continued on his right hand. Hammer and chisel this time. Index finger first, then the middle finger. I used my cigarette lighter to cauterise the stubs. Didn't want him fainting due to loss of blood.

While I was at it, I sparked up a cigar. Took a break to puff on it. Calmed myself down a bit. Gave him time to think about what might come next.

I pantomimed stubbing my stogie out in his eyeball. That got him talking. But only swear words and threats. Heard them all before.

"Let's play a game," I offered. "If you beat me, I might let you go." As if.

From what he told me to do, I don't think he believed me. But sod him. I have to keep this job interesting for myself, don't I?

"Ching, chang, chong," I chanted, flicking my hand three times next to his. "Paper wraps stone." I placed my palm flat on his ruined fist. "Sorry mate. You lose."

"Scissors cut paper," he croaked, twitching his remaining fingers.

"Call them scissors?" I scoffed. Rummaging in my little bag of tricks, I produced a shiny set of secateurs and held them to his nose. "Now these are what I call scissors."

He was a poor loser. But I'm not what you'd call a graceful winner either.