Arrant Nonsense

You poor bastard.

You know what? I was going to post a long entry explaining what I'd just done. And then I realized that you haven't been graced with a snippet in awhile. So, here. Have one:

The tall one weighed a cattle prod in one hand and the stun gun in the other, eyeing Ben crossways with an expression that wasn't a smile. "This," he said casually, holding up the stun gun, "puts out about five hundred thousand volts, according to the manufacturer. It knocked you out in the parking lot pretty as you please. However, we don't want to knock you out. Knocking you out is counterproductive."

"I'd prefer it," Ben rasped, spitting blood. His blurred vision had honed in on the cattle prod, which brought back all kinds of memories from Afghanistan. None of them were happy ones.

"Of course you would. Now this--" He hefted the cattle prod. "--only puts out about eleven thousand volts. It's actually one of my most favorite toys, because it's painful as hell but doesn't cause any lasting damage, so I can use it again and again." He paused. "Tell us what we want to know, and I won't use it on you."

Shit. Ben closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He thought about making something up, anything to stop them, but if they didn't believe the truth after all this, then a lie wouldn't convince them either. "I. Don't. Know."

"That's really a shame."

I'm getting to the point where I'm starting to think that this might be actually good.