Chris was the best with a knife. Maybe that’s why they always sent him.
“Wait, wait. Plea-“
The plea morphed into a high pitched cry as Chris drove a six inch serrated knife into the hand bound to the table. Blood oozed out of the wound, painting the wood a dark red color as it spread.
Knives were easier to deal with than people. Honest in a way that humans could never be. You keep them sharp and they will do what they were made to do every time. No questions and no lies.
Chris examined the knives that remained. He could do so much with these, but he shouldn’t need to.
“You’ve got approximately five more tries.” He let his fingers trace each knife. “I don’t have all day to find out what I need to know.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”
Glancing up from his kit, Chris’ other hand shot forward to grab the man’s head and slam it on the table. He had a knife with a needle point aimed at the man’s eye before he could draw a proper breath.
“I don’t have the patience either. So,” he slammed the man’s head down again when he struggled. “How much harder are you going to make me work?”
The sudden fire in the man’s eyes made Chris excited. No, he didn’t have to use all his knives, but if the man wanted to play, who was Chris to deny anyone the opportunity to experience heaven.
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