The Shepherd and the Salesman

Mr. Rofone's Worker

(TW: graphic torture & gore)

(POINT OF VIEW: ILI)

You finish setting up your camera, a bit concerned by that interaction.
"Man, I hope everything goes well with them." You think to yourself silently.

You pause for a moment, your ears perking up to a quiet click.... Camera.
You put your hand in your pocket and turn around, looking into the alleyway where it came from. Your expression is blank.

You sniff the air, the pungent smell of the trash almost blocking your senses. But not enough. You can smell someone's sterile gloves and the smoke from a faulty Polaroid camera.

You pull your gun from your pocket and shoot, you hear a stifled gag and a thud. You walk over and scoot the trash bags aside, revealing the man dressed in black with the Polaroid still clutched in his hand. You shot him in the face, but he still seems to be alive.

"Let me guess, you're Russian?" You speak coldly. He shakes his head no. "...What...?" You ask.
"Then what's this creep up to!?" You think to yourself.

You scoff and put your gun back. "Who do you work for." You demand, putting your booted foot on his chest.

A choke escapes him as blood pours down his face. He shakes his head no. "... Not gonna say, huh?" You speak without emotion. "...n-no..." he chokes out.

"..." A wide, toothy grin comes across your face, and you laugh. You slip your switchblade out from your pocket and flick it outward, the sharpened blade glistening.
"I have ways of making you talk."

You grab his hand and pin it against the brick wall. "One last chance, who's your boss?" You say, glancing over at him. He doesn't say anything.

You bring the knife between his fingers and slice downwards over his palm, the thin skin between fingers ripping and his palm practically split in two. He screams in pain through a mouthful of blood, and you feel a slight twinge of joy.

And yet, he says nothing. You hold his hand down a bit more firmly and put your knife to his thumb. You chop it off effortlessly as he tries to scream, but nothing comes out. You move to the index, then the middle, then the ring finger, and the pinky.

Soon, his whole hand is basically useless. You scoff. "You're not a talker, ey?" You grin widely. He shakes his head no. You pause, bringing your knife to his groin. "Last chance. Speak." You order. "M-MIKE ROFONE! I WORK FOR MIKE!!" He blurts out, coughing afterwords as blood spills down his face from the gunshot.

"... Good boy." You state coldly before reaching up and stabbing him in the side of the head. A final choke escapes his lips before he falls limp.
"...Mike? Was... Mike, the guy Spamton was talking about? Mike Rofone-?" You think to yourself.

As you gaze at the corpse in front of you, you take note that the meat is good quality.

...Wouldn't want to let it go to waste, would we?