“This will only hurt a lot,” he said. He was sweaty, greasy and covered with blood. He held the knife, a large thing; something like John Rambo might carry into the Vietnamese jungle, up and twisted it in the light. It glimmered along its edge, sharp enough.
The man he spoke to was named Kevin and only a few hours before, Kevin had been an accountant. He was good at his job, he was moving up, his family was secure and happy. Now, Kevin was screaming through a gag. His eyes were wide and he was also sweaty. Not as sweaty as the man with the knife, but stinking nonetheless.