“Not good enough,” said Harry Planter through gritted teeth, punctuating each syllable with a solid punch to Dennis’s face.
They’d been in the shipping container for two days straight in the July Californian sun. It smelled of stale urine and dehydrated meat. Dennis had been picked up at the Mexican border after ill-advisedly attempting to flee with the blueprints. How he thought he’d get away with it, tracked as he was by his GM unit, was anyone’s guess. Dennis wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
“You see,” said Harry, lighting another cigarette with swollen, blood-stained hands, “it’s my little girl’s birthday today. She’s five. I’ve hired a clown. He’s going to make balloon animals and shit. Real class act. None of your Gacey bullshit.”
Dennis just stared.
“I just need you to tell me who Asteron is, and where they’re holed up. Then I can get to my daughter’s party, you can be on your way, and we’ll say no more about it.”
Dennis leered at him, straining against the zip ties on his wrists and legs. “Fuck you, man.” He spat bloody sputum at Harry’s cowboy boots. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you can’t torture a guy for shit.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Okay tough guy, let’s play it your way. Tell me where Asteron is, or no birthday cake for you.”
Dennis’s demeanour changed in an instant. “Okay, okay, calm down man. Look – I don’t know who Asteron is, or what it is, I just know there’s been meetings, and we’ve talked about The Institute and like, bringing it down, but they never got into specifics.”
Harry scuffed the cigarette butt out with his toe. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he muttered “It’s vanilla sponge.”
A tear rolled down Dennis’s cheek.