Rimanoa

Questions from the darkness of the night

1:02 a.m. Aug. 17.

"Big Barn" near London, faint light, interrogation in progress.

"Shall we talk?" — I asked the poor man in a completely cold-blooded voice, turning on the chainsaw. He opened his mouth and whispered something, but due to the squealing of the ratchet, neither I nor the rest of the expeditionary army could hear. Я отключил визг и услышал писк: «Ммммммииииииимммммгхгх».

"Is that it?" — The saw started up again, but now for two seconds. Ghost's bass was heard: "Can I give it a try, eh, Commander?"

I decided to see what would come of it. The German picked up the iron and jabbed it as carefully as he could at the injured man, making him look like he was going to vomit on someone.

"Okay, that's it, that's enough or we won't know anything except what he had for dinner tonight. — I put the saw down on the concrete — Let's start simple. What's your name?" "Bbbbill."

"Last Name." "Harrison."

"Very good… — it felt as if I had learned valuable information — Now the hard part… Where is Joseph Gutgold?"

"This is the first time I've heard such a thing…"

"I see… Hey Mih, you can try again." Lüttvets, standing a little to my left, picked up his recently thrown club and swung it.

"Don't, please don't…"

"Wait…" he raised his hand, "Where's Gutgold?"

"He's in Boston, Westside St., 15. 15, I don't know anything else, nothing." "Okay, we'll check…"

But there was no point in checking whether it was so — if he said HIS name and surname correctly the first time, it was not wise that he would tell all other people's names as well.