Again and again, his fists rained down. His victim was beaten to a bloody pulp, barely conscious, and most likely not even totally aware of what was happening anymore.
Deep in the back of his mind, he knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew this would not get him the answer he so desperately needed.
But he had snapped. This bastard had side-stepped the question, and tried to make it look like he answered with the wisdom of Solomon.
He knew he should stop. He’d probably already inflicted severe, irreversible brain damage. At minimum, a serious concussion. More than likely, this little weasel wouldn’t live through the night.
That thought, that the one being he thought could have answered his question would never again be able to even attempt a solution, brought the rage anew. His fists punctuated each and every word.
“How many licks to get to the Tootsie Roll centre of a Tootsie Pop, you bloody owl?! How many?!“
The world may never know.
