Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-30692970-20170111144858

This was edited by my collab partner, and since I have no idea how to delete anything, I will now post the edited version for your criticizing pleasure.

-- "Please, no," the small man strapped into the metal folding chair screamed as I drove the drill through the back of his hand, a thin spray of dark red liquid splattering the plastic covering the floor and furniture, preventing blood from causing impossibly hard-to-remove stains.

"Listen, Jake," I leaned in close to him, my face inches from his. He recessed into the chair, trying to get as small as possible. "I told you plenty of times not to make an enemy out of me. It's not my fault you crossed the line two miles back, dear friend."

He screamed the entire time I spun the 5 millimeter bit in his hand. I finally decided it was enough when the light in his eyes started to fade, his will to live disappearing like an apparition. I pulled it out, blood following suit. I grabbed a rag off the table in the corner of the room, tying it around his hand, preventing him from bleeding out. He screamed and begged, trying to get me to listen to reason.

"Oh, shut up you little runt. It’s not like I’m just gonna let you leave here in anything other than a body bag. Hell, maybe I won’t even put you in a fucking bag, maybe I’ll just drag you out of here and leave your little shit body in the middle of the woods where no one will ever fucking find it."

"Please, stop. I can't do it anymore," he begged sheepishly, tears flowing down his cheek. His face was sprayed with blood. He continued to beg until I finally decided I'd had enough.

"If only I could, but you know what happens to fucking rats, don't you?" I shuffled over to the table and replaced the drill, now picking up a barbed dagger. The blade was blunted, the barbs extending only an inch off. "They get trapped." He looked at me, scared, knowing he was helpless. His pleading, dying eyes stared into my soul, hopelessly trying to wager with my feelings, trying anything to make it out alive.

"I'm not very a religious man, Jake, but if I were you right now, I'd be praying. Then again, it’s not like you’re gonna get an answer."

"Please, listen, Jon. I'm sorry, but I had to do it, they- they would've put me in prison, and I-"

"You must've been practicing that little excuse the whole time you worthless piece of shit. Making a deal with the fucking police, hoping I wouldn't find out until they caught me. You know, you weren’t always the brightest bulb in the pack," I chuckled, moving towards him.

"Jon, it's me, Jake," he tried to remind me, as if I didn't already know what he was going to say. "I'm the one who taught you all you know. I'm the guy who started you into this whole shit show."

"Yet look what you've done to yourself you little cunt. I find that the cons outweigh the pros in this." I put the dagger to his jaw.

"I thought you were done with this- this- thing years back," he informed me me, his voice wavering in fear. He was making his final, feeble attempts to survive even another day. "I thought you told me that you were out."

"That was then. This is what I've been waiting for for all these years. The blood lust of a mentally unstable fuck show can't be quenched, cunt. You of all people should know that the best with what you did to Rich." I let the blade dig into his throat a bit, a small trail of blood leaking out. His eyes widened, pain creeping through his body. He twitched slightly, the blade digging in yet further. "This is the return, Jake. And you're the first victim. You should feel honored that I'm giving you such an opportunity. Now shut the fuck up and let me finish you off you tired fucking runt. You are of no use to anyone anymore, so it seems I'm doing everyone a nice favor by disposing of you," I sneered.

I pushed further, the small trail of blood becoming a flowing river. His usual shrieks became choking which, in turn, became his final sounds. His death throes were becoming intense, his body jerking back and forth, his wrists fighting against the tight zip ties holding him to the chair. His eyes rolled back, the bloodshot whites fading to a glassy, graying film. He stopped moving, his body finally coming to a rest. Jake was dead.

I untied him and dragged him to the trash bin I usually put my victims in pre-burial. I started humming, then singing, “Take me out to the back of the shed, shoot me in the back of the head. Take me out to the back of the shed, shoot me in the motherfucking head.”

I was back.

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So I edited it and I realized how awful we were at writing. Well, I added profanity and some more detail. Oh, I also referenced the song Old Yeller by Joji at the end. -Rhyvee 