“Not in a talking mood? That’s cool. We don’t need to talk. People talk too much, is what I always say. Talk about nothing really, just go on and on and on . . . ” My grip on the screwdriver tightens, and I imagine it plunging into his neck. It’s long enough—could probably get him right through the voice box. “And on and on . . .” “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
