Backhanded compliment

There was a pause - but I decided not to rush in and fill it. I got the impression that whoever this guy was, he wanted me to do just that.

One of the things you learn, selling things for a living, is when to shut up. Just by saying nothing, I sensed I was getting under his skin, and I liked that feeling.

Normally, I'm not one for picking a fight - but finding out you can't be physically hurt does a lot for your bravery, unsurprisingly. Even when you're tied to a chair and there's a big sinister bloke pacing the room, as I was discovering.

"So, not interested in finding out what we know, Alan? You do surprise me," he said, eventually breaking the silence.

When I didn't reply, he sad, "what's the matter, Alan? Cat got your tongue, sunshine?"

I licked my lips. "Well, you have an advantage on me," I replied. He raised his eyebrows as if to point out how obvious a statement this was.

"I meant," I continued, "that I don't even know your name."

"Oh, how rude of me, Alan," he said. "You're quite right - I haven't introduced myself. Where are my manners? You can can call me 'sir' if you wish."

"I'd rather call you 'twat' instead,"

He crossed the room in a flash, and slapped me hard across the face. His stupid cuff links scraped across my eye - but of course, I felt nothing at all.

He. however, was rubbing the edge of his hand. Not, I discovered, from pain.

"Christ, I hate working with you freaks. The feeling of my hand actually going through your flesh and bone is truly disgusting."



Story begins here.