It's the man from the VIP room. He's dressed now. A casual golf shirt, with large horizontal stripes. A few dark flecks spot it randomly.
"You awake? Good. It's Twenty Questions time."
He's a smug fuck.
Harry leans forward. "You probably think you're not going to answer my questions. But, bear with me. I spent some time in Uganda, a while back. Great place. I learned a lot. That whole area is full of warlords, and nobody fucks with them."
He's actually a pretty personable guy, when he's not slamming bottles into people's head.
"You know why? One word. Mutilation. They cut bits and pieces off. There was one that took a whole bunch of prisoners from a failed coup. Every year, he trotted them out, in public, and hacked something off. Hand. Foot. Every. Year. You get the idea. No more uprisings. Hell, that's pretty effective. So I thought to myself, self, you could probably beat a man all day, and he'd still keep his secrets. Water. Electricity. All that silly stuff."
He smiled.
"But what if a man was faced with, say, spending the rest of his life missing a hand? Or foot? Think those secrets are worth a lifetime of that? I don't know about you, but I don't. I sure wouldn't, at least."
Harry leaned across, reaching for the tray.
"I took the liberty of expressing how serious I am. Just in case you think I'm fucking around."
The steel surgical tray in his hands holds a nasty looking chisel, and a hammer. Dried blood is caked on them.
It takes a moment for the other objects to register.
Two blueish pink bloody stubs. Ragged ends show a hint of yellow bone.
They're Leo's thumbs.
"Right now, you can still drive a car. Dress yourself. Even jerk off."
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it's the little details 
