Creole Cookin’!
Grabber was breathless from slapping, so he pulled an empty crate over and sat for a moment. It was hard work in the New Orleans heat. This guy wasn’t going anywhere anyhow. Grabber had been wailing away at the suspect for about four hours now trying to get him to talk. Sometime during the third hour he had forgotten what he was even hoping to get the guy to talk about. He didn’t care anymore. Jack Grabber knew that some people said that torture yields bad information. He even admitted they were right about that most of the time. It didn’t make a difference, though. He needed the practice anyway. He didn’t get into the gym to spar much anymore. Call it an interrogation / workout. Whatever. He had caught his breath. He barked at the prisoner again to tell him where the child was hidden. The prisoner didn’t answer. Would have needed a functioning mouth to have done so even if he wanted to. Grabber threw his issue of People to the ground and got back up. He slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped until it sounded and looked like he was slapping something more liquid than solid. He finally stopped and took a look at what remained of the guy. It was nothing more than chunks of meat and wetness everywhere. The blood, hot from the frenzied whipping, smelled almost spicey. Grabber mopped it all into a corner and then scooped it into a large ceremic bowl. Looked at the concoction again and muttered “looks like we’re having Jambalaya tonight” and walked out of the garage and back toward the French Quarter.