Bash had never been pistol-whipped before but he could already tell he wasn’t a fan. Slowly regaining consciousness in the deli’s basement had been an ordeal. His thoughts, half-formed and ugly, took their sweet damn time to return. The first of them was something vaguely related to the shrieking agony in his head. The second dealt with the gun barrel resting comfortably in his mouth. The third demanded that he piss himself right then and there in his brand new slacks. Bash complied without hesitation.