I wait until she's seen the nail gun and the gloved hands to scream, "What the fuck are you doing with Robert Hall?"

Perhaps on instinct, perhaps from memory, she makes a futile dash for the door, crying out. Though the Chardonnay has dulled her reflexes, the Scotch I've drunk has sharpened mine, and effortlessly I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her across the floor over a white Voilacutro cotton sheet, and then I stretch her arms out, placing her hands flat on think wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming........

--ezra_kerouac