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Lighting the Fuse

Max was bound to the chair; he couldn't move and if he did the wire would cut into his skin. He sat there drenched and covered in fluid; a pungent odor assaulted his nostrils and his wounds burned because of the liquid.

It was gasoline.

"Are you going to talk?" Brogan asked. He sat on a stool, with a pack of wooden matches. He drew a stick and lit it.

"I have been chatting," Max replied through swollen lips. "But you are not hearing."

Brogan flicked the match at Max; the flame died out before it touched his clothes. Max didn't flicker one bit, which irked Brogan even more. 

"You really don't get it," Brogan told him.

"No," Max replied. "You're the one who doesn't get it."