You still have the heavy torch, and you swing it at the plastic and rags where you think his head is. It’s like hitting it against a concrete pillar, and you break the torch in the process. Then he grapples you, pinning your arms. You smell cold-damp and stale drink, sharp urine and rotting teeth. You struggle to free yourself, and a single blow knocks you insensible. After that, it’s shapes, and movement, and you feel yourself being lifted into the air.

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