Private Pinocchio

“Agent Pino, under our custody at last.” The Coachman sneers, pacing back in forth, coin tumbling through his hands as he walks. An intimidation technique, one that I found more pathetic than frightening. I work my hands back and forth under the table, my wooden joints crying in protest as I work them down, using the cuffs as a makeshift saw.

“Long time no see old friend.” A calm facade covers my face as I force a smile in the mans direction. His pacing stops as he turns towards me, coin bouncing continuously until he slams in on the table, leaning forward, our faces inches apart.

“Lets not play games today Pino, I’m not in the mood.” Leaning back, he takes a seat, grabbing the abandoned coin from the table, holding it between his fingers, “This is what’s going to happen, I’m gonna ask you a question.” His eyes trace the patters of the coin before flashing up to mine, “And your going to tell the truth.” Placing the coin back on the table, he rests his index finger overtop, a sneer overtaking his face, “and if you don’t.” In an instant the coin extends, sliding across the table until the point of the newly developed sword hits my chest, “Well I think you know what happens next.” Pressing down on the coin again, it retracts, and he picks it up again, letting it dance through his fingers once more, “now, ready to start?”

Sighing, I lean back in my chair, stopping my attempts to saw off my hands. As easy they are to reattach, I’m thinking plan B will be more effective. “Yessir I am.” I smile brightly, flashing my fake white canines.

He snarls in my direction, clearly not fooled by my act of innocence, “Ok wise guy, first question. Where did you take the children?”

My smile drops and I cock an eyebrow, “what a simple question from such a simple man.” His eyes glower in my direction as he waits for my answer, “The workshop of course.” His eyes flash to my nose, waiting for it to extend outward. When it doesn’t he smiles smugly, crossing his arms at his chest.

“Where’s Geppetto hiding?” I involuntarily flinch, and he takes notice, leaning forward his interest peaked, “answer boy.”

“The Monstro.” I mutter. He turns his head cupping his ear and I scowl, “The Monstro.” I repeat, louder this time, making sure to spit in his direction.

The interrogation continues for hours as the Coachman drags each answer from me, making sure to get every last detail from each of our attacks. By the 35th question he seems content, hands sitting calmly in his lap, coin out of reach. “Ok, last question.” He shifts in his seat, leaning forward, “Have you been honest this entire interrogation?”

I roll my shoulders before leaning forward, meeting his eye, “Not even once.” The pain behind my nose explodes as wood blasts forward, penetrating everything in its path. Including poor old Coachman. Skin separates from flesh as my nose travels through his thoracic cavity, and his scream echos throughout the room. I watch as life drains from his eyes, and body goes limp, a soft smile forming on my lips. Pushing my shoulder to ear I turn my earpiece back on, “Hey Jiminy, plan worked. I’ll meet you outside in twenty.”

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