Eager to end this Nazi insect’s worthless life already, you lunge for his throat, wrapping your hand around his neck. You find that it is actually pretty difficult to strangle somebody, and so you employ your other hand as well.
You squeeze with all your might. He chokes and sputters, clawing at your hands as they crush his windpipe.
But before you have the satisfaction of watching the light drain from his bigoted eyes, you are suddenly yanked up off him into the air.
<That’s enough of that!
Cobson has lifted you by the hood of your jacket, much like a cat would take its kitten by the scruff. The businessman, now freed, skitters back anxiously.
<This is my shop, so you’d better behave yourselves.
He turns to the man.
<You should probably leave, safer that way. Don’t worry, I’ll call the police. Can I get your number so I can follow up?
The man nods hurriedly.
Yes, yes! It’s 305-208-9046. Thank you.
Shaken, he rises to his feet and flees the building. You can hear his truck’s engine start up outside.
Once the sound of his car fades into the distance, the three of you stand aimlessly. Cobson is back at the counter, but he has made no move to call the police. Instead, he is smiling amicably, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Cobbert pipes up.
<Are we good?
<Yeah, you’re good.
<Thanks!
Cobbert turns to you with a grin.
<See? I told you he was cool!
As much as you’d like to believe that, something about Cobson unnerves you. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve left the frying pan and entered the fire.
Also, you’re still pissed you didn’t get to kill that asshole.
What do you do?
