“Put him in the chair” three men stand in front of Bob, two of them are large, bulky individuals - while the third is a lanky slim figure, yet he seems to carry more gravitas in every step he talks. With duct-tape around his hands and bruised pulps of flesh plume on his face. Blistered, purple with a hint of green and red drips from his mouth and grazes around his eye. 

“WHO do you work for, Bob,” The slim figure says as another blow of one of the muscular mens fist makes contact - cracking can be heard as his nose is slightly adjusted, “Doesn’t have to be like this Bob,” The figure lights up a cigarette, throwing the match in Bobs face as the blood extinguishes the flame, “You know, you have beautiful children - and from what we’ve gathered, a loving wife,” Bobs face cracks a smile as the slim figure takes his own crack at Bob, his ring scraping across his left temple, causing a elongated cut. Bob, spits on the floor looking up, 

“You don’t know my family at all, beautiful? That’s a stretch,” Giving off semi-concussed wheezes as his throat is trying to evacuate moderate quantities of blood - the slim figure snaps his fingers, sending the two brutes away. The light pierces Bobs vision, the high wattage light above him at least gives his peripheral some understanding of where he is; A dark, damp, old WW1 era factory, rundown and seemingly made for making outdated weapons by the rusted devices and crudely made conveyor system. 

Bob taking in his surroundings is turned to the slim figure talking again, his ears and ears simultaneously squinting as the boxed ringing sound is fading, “Bob, we don’t have to do this - tell us who you work for, and your family might see the comming weeks - we’re civil people,” The man exclaims, taking a drag of his cigarette, before placing it in on Bobs lips, gesturing, “Respect is key,” the man pausing as Bob then inhales, “-But this city is ours, and will always be ours - the rats can no longer feed off of the corpse when it’s already skin and bones,” pausing again, Bob exhales as smoke fills the air, “We want to revive that corpse Bob,” turning around, “-we want to make that corpse into a living, breathing, functioning, money making machine Bob.”

Silence falls in the factory, Bob focuses on dim light from the cigarette, “Some people call me Bobbo, Bobbaroonski, Bobman if you ever feeling like Ch-(Changing it up)” mid sentence the slim figure turns back around, forcing the cigarette into bobs neck, the blood vessels sizzle and course with head - consuming his pink skin with a red and black-ashed rash. A high pitch squeal is let out as Bob rattles about in the chair, his hands locked together, all he can do is rock side to side, trying to flail his legs,

“It’s going to be a long week Bob,” The man laughing as he pulls away, taking himself towards the door he sent his entourage through - leaving Bob bloodied and left with his head hanged towards his thigh.