[Slevin's pulse picks up and he swallows again, involuntary, but doesn't look away. He doesn't let himself follow the movement of the drill, but forces himself to stay focused on Chris. Forces himself to imagine how this is going to feel, the generic twist and dig of the bit itself, his grip shifting from a fist to a white-jointed hold on the edge of the chair with the kind of slow, almost nonexistent movement that he had to learn the patience for.

He doesn't let his eyes roll up to see where the cold metal almost touches, tickling his forehead with the movement of his bangs. He glares, and he hates, and beneath the concealing cotton of his t-shirt he trembles in anticipation, but he does not look.]

No, see, deja vu means already seen. Those were real mobsters with real balls.

But if you want to hijack their ideas because you're too shit worthless to come up with your own, be my guest.