Thomas slept for 16 hours, waking up at 4am and in agony. The painkillers that he'd taken had long worn off. Not that they'd been too useful in the first place- if you've got a broken arm, then you need something stronger than ibuprofen. He knew that he'd run out of tablets, and at this time all of the stores in the area would be shut.<br/><br/>"Fuck," he said to himself, "It's that fucker Dave's fault. Hit me with the crowbar."<br/><br/>He got up and put a jacket on. There was something in one of the pockets- a mobile phone, one of the very small expensive ones. He switched it on. "Hmm." It appeared to belong to Dave. He must've picked it up somewhere along the line and forgotten about it. Oh well. He turned it off again- he wasn't sure if the police would be able to trace it when it was on, but he thought that it would better to be safe than sorry.<br/><br/>He was feeling crap, and the only thing that he could think of that might make him feel better was to torture Dave. He, Thomas, was in pain, so that bastard boyfriend of Claire's should be in even worse pain than himself. He got a flashlight, and took all of his tools inside from the car. Then he went round to the wine cellar. He unlocked the door, and opened it, pulling out his pistol as he did. He was holding his flashlight in his left hand- he could just about do that with the arm being broken. In his right hand he held his .45. He shone the light inside- there was Dave alright, alive and awake, his head up against a ventilation grill.<br/><br/>"Hey...Dave old buddy...time for us to have some fun."