The needle feels the size of a drinking straw, but Marlowe is careful to keep his forearms taut.  He lets his head hang loosely as they hoist him, unceremoniously toward the door.  "Very good-- no, not really.  It was like shaggin' a paralyzed whale, actually.  Remember, tea's in the cupboard, don't leave the milk out to spoil--"  he can feel the muzzle of the gun trained on his skull like an unblinking eye.