Mize would hit the accelerator, speeding toward you at 40, even 50 mph - you packed in with the others, your girlfriend or cousin or best man, like bowling pins. Your dread would be coursing now - fear about what’s to come, whether you’d pull this off. He’d get into the “at fault” car, headlights glaring through the darkness down the road. Men typically wouldn’t get any protection: too wimpy, in Mize’s view. Inside the “victim” car, women could clamp on a neck brace, a helmet. Spill a bottle of your urine on your pants like you’d blacked out. Pop aspirin so your blood would stream faster. You’d chug a Red Bull to spike your blood pressure. For concussions or a busted knee, he’d smack you with a liquor bottle, a brick, a frying pan. Scuff up the wound with sandpaper, gripe if you didn’t bleed enough. He’d gash your brow with a razor or box cutter. Mize hurt you one at a time, pulling tools from a briefcase, cold and businesslike.
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