He wriggled as the black-clad man shoved the nozzle into his mouth and secured it with tape.
Dorothy placed her knitting on her lap and fanned herself.
‘You shouldn't wash your car every weekend,’ she smiled sweetly, ‘there is a water shortage, you know.’
She waved a finger. The man’s desperate moans intensified and he writhed until the chair fell backwards.
The black-clad man turned on the garden tap.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Dorothy resumed her knitting, ‘sounds like rain. That’ll be nice.’