Ruehl decided he was over the charade. Enough was enough! In an instant he drew a Dessert Eagle 5.0 from his backpack and pointed it directly at Mr. Jacob’s temple, commanding him to drop to his knees.

Jacobs dropped, tears filling his eyes, staring up the barrell of the gun, peering into Ruehl’s baleful leer.

“Now I ask the questions!” Ruehl declared.

“Yes. Anything.”

“Who is TVT! What does the squared stand for! What’s your angle?!”

“The two is for our second . . .”

“Bullshit! Bullshit! What does the SQUARED mean!”

“Ummm. Ok. Ok. Ok. It’s ummm,” out of sheer terror, Jacobs could hardly utter a reply at this point.

“Spill it!” Ruehl aggressively commanded.

Jacobs’ tan slacks quickly turned a darker shade of tan, a yellow liquid puddle forming on the lineoleum floor, underneath his right knee.

“Look at you! A grown man, pissing his pants. How pathetic! Ha ha!” Ruehl berated Jacobs malevolently. So what do you do? What is TVT-squared?"

“We make it rain. We make it . .” Jacobs began.