Behind the door to the mob boss’s office, you hear the tortured wails of your parents, and the muffled threats of the mob boss.

“Should I take another finger?” the mob boss calmly asks.

No time for second thoughts or “a strategy.” You burst inside the room guns ablazin’, and by guns, I mean your ripped arms and thick knuckles. Inside you witness a horrible sight. It makes you nauseous. The mob boss is ripping the fingers off one of the most valuable Little Porcelain Babies your parents own. Tears stream down your parents’ faces.

“Put that expensive collectible down,” you order. “I beat up many of your goons, and I’ll beat up even more if I have to.*”

“My goons are hurt?” he asks, worried. He turns to look out the blinds of his office window. “I hope they’re okay. I love my goons.”

“You should check on them,” you state, then kick the desk in front of him, knocking the mob boss out his own window. As he tumbles to the floor below in a mess of blood and glass, the boss regrets caring so much for his beloved goons. Empathy has cost him everything.

You escort your emotionally fragile parents and their baby figurine out of the warehouse. They’re very proud of how you handled yourself around those goons.


* You don’t have to.

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