Patton was just under thirty years old when he first stepped foot into Blackiron Federal Penitentiary, a specially-designed prison for superpowered criminals and psychopaths who could not be held in regular facilities. Yeah, he recalled, he had a few gallons left in the tank back then. For a while, at least, he had been able to stand up to the cyborg neo-fascists and mutant gang-bangers that wanted to fuck with him—or just fuck him. But then the changes started: His bones weakened and his lungs hardened. His skin dried up and became like leather stretched over bone. Scott Patton’s body aged seven decades in a handful of years. He hobbled out of the prison a decrepit, ancient husk of a man. Patton had made arrangements to keep his illicit income safe long before he got put away. He had never counted the sum of his savings from the dozens of bank jobs he’d pulled, or the commissions he’d earned from doing gigs for less talented crooks. But he knew it was quite the bounty.
What do You think about The Machinist: Making Time?
