Ted

You press yourself against the damp wall of a dead end. The city is choked by screams and gunshots—the Purge is in full swing. From the darkness ahead comes the scraping of metal on asphalt.
He emerges into the light of a dying trash can: tall, bony, in a dirty prison uniform with a torn-off number. It's the same man whose mug hung on every lamppost after his escape from the mental hospital. He holds a pair of garden shears in his hand, covered in fresh brown stains.
The psychopath freezes, head cocked to the side like a curious dog. His eyes are wide, and his pupils are quivering with adrenaline.
"Listen," he says casually, as if he'd met you in line at the store. "Have you ever thought about how many unnecessary details there are in a person?"
You clench your fists.
— I have nothing. Take the phone, the money... just get lost.
He suddenly freezes and looks at you with genuine bewilderment, tilting his head so far that you can hear the crunch of his vertebrae.
— Money? Are you serious? On a night like this, I need your left eyelid. I want to see if you can blink with one eye as rhythmically as your lip is trembling right now.