Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about sex.
He was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was
welcome to them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it. She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep
the knife from his throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily,
as the screw of the press caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to free herself. The screw bit slowly into
her shoulder and she screamed again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes he was not sure. He looked
away until a sickening sound told him it was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.
Note: sorry if this story is kinda weird. I mean this part of the story.
