Fuck. It was the only word to come to mind staring at the myriad weapons laid out on the dirty, pitted wooden table before me.
-a hook, still glistening with the fresh blood of the last fight.
-a pair of gloves with razor blades fastened to each finger by some kind of wire. Two words were burned into the palm of each: ‘tasty cakes’
-a sickle with a handle cut as short as possible. This one seemed to be called the ‘toothpick’.
-a rock, with bits of hair stuck to it by great globs of congealed blood.
-a much abused cork screw named ‘leach’.
Looking at the great mountain of flesh standing across the table I made my most worried and apprehensive expression.
The fat man smiled and said, “Pick one or the gecko fucks you.”
The fat man jerked his thumb to his left and I saw for the first time a wiry waste of a man smiling at me with not a tooth in his head. He and I held our gazes for a moment.It ended when he licked his lips and I started to gently weep. My head bowed I pointed to the toothpick.
Fuck.