“You know, you talk too much,” said the red haired man, voice rich with irony. He paced around the chair in which Marcel was tied, snapping his switchblade open and shut, open and shut with each step; the overhead light swung in time with his pacing.

Marcel’s eyes were wide with fear, his mouth an ‘O’ of horror. What had he done wrong that this strange man with the long red hair and a penchant for cleaning his teeth with a knife had dragged him to this dull grey room to torture him? Surely walking against the wind wasn’t a crime?

The man stopped in front of Marcel, flicked open his switchblade, and picked his teeth. “I saw you,” he said when he’d finished, “I saw how you leaned when you walked. How you scrunched your face up like there was dirt in the air or something. Didn’t need the white gloves and the silly face paint to know what you are!”

He leaned forward caressed Marcel’s jaw with the switchblade. “I’ve always wanted to make one of you talk. Looks like my lucky day.” He grinned. “Talk, Mime!”