move directly to actions that make a distinct impression. Permanency can be difficult to accomplish in this line. You’ve lost an eye already. And what’s another toe, really? A man of your experience, what can I do that has not already been done?
Trying to open my fist, the enforcer has broken my pinkie and ring fingers to get what he’s really after. But he has it now.
Predo points.
--Do you know what separates us from the animals, Pitt? Our thumbs.
He fits the open shears around the base of mine.
--Our opposable thumbs are what allowed us to become users of tools. And our use of tools is inextricably linked to the development of our brains.
He looks at me.
--But you, Pitt, with your profound and recurring idiocy, you can undoubtedly spare a thumb.
He squeezes.
--Perhaps even two.
The blades pass through the skin and meat and bone in a single smooth snip that proves Predo was right. They really are the best tool for the job.
My thumb on the ground, he decides to change tack for the moment and snip off my broken little finger next. One knuckle at a time.
I manage to stay with the show for the first two knuckles, by the third I’ve blacked out.
Not wondering if I’ll wake, but if there will be anything left of me when I do.
I’m gonna die.
Not a news flash or anything. We all live under the same headline. But I’m gonna die here and now. Soon, anyway. In however much time it takes Predo to whittle me down to dead.
I know I’m right because I’ve felt the same thing so many times before. By now, I know exactly how it feels to know that you’re about to die. And in all that time, it only ever happened once. And that lasted for less than a minute. I’m not saying it makes me feel optimistic about my chances here, but it does make me feel like there may be a play left in my hand.
All I have to do is sell people out.
• • •
I come to.
Count my fingers.
Still got five on the right hand and three on the left.
That’s the good news. Bad news is, Predo’s still on my chest, has the shears fitted at the top knuckle of my left ring finger, and seems to have just been waiting for me to open my eyes.
--Ah, there you are, Pitt. Welcome back.
He clips the knuckle, and I lose another fingerprint.
He moves the shears down about an inch.
I sell someone out.
--Digga’s going to backstab you on the treaty!
He doesn’t take the knuckle, but he doesn’t move the shears from the finger either.
His brow furrows.
--I told myself.
He squeezes the shears just enough to break the skin around the knuckle.
--I told myself I’d finish the whole hand first.
A little more pressure and I can feel the blades touch bone, the scrape of steel.
--Before I asked what you could possibly be thinking that would make you do something so monumentally stupid.
He stops squeezing.
--When we both know, truly, that despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you are not at all stupid. And, Pitt.
He closes his eyes and gives his head a little shake.
--I do not at all appreciate your interjecting here and causing me to rethink my plan of action.
He opens his eyes.
--You understand, yes? I nod.
--Yes sir, Mr. Predo, I understand.
The corners of his mouth crimp.
--Ah, there it is, that air of sarcastic servility.
He snips away the knuckle.
--I’ve so missed that.
He lowers the shears from my hand, and rises, standing over me, looking down.
--And it appears you’ll get one last chance to employ it, won’t you?
He steps away, tilts his chin at the enforcers, and they release me.
I stay where I am, and hold up my mutilated left hand.
Index finger, middle finger, stub of a ring finger.
I show it to Predo.
--Got to thank you, Mr. Predo, you left just enough so I can still tell a guy to read between the lines.
Turns out you need two opposable thumbs to roll a cigarette.
--Are you going to fumble endlessly with your bad habit, Pitt?
I rip another rolling paper and spill more tobacco on the
Trying to open my fist, the enforcer has broken my pinkie and ring fingers to get what he’s really after. But he has it now.
Predo points.
--Do you know what separates us from the animals, Pitt? Our thumbs.
He fits the open shears around the base of mine.
--Our opposable thumbs are what allowed us to become users of tools. And our use of tools is inextricably linked to the development of our brains.
He looks at me.
--But you, Pitt, with your profound and recurring idiocy, you can undoubtedly spare a thumb.
He squeezes.
--Perhaps even two.
The blades pass through the skin and meat and bone in a single smooth snip that proves Predo was right. They really are the best tool for the job.
My thumb on the ground, he decides to change tack for the moment and snip off my broken little finger next. One knuckle at a time.
I manage to stay with the show for the first two knuckles, by the third I’ve blacked out.
Not wondering if I’ll wake, but if there will be anything left of me when I do.
I’m gonna die.
Not a news flash or anything. We all live under the same headline. But I’m gonna die here and now. Soon, anyway. In however much time it takes Predo to whittle me down to dead.
I know I’m right because I’ve felt the same thing so many times before. By now, I know exactly how it feels to know that you’re about to die. And in all that time, it only ever happened once. And that lasted for less than a minute. I’m not saying it makes me feel optimistic about my chances here, but it does make me feel like there may be a play left in my hand.
All I have to do is sell people out.
• • •
I come to.
Count my fingers.
Still got five on the right hand and three on the left.
That’s the good news. Bad news is, Predo’s still on my chest, has the shears fitted at the top knuckle of my left ring finger, and seems to have just been waiting for me to open my eyes.
--Ah, there you are, Pitt. Welcome back.
He clips the knuckle, and I lose another fingerprint.
He moves the shears down about an inch.
I sell someone out.
--Digga’s going to backstab you on the treaty!
He doesn’t take the knuckle, but he doesn’t move the shears from the finger either.
His brow furrows.
--I told myself.
He squeezes the shears just enough to break the skin around the knuckle.
--I told myself I’d finish the whole hand first.
A little more pressure and I can feel the blades touch bone, the scrape of steel.
--Before I asked what you could possibly be thinking that would make you do something so monumentally stupid.
He stops squeezing.
--When we both know, truly, that despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you are not at all stupid. And, Pitt.
He closes his eyes and gives his head a little shake.
--I do not at all appreciate your interjecting here and causing me to rethink my plan of action.
He opens his eyes.
--You understand, yes? I nod.
--Yes sir, Mr. Predo, I understand.
The corners of his mouth crimp.
--Ah, there it is, that air of sarcastic servility.
He snips away the knuckle.
--I’ve so missed that.
He lowers the shears from my hand, and rises, standing over me, looking down.
--And it appears you’ll get one last chance to employ it, won’t you?
He steps away, tilts his chin at the enforcers, and they release me.
I stay where I am, and hold up my mutilated left hand.
Index finger, middle finger, stub of a ring finger.
I show it to Predo.
--Got to thank you, Mr. Predo, you left just enough so I can still tell a guy to read between the lines.
Turns out you need two opposable thumbs to roll a cigarette.
--Are you going to fumble endlessly with your bad habit, Pitt?
I rip another rolling paper and spill more tobacco on the
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