ground.
--I’ll take any help I can get right now, Mr. Predo.
He looks at the three enforcers, they all shrug.
He unfolds his arms, comes away from the limo he’s leaning against, and takes the pouch from my good hand.
--A lost art, it appears.
He tugs a paper from the folder.
--It has been some time for myself.
He settles tobacco into the crease, rolls the paper back and forth around it, shaping a cylinder, pinches lightly and spins it into a tight bundle.
--Ah, like a bicycle.
He licks the glue, seals the edge, and passes the smoke to me.
--And the match?
I dig the pack from my pocket, fold one down and under until the head touches the sandpaper, and give it a snap that brings it to light.
--I got that covered.
He nods.
--Useful, should you live for any time at all.
He drops the tobacco pouch into the tacky glaze of my blood that I’m sitting in.
--Unlikely as that may be.
He walks back to the limo and resumes his posture, leaning against the front fender, arms folded at his chest, ankles crossed.
--About that treaty you mentioned. It does not exist.
My hand has stopped bleeding. Stumps scabbed over, scabs drying and falling away, revealing fresh pink scar tissue. The fingers will never grow back. Something like a slender wart might sprout where my thumb was, but that’s at most. And I’d just as soon it didn’t. Cuts in my face feel all healed over. I can brush the dry blood off and find slightly stippled skin. If I don’t move around too much, the ends of my ribs will finish knitting back together. Feels like a couple of them may end up crooked. I can still taste the pepper juice, I reek of it, but my throat and stomach have stopped burning, so that’s OK.
I wonder what it’s gonna be like to punch someone with a fist made out of two and a half fingers.
--Yeah, the treaty, you’ll be negotiating it pretty soon.
--Details.
--Lament is dead.
He looks at his shoes.
--How. Unfortunate.
I take a drag.
--Yeah, that was my reaction.
He looks up from his shoes, long bangs in his eyes.
--Not that you had anything to do with it, I assume.
--Oh hell yes, I shot him a bunch and then I scalped him. Good night’s work.
He pushes the hair off his forehead.
--I would add the killing of another Coalition officer to your record, but it is more than redundant at this stage.
--I’d hate anyone else to get credit for killing the fucker.
--Noted. I can assure you that when morning comes and you are staked out in the sun it will be included on the list of charges proved against you.
He puts a hand on top of the clippers he set earlier on the hood of the limo.
--And this treaty that does not exist, you foresee it for what reason?
I pick more scab from my finger stumps.
--Lament is dead. All his enforcers are dead. The Hood have cleared out the top of the rock. They got nothing distracting them up there anymore. No threat from inside their own border. Digga’s going to clean house. Anyone on opposition. Papa Doc, that mouthpiece you keep up there, I expect Digga already executed him by now. He’s done fucking around. By morning he’ll have a unified front. And he’ll be looking at One Ten, ready to get serious about war. Especially if it will force you to broker an agreement. Official cease-fire, and a resumption of trade.
He touches the tip of one of the shears’ blades.
--They are starving.
--Sure. So they can either fight it out with you and try to expand their borders and their hunting ground, or they can settle and start buying your blood again.
He removes his finger from the blade.
--Digga made it clear he is not interested in our blood.
He looks at me.
--Having learned where it comes from.
My smoke is down to a nubbin. Knowing how hard it’s going to be to get another one rolled, I pinch it like a roach and try to eke a last couple drags.
--We going to cry over spilt milk?
He picks up the shears.
--No. We are not.
He moves from the limo.
--So, you are telling me that
--I’ll take any help I can get right now, Mr. Predo.
He looks at the three enforcers, they all shrug.
He unfolds his arms, comes away from the limo he’s leaning against, and takes the pouch from my good hand.
--A lost art, it appears.
He tugs a paper from the folder.
--It has been some time for myself.
He settles tobacco into the crease, rolls the paper back and forth around it, shaping a cylinder, pinches lightly and spins it into a tight bundle.
--Ah, like a bicycle.
He licks the glue, seals the edge, and passes the smoke to me.
--And the match?
I dig the pack from my pocket, fold one down and under until the head touches the sandpaper, and give it a snap that brings it to light.
--I got that covered.
He nods.
--Useful, should you live for any time at all.
He drops the tobacco pouch into the tacky glaze of my blood that I’m sitting in.
--Unlikely as that may be.
He walks back to the limo and resumes his posture, leaning against the front fender, arms folded at his chest, ankles crossed.
--About that treaty you mentioned. It does not exist.
My hand has stopped bleeding. Stumps scabbed over, scabs drying and falling away, revealing fresh pink scar tissue. The fingers will never grow back. Something like a slender wart might sprout where my thumb was, but that’s at most. And I’d just as soon it didn’t. Cuts in my face feel all healed over. I can brush the dry blood off and find slightly stippled skin. If I don’t move around too much, the ends of my ribs will finish knitting back together. Feels like a couple of them may end up crooked. I can still taste the pepper juice, I reek of it, but my throat and stomach have stopped burning, so that’s OK.
I wonder what it’s gonna be like to punch someone with a fist made out of two and a half fingers.
--Yeah, the treaty, you’ll be negotiating it pretty soon.
--Details.
--Lament is dead.
He looks at his shoes.
--How. Unfortunate.
I take a drag.
--Yeah, that was my reaction.
He looks up from his shoes, long bangs in his eyes.
--Not that you had anything to do with it, I assume.
--Oh hell yes, I shot him a bunch and then I scalped him. Good night’s work.
He pushes the hair off his forehead.
--I would add the killing of another Coalition officer to your record, but it is more than redundant at this stage.
--I’d hate anyone else to get credit for killing the fucker.
--Noted. I can assure you that when morning comes and you are staked out in the sun it will be included on the list of charges proved against you.
He puts a hand on top of the clippers he set earlier on the hood of the limo.
--And this treaty that does not exist, you foresee it for what reason?
I pick more scab from my finger stumps.
--Lament is dead. All his enforcers are dead. The Hood have cleared out the top of the rock. They got nothing distracting them up there anymore. No threat from inside their own border. Digga’s going to clean house. Anyone on opposition. Papa Doc, that mouthpiece you keep up there, I expect Digga already executed him by now. He’s done fucking around. By morning he’ll have a unified front. And he’ll be looking at One Ten, ready to get serious about war. Especially if it will force you to broker an agreement. Official cease-fire, and a resumption of trade.
He touches the tip of one of the shears’ blades.
--They are starving.
--Sure. So they can either fight it out with you and try to expand their borders and their hunting ground, or they can settle and start buying your blood again.
He removes his finger from the blade.
--Digga made it clear he is not interested in our blood.
He looks at me.
--Having learned where it comes from.
My smoke is down to a nubbin. Knowing how hard it’s going to be to get another one rolled, I pinch it like a roach and try to eke a last couple drags.
--We going to cry over spilt milk?
He picks up the shears.
--No. We are not.
He moves from the limo.
--So, you are telling me that
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