little man cut into pieces and fed to the meat-eating fishes of the harbour. Or the eels. Yes. Definitely the eels. They consumed bones more readily than a pen full of hungry pigs.
“I’m just saying,” muttered the little man, backing away and exiting the villa’s easy room carrying a tray with empty glasses, each stained with a residue of whiskey sweat.
Mola sat, enjoying the rays of the dying sun, for what little enjoyment he could feel. The problem was, and this was a common problem, he’d been drunk. Not drunk as a lord, but certainly drunk as a whore. Drunk was something Mola did well. Hell. Drunk was something Mola fucking loved. Not so drunk he couldn’t function; oh no. What would be the point of that? But drunk enough to furnish him with… a unique perspective in any given situation. Drunk enough to be brave about any situation. Drunk enough to face a blade, or shove a blade into another man’s guts. Drunk enough to care – fuck it. To Care with a big C.
Mola felt sour, and bad, and cold. His head felt dark and bad and maudlin. He thought back over long bitter years and remembered better times, the good people he’d known, the good times he’d enjoyed. And he thought about those good times turned sour. He thought about those good people he’d known stabbing him in the back and fucking him over. And he thought about the bad times. Shit. There had been a lot.
“Damn you,” he cursed, and wriggled, trying to get comfy.
Carrion entered, and moved slowly to Mola. He handed the man some small white tablets. “Time you took these,” he said.
“I don’t like to. They addle a man’s brain.”
“You need the relief,” said Carrion, with some sympathy, his compact, dark features contorting.
“Thank you. What would I do without you?”
“Die under the blades of the Red Thumb Gangs?”
“Yes. Thanks for reminding me of that one.”
“Do I also need to remind you of the fight?”
“No.”
“So the dogs are ready?”
“My dogs are always ready,” growled Mola, his own voice more reminiscent of the hounds he trained than any human sound a man should utter. His brows formed into a savage scowl and Carrion closed his mouth with a clack of teeth. He’d worked for Mola for ten years, but knew even that was not enough. Never enough. The Red Thumb Gangs believed they controlled Mola and the dog fighting pit he ran on their behalf; but in reality, Mola was a man apart; the sort of man who nobody truly ran, or owned, or controlled – despite appearances. Mola did not feel fear. He felt pain, yes; every fucker felt pain. But fear? Fear was something that happened to other people.
Mola rocked several times, then managed to gain his feet with only a minimum of rich and inventive swearing. His head snapped round and his small dark eyes pierced Carrion. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“I was merely contemplating your recently increased elegance.”
Mola processed this. “You cheeky little bastard. You want to spend five minutes with Thrasher?”
Carrion smiled a narrow smile and took a step back. “Of course, Mola, I should know better than to poke even the slightest bit of fun at you. You are currently a man without a sense of humour.”
“Currently? Poke fun at me, cunt, and I’ll feed you to the dogs on the next betting match down at the pit. See how long you last against Duchess, Duke and Sarge. Make a fucking bit of fun out of that one whilst they’re tearing your thigh muscles from your quivering fucking leg bones.”
“Yes, Mola. Sorry, Mola; don’t know what came over me.”
“It’ll be my dogs coming over you, you fucker, if you think you can take the piss out of me!”
Carrion retreated. Mola felt bad. Carrion wasn’t a bad man. Problem was, you showed a bit of weakness in this life and every cuntfuck decided they’d take a slice of you for fucking dessert. And Mola wasn’t a man who liked having slices taken from him. Not without a bit of raspberry jam on the
“I’m just saying,” muttered the little man, backing away and exiting the villa’s easy room carrying a tray with empty glasses, each stained with a residue of whiskey sweat.
Mola sat, enjoying the rays of the dying sun, for what little enjoyment he could feel. The problem was, and this was a common problem, he’d been drunk. Not drunk as a lord, but certainly drunk as a whore. Drunk was something Mola did well. Hell. Drunk was something Mola fucking loved. Not so drunk he couldn’t function; oh no. What would be the point of that? But drunk enough to furnish him with… a unique perspective in any given situation. Drunk enough to be brave about any situation. Drunk enough to face a blade, or shove a blade into another man’s guts. Drunk enough to care – fuck it. To Care with a big C.
Mola felt sour, and bad, and cold. His head felt dark and bad and maudlin. He thought back over long bitter years and remembered better times, the good people he’d known, the good times he’d enjoyed. And he thought about those good times turned sour. He thought about those good people he’d known stabbing him in the back and fucking him over. And he thought about the bad times. Shit. There had been a lot.
“Damn you,” he cursed, and wriggled, trying to get comfy.
Carrion entered, and moved slowly to Mola. He handed the man some small white tablets. “Time you took these,” he said.
“I don’t like to. They addle a man’s brain.”
“You need the relief,” said Carrion, with some sympathy, his compact, dark features contorting.
“Thank you. What would I do without you?”
“Die under the blades of the Red Thumb Gangs?”
“Yes. Thanks for reminding me of that one.”
“Do I also need to remind you of the fight?”
“No.”
“So the dogs are ready?”
“My dogs are always ready,” growled Mola, his own voice more reminiscent of the hounds he trained than any human sound a man should utter. His brows formed into a savage scowl and Carrion closed his mouth with a clack of teeth. He’d worked for Mola for ten years, but knew even that was not enough. Never enough. The Red Thumb Gangs believed they controlled Mola and the dog fighting pit he ran on their behalf; but in reality, Mola was a man apart; the sort of man who nobody truly ran, or owned, or controlled – despite appearances. Mola did not feel fear. He felt pain, yes; every fucker felt pain. But fear? Fear was something that happened to other people.
Mola rocked several times, then managed to gain his feet with only a minimum of rich and inventive swearing. His head snapped round and his small dark eyes pierced Carrion. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“I was merely contemplating your recently increased elegance.”
Mola processed this. “You cheeky little bastard. You want to spend five minutes with Thrasher?”
Carrion smiled a narrow smile and took a step back. “Of course, Mola, I should know better than to poke even the slightest bit of fun at you. You are currently a man without a sense of humour.”
“Currently? Poke fun at me, cunt, and I’ll feed you to the dogs on the next betting match down at the pit. See how long you last against Duchess, Duke and Sarge. Make a fucking bit of fun out of that one whilst they’re tearing your thigh muscles from your quivering fucking leg bones.”
“Yes, Mola. Sorry, Mola; don’t know what came over me.”
“It’ll be my dogs coming over you, you fucker, if you think you can take the piss out of me!”
Carrion retreated. Mola felt bad. Carrion wasn’t a bad man. Problem was, you showed a bit of weakness in this life and every cuntfuck decided they’d take a slice of you for fucking dessert. And Mola wasn’t a man who liked having slices taken from him. Not without a bit of raspberry jam on the
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