We (Baltic Version) ~ Carrie Schneider
Pico Faraday never stopped to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Mind you, nobody was likely to tell him that his actions infringed on some or other rule or ethic; not since Mishka’s death anyway; and besides, everything was in short supply.
To quote the lady herself: “Waste not, want not”
He dug the knife in, gingerly at first, feeling around for the bullet.
The priest had been dead for long enough for the wound not to bleed much; but not long enough to prevent it from oozing blackly at the tip of Pico’s exploring knife.
He used the serrated edge on the top of the blade to hack through the ribcage.
He wondered at his ability to abstract: the priest’s flesh represented nothing more than a goal; a means to prosper. The irony was not lost: Pico knew for a fact that this inanimate meat was no sacred vessel; it held nothing – no soul, no intrinsic value other than the material value of the bullet and the more altruistic value of the nourishment offered to bacterial and insect entities involved in the process of decay.
A glint of dull grey at the knife’s tip and the dull pressure carried up the blade’s length told him that he had found the bullet, the open chest cavity, despite being a gory mess, did not deter his seeking fingertips, he lifted the mangled blob of lead up to his one good eye; his shooting eye – bingo.
“The wages of sin” Mishka might have pronounced at this stage “subsidise the lives of desperate men”
To quote the lady herself: “Waste not, want not”
He dug the knife in, gingerly at first, feeling around for the bullet.
The priest had been dead for long enough for the wound not to bleed much; but not long enough to prevent it from oozing blackly at the tip of Pico’s exploring knife.
He used the serrated edge on the top of the blade to hack through the ribcage.
He wondered at his ability to abstract: the priest’s flesh represented nothing more than a goal; a means to prosper. The irony was not lost: Pico knew for a fact that this inanimate meat was no sacred vessel; it held nothing – no soul, no intrinsic value other than the material value of the bullet and the more altruistic value of the nourishment offered to bacterial and insect entities involved in the process of decay.
A glint of dull grey at the knife’s tip and the dull pressure carried up the blade’s length told him that he had found the bullet, the open chest cavity, despite being a gory mess, did not deter his seeking fingertips, he lifted the mangled blob of lead up to his one good eye; his shooting eye – bingo.
“The wages of sin” Mishka might have pronounced at this stage “subsidise the lives of desperate men”
2 comments:
You and Tom at Half-Moose have this awesome ability to develop characters with little more than minutiae.
Totally jealous.
Wonderful read.
Yodood: only if you have marked off all the numbers on your card
JeffScape: hey, thanks for the jealousy :D
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