Righty stepped back and coiled his arm
to strike again. Damian's feet danced away. Damian leveled out his weapon and balanced
on the balls of his feet, ready for any dish to be served in this deadly feast.
Righty delivered a ripe, overhand thrust, aiming the blade down at Damian's face.
The oaf had apparently eaten his fill of finesse and was hungry for a main laden
with brute strength.
Panic took control. Damian saw the knife
in his hand and pictured dozens of movies he'd seen. As Righty came charging, he
emulated them and threw the knife, end over end. It spun through the air, time
slowing and light glinting off the sharp blade. The camera pivoted one-eighty
on the blade as it hit the big man in the chest.
With the hilt. Which, of course, did not stick in like an assassin’s airborne offering, but instead bounced off harmlessly
and clanged to the floor. Righty kept right on coming.
Damian caught a meaty wrist with both
hands and they toppled onto the bed. The big man was on top, leveraging his weapon
down. It would be over soon. This was not
the movies. That knife swung down far
faster than it should.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,
Damian prayed.
Do I have to do everything? Inigo
whined. Clear your mind!
What?
Just do it.
Damian closed his eyes and tried not
to focus on the blade bearing down on him. Mere seconds and it would be over. Over! He would be murdered in a hotel room.
He could feel the cold steel on his chin, the blade sliding along as it went after
the soft flesh of his throat. What's the use? Damian gave up.
He heard a pop.
So that's what death sounds like...
Friday, May 31, 2013
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