Oooda held the blade high, its serrated edge fading into her mental fog. Without thinking, driven only by Scaramouch’s blinding presence, she plunged it into my chest. The blade pierced the skin of my chest. She carved down, around both my heart and stomach.
Almost telepathically, as emotional control seems almost telepathic, he instructed her. She obeyed. Up came the butchering blade, and away she tossed it. Into the wound she drove both hands, digging for and finding my vital organs. Up came the heart, beating and dripping. To Scaramouch handed it she. A second time her hands drove in and dug around. Up came the stomach. To him handed it Oooda.
Oooda’s Svengali tossed them into the dirt. “Let us begin the Stomp.”
© 2013
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