Bine said,

“James?”

Jimmy leapt to attention, went and got the nose candy, a mini headstone, with cocaine done in nice consecutive lines and, naturally, presenting a fifty-euro wrapped note, offered the gear first to Bine.

He did three lines fast, moved the stuff to Sean, who did similar, then Jimmy, and, finally, Bethany.

She didn’t give a proverbial toss that they were as chauvinistic as the very society they decried, she did four lines just to fuck with the system.

She smiled as the dope jolted and at their almost boyish cries of “Sweet Jaysus,

Darwin rocks,

Bring it on muthahfuckahs.”

She watched Bine carefully, even as she felt the icy dribble down her own throat. Christ on a bike, that was A-1 dope, she was in danger of speaking, such was the potency. She knew the K could take him either way: magnanimous or malevolent.

He caught her stare, asked,

“The knife?”

She produced the new Japanese blade he’d ordered, serrated edge and as sharp as a bishop avoiding child molestation allegations.

He studied it, asked,

“And this for whom?”

She bit down, said,

“As you desire.”

Fuck, even to her own self she sounded like a wench in an Elizabethan drama or, worse, a bad Russell Crowe medieval romp. He moved his finger along the edge, letting the fine blade draw blood, sucked at it, the blood on his lips, his eyes on fire, and she knew, sex would be rough, and violent, and the stupid bollix, he’d probably bring the knife to their bed. Men and their macho toys. He said,

“Mmmm…in keeping with our strategy, I want a retard, but I want him gutted.

Can you do that?”

She wanted to say,

“How fucking difficult can it be, kill a handicapped person?”

Went with,