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“Do you know of Procrustes?”

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I watch the first scabber again, the one with twitch tats, as his pupils widen in recognition of my voice. Head wagging; I take that as a no.

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“He’s from Greek mythology. My third favorite next to Prometheus and Medusa.”

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His eyes search his surroundings,

noticing the darkening sky over him. Feeling cold

steel on his spine.

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“He lived in a fortress near a mountain pass that he would lull travelers into.

Invite them to sleep in a very special bed. Like the most perfect host.”

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Right about now he’s probably wondering why he can’t turn his head. Why his

extremities aren’t tingling. The first one is easy: I’ve tied it down.

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“The thing is, he wanted the bed to be perfect for his guests.

He’d go to great lengths to accomplish this.”

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As for the second one. Well…

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“If they were too short or too small, he’d stretch their body until it fit.

On the other hand,

if they were too tall or wide, their limbs dangling

off the edge even the slightest bit, he’d cut them right off.”

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Now comes the primal scream.

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Enough to rattle the loosening metal behind his neckskin.

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I remove the tie-down around his head to allow him to see my project now—how I’ve fastened him to the track of the roller coaster. One-size-fits-all, with just one surgically precise railsword swipe. The legs I’ve spared. He won’t need them too much longer, anyway.

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“Ple-please. I’ll leave and never come back,” he pleads, as they all do eventually.

 

Lying, as they all do.

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“How many scabbers do you think have told me that,

only to come back with their friends later?”

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He thinks it a trick question, and it is.

 

He’s calculating something in his head,

adding up the hard facts.

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“Zero,” he finally answers with a fatal sigh.

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Ding-ding-ding. It’s the right answer, but it won’t save him.

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As I softly nod, I can tell he has embraced his fate.

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“You were in the war weren’t you?”

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Another nod. His eyes stabbing at me wild for a second,

before his whole aura seems to go cold.

 

Sober though not quite serene.

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“Then it doesn’t matter what I say to you does it?”

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I’d tell him it’s not personal but I’m sure he knows this already.

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The Law of the Scorch is unwritten because everyone still alive knows it.

 

It might as well be written in blowtorch and blood.

 

It’s the reason so many clan up to increase their odds.

 

Survival is the only rule – alpha and omega - and one warm body out there left alive means one more body left running around likely to leave yours cold later.

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At this point, I respect his acceptance of his own crummy luck.

 

Of all the amusement parks in all the world, he had to walk into this one.

 

Call it a bad draw of the cosmic deck.

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Because of this, I pull the crank now to tip the cart at the top of the track. It’ll be

quick. He’ll hear it rumble and then he won’t hear anything at all.

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I don’t even ask him to smile. He’s earned the right to frown.

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To glower and grimace,

gnash his teeth and curse his fate if he wants.

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            Only true warriors are deserving of this privilege.

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