A gust of wind blew.
The leaves rustled wildly.
The red eyeball in the masked man's palm swiveled around, staring straight at my neck.
It made my stomach churn. That bowl of pork rib soup I'd had for dinner nearly came back up.
Fucking disgusting.
What kind of normal person grew an eye in his palm?
I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms in disgust.
I ground the sole of my shoe against the bluestone paving slab.
The dried clod of mud crumbled into yellow dust.
His black cloak suddenly shook.
Several sharp whistles sliced through the air.
Three pitch-black rods shot out of his wide sleeve.
They carried a rusty, bloody stink.
And headed straight for my face.
I didn't even bend at the waist.
I twisted my ankle and leaned to the left.
The rods grazed past the tip of my nose, slicing off a stray tuft of hair.
Thud, thud, thud.
All three rods embedded themselves in the big pickling crock behind me.
A crack split the crock with a snap.
Sour, foul-smelling pickle brine squirted through the crack and spilled all over the ground.
My temper flared instantly.
I'd been pickling those vegetables for nearly six months. They'd only just gotten good!
"Pay for my pickles!"
I cursed and drove my foot hard against the paving slab.
Like a shot from a crude cannon, I launched myself forward.
I was in front of him in an instant.
I clenched my right hand until my knuckles turned white.
And delivered a resounding slap to that white mask with a funnel painted on it.
Smack!
It was louder than a Double-Bang Firecracker going off at New Year's.
The mask shattered into dozens of plastic fragments on the spot.
They stabbed into his own face, drawing blood.
He