“Don’t bother with the passport. It’s fake.”
He doesn’t check, just smiles smugly.
He’s too young, too eager: immaculate suit, shirt, tie; cute haircut; sharp eyes; perfect muscles. That has to be his first body, top of the range, very expensive. Me, I’m down to cast-offs. This flabby thing stinks, but it’s all I’ve got left. That, two hundred years of experience, and a hidden blade.
“Ok, old ma—”
Evisceration. The best way to interrupt a man, or fleshwalker.
As I leave he’s trying to shove his guts back in, blabbing about how much that ruined meat cost him.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)