Attila fed the bonfire with dried logs long hidden, awaiting this task.
“We must cut off its head and throw it into the fire to burn.”
“But, it’s alive…”
“The bat, use the bat first. Where’s the bag. The fire is ready.”
“Uh, there’s a hole in the ba…. it escaped…”
“Idióta. It’ll keep coming back, and never die now. Balazs, you are seven, almost a man—you disappoint me—again.”
The boy smacked his forehead. He trembled, knowing what was in store for him now.
~ * ~
Thunder rumbles; rain pelts; lightening rents the sky. Arms raised high, Tomer adores the storm, his eyes wild and breath sour.
Cackling madly, he hurls the bottle at the window. “A good storm gets me en-nerr-gized!” The glass explodes. Tomer crumbles to the floor, limbs scattered like dropped kindling.
~ * ~