LITMIR.BIZ

       The Rusted Arm

      What an absolute waste. Such a fine drink was now spilt onto the floor, mixing together with an ever-growing pool of blood from a Marian whore. Imagine that whiskey’s journey. The time and effort it must have taken to reach perfection. Brewed and bottled, then put into a crate and transported all the way south to the edge of civilization…simply to be ruined in such a callous manner. It was an expensive bottle, and I’m certain the price matched the work. I was quite looking forward to enjoying such handiwork. Yet instead, all of it is now a puddle of glass and blood at my feet.

      Dumb bitch.

      I sit here in this booth waiting for somebody to settle the matter. Few patrons in the bar glance over, and those who do quickly turn back to their drinks. An injured bar-whore on this ferry is not a tragedy to warrant more than a few seconds of curiosity.

      She will just not stop shrieking. The shaking mess is curled up next to the table she clumsily knocked over. She’s wailing like a banshee, and it’s getting on my nerves; her good hand is clutching the Reichsmarks that she stole from my pocket.

      She had sat on my lap, slipped her hand in my pocket, and taken the money inside, thinking I wouldn’t catch it. As she gripped the money, I in turn gripped her twig of a forearm and shattered that fucking thing in half. Bone is piercing out of the flesh, some red pulp is dripping onto the wooden floor…serves her right. She tried to get away and toppled everything over with her. The table…the drink…my patience.

      A dark, cardinal-red river is flowing down her pale, fair skin. I was very eager to get acquainted with that body before we made landfall. She seemed like a quality girl. Blonde, an abundance of curves, smooth pearly skin. If she had made some good life decisions and weren’t a bar-whore, I figure she could have made a fine Aryan wife. Just my luck the best looking specimen tries to be a thief. Pity.

      I motion for another drink and for somebody to take this whimpering mess away from me. Four girls scurry into the bar. One hands me a new bottle of liquor, the second places a mat over the pool of blood, and the last two drag away the sobbing bitch. It was a nice little display.

      One of the girls snatches my Reichsmarks back from the bleeding bar-whore’s grasp and places the money firmly into my hands. As the rest leave the room, she gives a gracious bow, apologizes in a regretful tone for the inconvenience, and finally floats out of the room to leave me in peace.

      “What was that for?” a voice calmly says at the other end of the bar.

      I turn to face its owner. His slim figure is draped in an overcoat that flows down to his knees. On top of an already bulky coat is a shell of metal-armored plates. They are golden, just like his features. Blond hair slicked back, with a short-trimmed beard to match. His youth of twenty years really contrasts with my own aging exterior. Even though we are only ten years apart in age,

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