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14 September 2005 @ 04:41 pm
From Alice's Past: A Random Memory (also known as The Short Without An End)  
((To be clear, this isn't a journal entry of any kind. This is me writing about Alice's past, 'cause I felt like it.))

"What did you just call me?"
I stride towards him, fuming. One hand is on my hip; the other lightly traces Ariadne's hilt over and over. I start to wish I had worn Prometheus today; nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to lop this bastard's head off with a katana.
The drunken lout repeats his insult. Luckily for him, even in the grip of temper I am nothing if not polite. I give him my best cold-eyed glare and come to a halt in front of him, gripping Ariadne in my left hand and waiting for an excuse to draw her.
"Apologise, if you value your life."
I know I'm being too dramatic - later I will curse myself for wasting time on flowery language - but caught in the amber of my own fury I am no longer in control of my words. M. Inebriated Moron laughs, the stink of his breath rolling over me in a putrid wave. He says nothing more.
I draw with my left and transfer her to my right, giving him plenty of time to mark the difference between her straight edge and what I call her "playing edge". Nine curved dips in the blade, each about a third of a circle, line up along that side between the hilt and the angle leading to the tip. The places where circle meets circle come to wicked points. It's a bitch to sharpen, of course, but I've never minded.
Of course the idiot can't appreciate her beauty. His eyes bug out and a liquid mass of foul language and fouler breath slops out of his mouth like a vomitous drool of pungent words.
He seems somewhere between fear and anger as he draws his own knife, a battered dirty thing with a stained handle and rust spots on the blade. Done being polite, I bring up Ariadne before he can fumble his pathetic ill-kept weapon anywhere near me. His friends - there are always friends - are lurching in the background, having just realised that something is amiss.