10
The fresh night air makes you feel alive.
More alive than ever.
The warmth of the whisky as it trickles down your throat has something to do with it, too.
You’ve sharpened and polished your instruments of destruction. All those little gems you’ve collected over the years, in auctions and fairs and flea markets, have finally found their purpose; their destiny.
But you can’t use them all. No way. You would happily draw blood with every one of your precious tools – but that’s not practical.
You stride forward with the sack on your back, pulling out blades one by one, discarding those of no use to you. It breaks your heart to see such wonderful weapons of war, from Africa and India, Russia and the Far East, going to waste. Kaskaras and sabres and rapiers and katzbalgers. But needs mus
