Gdugdu jumped though the doorway cockwet his hair slickknotted toward his ears and slapped the sandals from our heads. That door flapping against the wall.
Albert Ducharme lost his fingers, they said. Pointer on his right hand, lost. The one just next to it, also lost, though there Albert still had a stub that wiggled when he waved.
The assassin was from neither here nor there, though he spoke all their languages. He operated mostly at night time, under cover of alcohol, smoke, lust, and other elements of intoxication. He was smooth with it—baiting his targets into empty, unassuming locales.