Roo had little choice the day he killed me.
The hired hands had me. Found us. Surrounded. Roped up like cattle at dusk. Shored me up sober strung over a great pile of abandoned furnishings. Another effigy to Ikea's tossed away Sweedish trash. To be my stake. In the judgment for crimes committed and lack of other murder devices. With a dear friend as executioner. This dear friends is where humble folk conjure their prayers. Where warriors grin in the face of delivering ends. Or as I have seen, feeble grovel. For a cost known not. Unless lost. Then again.
So I hung by feet. Head an inch swaying from earth.
"I! godammit, it's me I said for fucks sake. What sign from hell do you fucks need!" Flames flickered higher at my shirt cuffs. Warming an otherwise cold combo of arm meat. In my favor for record.
Roo spoke, "How is any to tell what or who you truly are after what has been seen?!"
"Before or after I fucked your mother?", my words spat against the fire. "Let me down, hear me at sword length or know that my ghost will arse fuck you eternally with great hate!"
The upside down that I made my right upside up became irrelavant quickly. My leg bonds snapped away in time for my man to sweep me right up. Feet planted again I sought a crouch.