The Darned Heel of Vengeance
The window was high and narrow, thickly barred, and ensconced firmly in the stone.
More like a marionette with its strings cut than a person, Jerry lay sprawled where he had been thrown against the wall, bleeding into his clothing. The fading footsteps of Punch and Judy on their patrol carried into his cell.
The trickle of moonlight that lanced deep into his cell began to slowly dry up as the weather turned the clouds back on him. Jerry began the slow process of pulling himself together before the curtain fell over his sight. He managed to hoist one eye completely open to take stock of himself, but it was short-lived as his gasp of dismay caught his ribs again. Little but scraps and scuffed shoes remained of his former, dapper sophistication.
It was not that, after he had been caught, they had gone to great pains to take care of him- that was in fact completely backwards, as their care had been extremely painful. His tuxedo was shredded where they had violently searched him for weapons; they had found them all of course, and had returned him injury for each puppet they had stolen. They had instantly taken the hand puppets at his sides, and he marked time now with the grating of his ribs. Tearing back his sleeves, they had found the concealed finger puppets and had broken his fingers. Even his backup piece, the collapsable ventriloquist's dummy.
Well, they had broken his jaw for that one. "Gottle of geer," they had shrieked over him, laughing like hyenas. The sharp end to his patter had hurt almost as much as the injury. The memory brought him to the bring of outrage, and for a second time, his unswollen eye parted. In the distance, the footsteps paused for just a moment at their apogee. He needed a weapon. He needed his puppets. Taken from him.
The moonlight, almost gone, receded over his toes and his imagination began to turn. His body jerked sharply under his direction, as his training took over. Once again, he became the operator, not the inhabitant, and the pain of stiff joints and the ghastly squeal of crepitus were managed, as one would manage an unoiled doll. With a gentle inevitability he reached for his shoelaces with ruined hands.
'A puppet-' thought Jerry, 'any puppet.' He prised off his shoe.
More like a marionette with its strings cut than a person, Jerry lay sprawled where he had been thrown against the wall, bleeding into his clothing. The fading footsteps of Punch and Judy on their patrol carried into his cell.
The trickle of moonlight that lanced deep into his cell began to slowly dry up as the weather turned the clouds back on him. Jerry began the slow process of pulling himself together before the curtain fell over his sight. He managed to hoist one eye completely open to take stock of himself, but it was short-lived as his gasp of dismay caught his ribs again. Little but scraps and scuffed shoes remained of his former, dapper sophistication.
It was not that, after he had been caught, they had gone to great pains to take care of him- that was in fact completely backwards, as their care had been extremely painful. His tuxedo was shredded where they had violently searched him for weapons; they had found them all of course, and had returned him injury for each puppet they had stolen. They had instantly taken the hand puppets at his sides, and he marked time now with the grating of his ribs. Tearing back his sleeves, they had found the concealed finger puppets and had broken his fingers. Even his backup piece, the collapsable ventriloquist's dummy.
Well, they had broken his jaw for that one. "Gottle of geer," they had shrieked over him, laughing like hyenas. The sharp end to his patter had hurt almost as much as the injury. The memory brought him to the bring of outrage, and for a second time, his unswollen eye parted. In the distance, the footsteps paused for just a moment at their apogee. He needed a weapon. He needed his puppets. Taken from him.
The moonlight, almost gone, receded over his toes and his imagination began to turn. His body jerked sharply under his direction, as his training took over. Once again, he became the operator, not the inhabitant, and the pain of stiff joints and the ghastly squeal of crepitus were managed, as one would manage an unoiled doll. With a gentle inevitability he reached for his shoelaces with ruined hands.
'A puppet-' thought Jerry, 'any puppet.' He prised off his shoe.