He shrugged hard, flapping both
arms down and away as if he were shaking off water. Ripkins
went
staggering backward and the javelin clattered to the floor. His wrist-blades gearing back to full speed, Hatter sent his top hat flying into the hookah haze gathered thick over patrons’ heads. Clink! Clangk! Clonk!
He and Ripkins went at each other, Ripkins starting to have trouble when— The top hat blades came boomeranging out of the haze, spinning toward Arch’s bodyguard from behind, veering up at the last moment.
Smack!
The flat sides of the blades knocked Ripkins in the back of the head and he tumbled to the ground. Hatter caught hold of his weapon and slammed it down, two of its blades embedding in the dirt on either side of Ripkins’ neck like a pair of open scissors, pinning the bodyguard on his back. Ripkins grunted, impressed.
Hatter clicked shut his bracelets, took up his top hat blades and, with a flick of the wrist, transformed them back into innocent headware. Ripkins stood, pocketed his weapons, and brushed himself off. “Where’s Homburg Molly?” Hatter demanded. Ripkins jutted his chin: Look behind you. Hatter half turned, saw another Fel Creel in elbow-length gloves standing with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting politely. Ripkins slipped back in among the customers at the bar while Blister peeled off his gloves, held up his bare hands, both front and back, for Hatter to see. Like a magician about to perform a magic trick, he showed Hatter the inside of his shirtsleeves—Nothing up my sleeves. Without further preliminary, he pressed a finger against the neck of an unsuspecting Onu.
“Aahaahaahaaaagh!”
The Onu writhed and squirmed. Blister kept the finger pressed against the bubbling flesh of his neck. “Aaaaaahaaaaaaghrgh!”
Blister at last pulled his finger away, the Onu sopping with sweat and exhausted from pain. He flicked open a knife, lowering its point toward the balloon-skin of the Onu’s swollen neck. Pop! Pus poured out of the wound and the Onu collapsed.
Blister grinned. “For me,” he said to Hatter, “weapons like yours are unnecessary. Although I’m no mediocrity when it comes to using them.” Hatter again had recourse to his entire arsenal. Top hat blades, wrist-blades, belt sabers, backpack weaponry—all clashed against Blister’s pikes, pickets, and swords. But after an extended combination of slashing and twisting, Hatter found himself on the ground, cornered against an overturned table, Blister’s deadly index finger a chest hair’s length from his exposed heart. Hatter raised a respectful eyebrow. Then— Flink!
Out sliced his belt sabers. Blister jumped back, laughing even though his finger was bleeding from a deep cut.
staggering backward and the javelin clattered to the floor. His wrist-blades gearing back to full speed, Hatter sent his top hat flying into the hookah haze gathered thick over patrons’ heads. Clink! Clangk! Clonk!
He and Ripkins went at each other, Ripkins starting to have trouble when— The top hat blades came boomeranging out of the haze, spinning toward Arch’s bodyguard from behind, veering up at the last moment.
Smack!
The flat sides of the blades knocked Ripkins in the back of the head and he tumbled to the ground. Hatter caught hold of his weapon and slammed it down, two of its blades embedding in the dirt on either side of Ripkins’ neck like a pair of open scissors, pinning the bodyguard on his back. Ripkins grunted, impressed.
Hatter clicked shut his bracelets, took up his top hat blades and, with a flick of the wrist, transformed them back into innocent headware. Ripkins stood, pocketed his weapons, and brushed himself off. “Where’s Homburg Molly?” Hatter demanded. Ripkins jutted his chin: Look behind you. Hatter half turned, saw another Fel Creel in elbow-length gloves standing with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting politely. Ripkins slipped back in among the customers at the bar while Blister peeled off his gloves, held up his bare hands, both front and back, for Hatter to see. Like a magician about to perform a magic trick, he showed Hatter the inside of his shirtsleeves—Nothing up my sleeves. Without further preliminary, he pressed a finger against the neck of an unsuspecting Onu.
“Aahaahaahaaaagh!”
The Onu writhed and squirmed. Blister kept the finger pressed against the bubbling flesh of his neck. “Aaaaaahaaaaaaghrgh!”
Blister at last pulled his finger away, the Onu sopping with sweat and exhausted from pain. He flicked open a knife, lowering its point toward the balloon-skin of the Onu’s swollen neck. Pop! Pus poured out of the wound and the Onu collapsed.
Blister grinned. “For me,” he said to Hatter, “weapons like yours are unnecessary. Although I’m no mediocrity when it comes to using them.” Hatter again had recourse to his entire arsenal. Top hat blades, wrist-blades, belt sabers, backpack weaponry—all clashed against Blister’s pikes, pickets, and swords. But after an extended combination of slashing and twisting, Hatter found himself on the ground, cornered against an overturned table, Blister’s deadly index finger a chest hair’s length from his exposed heart. Hatter raised a respectful eyebrow. Then— Flink!
Out sliced his belt sabers. Blister jumped back, laughing even though his finger was bleeding from a deep cut.