In the entire history of triads and tongs, cleavers, knives, and machetes were always their favored weapons. It promised a harsh death. A thousand cuts to the man who betrays me, a thousand cuts to the man who goes against his word. May you live in interesting times, she remembers hearing them curse.
Mary can repeat the history of history, the word of mouth of the word of mouth. She knows Ezra and Daniel can too. Itova is made up of old traditions and superstitions. Old men and their old, antiquated ways. The dust they’ve managed to keep on the shelf of life is enough to fill her lungs.
She doesn’t wonder what it means. Myra can preach salvation all she wants. The wheezing fossils that call themselves blood brothers can rally loyalty and sacrifice until their hearts collapse. Families will cling to each other and lick each others wounds. But she doesn’t want sanctuary, she doesn’t need devotion, and she can certainly live without someone reminding her of all the scars she bears. Metal is metal. A blunt edge won’t cut, but it will still bruise.
"When you run out of bullets, it makes a delightful paperweight."
Mary turns the snub-nosed revolver in her hand, the grip weighed down with an ergonomic casing. She would be touched by Ezra’s gesture, but instead she goes with grateful. He would be disappointed otherwise.
"How many skulls did you crack during test run?"
His grin is enough answer for her.