Despond

Three

"Which hand?" the over sized, bearded man asked.

The man in the chair only wept.

"I said, which hand?" he repeated, lifting the man's bloodied face with the blade of a hatchet.

The man pulled away with desperate, panic stricken movements as he pulled against the restraints holding him down.

"He doesn't want to tell us, Grobin," said the bearded man.

"Maybe we should decide for him, Brogin," replied his twin brother.

Both brothers dwarfed the man, even if he was standing. The two of them practically filled the back room of their families shop, and only avoided knocking the various knick-knacks, pottery and other such items with practised caution.

"Do you think he tugs it with his left, or right?" Grobin asked with a grin.

"I don't know," his brother answered in the same menacing tone. "Maybe we should pull down his pants and see which way his cock bends."

The back room fell silent as both Brogin, and the bloodied man on the chair looked up at him.

"What?" Brogin said in disgust, unintentionally dropping his menacing visage.

"You know..." Grobin started defensively, "It bends one way or the other depending on which hand you use."

"That's fucking stupid!" Brogin growled, turning to the man in the chair. "Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?"

The man nodded feverishly.

"Don't call my brother stupid!" Brogin snapped, knocking the man's head back with a jab to the nose.

"It's true!" Grobin said. "I swear on Mother's grave."

"God-dammit 'Bin, don't bring Mother into this when you're talking about inspecting this fucker's fucker."

"But-"

"No. We're trying to send a message. And that's not a message saying we like to beat people up so we can check out their stuff."

Grobin looked away.

"Now I've lost my train of thought." Brogin sighed as the bell over the front door chimed, "And now we have a customer!"

He buried the hatchet into the table beside the man in the chair and bent down to look him eye to eye.

"I'll be back to deal with you in a minute," he said, then looked up at his brother. "And I want you both to have your pants on when I return."

With nothing left to say, he kept an eye on the two of them until he backed out of the room, he carefully closed the door before breaking out into his well-oiled customer facing smile and stepped through the beaded curtains and appeared behind the counter.

The smile soured instantaneously.

"Hopper," he grumbled in acknowledgement. "I've been hoping to run into you."

The man clutching the satchel stood in the centre of the pawnshop, looking both nervous, excited and confusingly confident in a single sweaty mess.

"I know what you're going to say," Hopper said, holding his arms up defensively, "Those weren't real wrun-seeds."

"No, they weren't," came the reply over the sound of cracking knuckles. "You've got some balls showing your face in here. I thought you'd left town."

"I, er, was on my way," he said slowly. "But something kinda fell into my lap."

The big man glowered at him. It would take him longer to get around the counter than it would for the weedy little street-rat to bolt out the door, and they both knew it.

"It better have been a fuck-load of money to pay me back," he said.

"Better," Hopper beamed, reaching into the bag and sliding a hand under the uneven surface of the golden egg-shaped object.

Hopper had ducked into the shadows of the city wall before he entered the gate, far away from anyone else. He'd pulled out and examined the egg. It had weight to it, but not so heavy as if made from solid gold. It's surface was a mesh of intricate, yet patternless, designs which he'd followed around and around with his fingers.

Still holding the object like a new born baby, Hopper rummaged around within the bag, feeling several items flee from his fingertips. He pulled out a small, glass sphere, no bigger than a coin, and rolled it between his fingers. Inside, a tiny, dark cloud swirled around, following the movements of the rolls. He had no idea what it was, but it was neat, and placed it back in the bag along with the egg.

Now, however, as he felt the weight once more, he had an undeniable urge not to show it to the pawnbroker. He'd come here to sell it, it was his first and only thought since looking at it, yet now he was here he was paralysed by doubt.

"I-" Hopper began, edging towards the doorway to his rear.

"Hopper..." Brogin warned, sensing the weasel was about to fun for it.

Their eyes met for an instant, and then Hopper turned to sprint out into the street. As he reached for the door, it opened inwards, bending his wrist back as he winced and tried to turn. He bounced off the oversized gut of a obese woman who bowed back into the street gasping for air.

Before Hopper could regain his momentum, Brogin had rounded the counter and placed one shovel sized hand on the tiny man's shoulder. Hopper's knees felt the weight of the restraint as the large woman came bounding into the shop all red faced and spitting.

She pulled out a silver chain, the same silver chain which she had come in to sell, and whipped it across Hopper's defenceless cheek, drawing blood and a delayed, stinging pain.

"I'm sorry Ma'am," Brogin said not trying to hide his mirth, "But we're closed."

The pawnbroker ushered the woman back into the sunlight, and locked the door. As the bolt clicked into place, Hopper squeaked in the bearded man's shadow.