Hot blood is a different matter. The arms, legs and heart do all the thinking for one. The mind is quite numb.
So I prefer it if I genuinely don't like the fellow.
I really did not like this fellow. I don't like spies in general, sneaky fellows. Also, I don't like fellows who are as keen on killing and dying as I am, makes me uncomfortable in a way I don't quite understand.
And I simply didn't like his face. His damned skull face.
He strode into the glade, sword in hand, cigarette in lips. No Second, didn't give a damn about the rules. Just wanted to fight. Maybe just wanted to do.
I drew my sword as he charged me, and blocked his first blow.
There is something unnerving about fighting a fellow who is breathing smoke, like fighting some damned dragon.
I lunged for his face, he parried.
We crossed swords, testing our strength.
Then he did the most damned unsporting thing.
With his left hand, he burnt me with his cigarette.
I fell back. He slashed my left arm.
Then I was angry, I cut his face.
He cut my right shoulder.
Very angry, I stabbed his heart.
He died, I needed to sit down.
The burn, which was on my neck, stung. Blood flowed from my arm and shoulder. Jack came over and bandaged my left arm. it was cut to the bone.
'This is going to make an excellent poem,' he said.
'I think I need a doctor,' said I.
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