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64 Amit Bobrov
dangerous-looking ruffian sized me up with his eyes. I clenched
my teeth and gave them all a challenging glare. The danger

excited me and I welcomed the prospect of a brawl. I wanted
to be lost in an ocean of oblivion, for violence to provide me
with sweet release. So I sat down and joined a game of cards at
a table of cutthroats. One had a tired looking whore sitting on
his lap; she reeked of stale ale, amongst more foul scents. The
knave fondled her intimately as he leered at me, boasting of his
conquest.
“Are ye going to deal me some cards or what?” I asked one
of them, as I sat and waited impatiently to be included in the

entertainment.
“Got anything to wager on?” The ruffian holding the tarot
cards asked.
“Just deal the bloody cards,” I spat impatiently.
“He’ll pay up later,” added the sweaty thug with the whore on
his lap. Seemingly convinced, the dealer dealt me some cards.
“You go first,” I told the third player, a skinny, toothless man

in rags, as I wasn’t sure how to play the game. He began, and by
the third round I got the hang of it. As I was playing, however,
I noticed a shadow looming over me as someone approached
from behind my back.
“What do you want?” I spat, without turning, trying to erase
any trace of fear or insecurity from my pose.
“Say, aren’t ye Adam, the smith’s boy?” He asked.
“What of it?” I admitted.
“Heard you’re a pretty decent brawler,” he replied.

“I assume this is going somewhere?” I replied impatiently,
obviously not pleased with the direction in which this
conversation was heading. The patrons at the table started
laughing.