I suppose i first realised that i had danger on my side when i took seven fingers from a small boy and re-attached them to the paws of a jackal. Neither boy nor jackal were particularly impressed, but the look i received when i took the jackal to church with me was rewarding enough.

Later on i wrote an abstract poem about a dark haired man who had given his soul away for a harlot's song. 'By the time i have finished with you, even my finger tips will appear to have their own personalities.

But, it was not until the next morning when the small boy beat his fingerless hand upon my door. Stood behind him was his father, seething. Fortunately I had befriended the jackal after we went to the press and he loomed behind the boy's father. Just as his father's eyes met mine the jackal put his seven fingered paws to good use. The father was no more.

The End

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