As I'm starting this, it's beginning as a story about secret societies in New York City. Knowing myself, I'm making no promises on the outcome.
My hand spread palm-down on the marble counter, I said
And the man with the obsidian blade and the bottle of black ink started his work. I said
Forever shall the torch of justice be passed down through destruction
And the man carved the four letters into my knuckles.
Forever carved into my right hand, my power hand, were the four columns holding up Re Penalite, or King Law, in English.
I started to bleed all over my sixteen-thousand dollar kitchen. I swallowed the pain, because I knew what came next. The man with the blade got ready to carve the ancient letter 'þ', or Thorn, to my left hand, my control hand. I looked away, and a pain shot up my arm like passing a kidney stone covered in pepper spray. I dropped.