02/07/2023 Snippet, VERDICT OF HISTORY.

God, back to this guy. Yay.

Razor-Claw’s hand-blades did not glitter evilly in the lamplight. Neither did they smell of blood and pain, constantly whisper the names of his victims, or do any of the other stupid shit people had claimed, over the years. Instead, they were just what they looked like: two metal gloves with attached spikes, carefully dulled to not flash or sparkle. When Razor-Claw was in the mood to ram them through someone’s gut, he liked to make sure it was a surprise.

They would ram through somebody’s gut, too. His hand-blades were made out of the fabled Old American wonder-metal titanium, with the edges made of the even more wondrous substance tungsten carbide. Some idiots from the old days thought they were magical, anyway — but if they had, Razor-Claw would have never started wearing them. He didn’t trust magic, and not just because it didn’t work on him real good. Nah, they were just really good at fucking up people’s shit, all on their own. He didn’t know who made or had them before he took ‘em off some asshole’s corpse; and he didn’t give a crap what would happen to them after he was dead. They didn’t even have names. They were his; that was name enough.

It felt good, having them back on his hands, especially since he’d need them for the last stage of his plan. This was going to have to be fast and hard, and if anybody else tried it, they’d die. It was him, though, so he’d be fine.