don’t fuckin fuck with me don’t fuckin make fun of me youlll be the sorry ones i fuckin guarantee it
They laid in bed, with their thoughts tumbling around each other in the usual jerky, repetitive fashion. A name came in – it was from a show – and suddenly, like a flash, Cody had them up against the wall, his blade at their jugular. No one saw him come in. A few saw him streak across the room, greasy black-brown hair and pale skin, boring eyes, all intent. They weren’t even sure if he spoke, or who was against the wall. The menace was palpable, of course, but the message wasn’t. Speaking his name summoned him like this, but his anger lacked follow-through, or purpose, or something.
don’t fuckin mess with me you fuckin got it don’t you FUCKIn laugh at me ill fuckin kill you
little girl, little girl, you been a bad girl you know it. you bad-mouthing father? and think you can get away with it? you think he don’t got eyes?? ill cut your little labia off whos the knif-fucker now? you just better fuckin step careful little girl im fuckin watchin you
you want to fan my fuckin flames you go ahead and laugh all you want. just don’t fuckin go cryin off to someone cos i hurt you. i give you fair fuckin warning
His knife seemed ubiquitous, like they’d always seen its shadow, even if just periphery. Like he could rend mirror with it. Like they’d known it in a dream. Like they were waiting for it.
can saying his name, not aloud, really give him power? over us? i thought the power of names worked the other way. i thought having a name gave us power over them. but it seems to be the opposite.
