Marcus woke to find himself flat on the filthy cement floor, his head in a pool of warm blood that he somehow knew was not his own.
A quick inventory told him all he needed to know: Legs? Broken. Eyes? Not yet adjusted to the darkness. Arms? Exhausted, but likely able to lift himself. Ears? Full of blood, but working well enough to hear the skritching noises in the blackness; the rats would be coming soon.
I should have figured it out far sooner, Marcus thought as he tried hauling his limp frame through the sticky gore. It smelled of copper and sugar. Laughing grimly at his own naiveté, he recalled a lyric from an old Nick Cave song:
You’re one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan,
designed and directed
by his red right hand
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