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At the age of six my mother died when syphilis ravaged her brain and I was left to fend for myself in the back streets. But I had a talent...
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When I'm angry I clench my fists. I've always done it, but recently something has happened to make me so angry that the heat in my hand flattened the rock I was holding. Just squashed it flat like a coin. I wonder... If I could get the right metal, perhaps I could make money. Perhaps I could make my way out of these dirty streets. Then...
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people would call me Jaques the Press. Who am I kidding. These are the slums, and the heady idealism of the revolution doesn't apply here. It's steal or die. Yet you may wonder what angered me so...
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It was a woman who made me angry, but isn't it always? Oh, and if Jaques the Press does not suit you, then perhaps Jaques the Gripper is a better nome de plum. Hmmmm....
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...understand me. She just laughed at my over-muscular hands. "My little friend, I have the perfect job for you. Come with me." I followed her through the back-alleys behind the Cathedral. A small hotel called...
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...the Cours de Leon was at one corner, a small bakery at the other. The alley-way was covered in pitched filth and evidence of back-alley life. The smell of fresh bread from the baker and polished wood from the hotel mingled with that of the alleyway dreg, making the small hallway of walls an amalgam of odors.
The woman stopped at the end of the alleyway, a smile still wide on her face...
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"Come on in, little one" she said, not realizing that I could end her life in a moment. She does not show me the respect I deserve, but no one here does. I follow her within the darkness, when dirty hands grab me from behind and...
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Catch at my own hands, keeping their deadly strength at bay. I grope in the dark for anything I can reach, and my fumbling fingers catch on something cold and hard. A stove pipe, perhaps. I grip it, feeling the power of my hands crushing wrought iron like thin tin. One of my captors curses, and the hands gripping at my left arm and shoulders disappear.
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