He looked up in beseechment at a section of cracked mirror on the wall. No man deserved the face that Jago Marrak had been cursed with at the age of forty-two. Face? It was a warscape, a scarred battlefield, an Agincourt—the giant Marrak was unloveable and unkillable. He rose onto his feet and bellowed like a ditch-stuck cow and forced a matchbook to a grip between his shaking fingers and lit a fucking match and sucked on the pipe and got the burn going at last and it just about cracked open his cranium but he sucked hard and harder again and took down the reviving tars and settled somewhat.
