“Back the fuck up.” “Or what?” “This,” I said. My response, I’ll admit, was disproportionate to the situation. I raised a finger-gun at Adam, lifting my hand so the tip of my index finger bumped against his perfect nose. As his smile widened, I traced a path across his chest, down the long path to his wrist. I tapped it thrice, bent my thumb, and mouthed the word bang. His right wrist exploded into a bloom of red sinew and bone shrapnel, little gore-stained chips of scaphoid going everywhere. His hand, bereft of support save for one rapidly fraying tatter of skin, plopped onto the ground a
...more
