Then he said, “You’re going to lose that hand.” “I was sending it back to the kitchen anyway. I ordered it medium well.” Kincaid stared at me for a second and then started letting out soft, wobbly-sounding laughter, as if it were something he didn’t have a lot of practice at. He stood up, wheezing soft laughter, drew another gun and his own machete from his belt, and said, “Get them out. I’m going to dismember whatever is left.” “Groovy,” I said.
