“All but Malk, that is, who brushed himself off and limped over to me, saying, “You want to give the old bird a go?”
“Fuck if I will,” I said.
“Fuck if I should have. It's got to be magic.”
“I didn't see any magic,” I said.
“It's the only explanation,” he said.
“Is it?” I said. “I saw her run up and down a hill for breakfast while you were lying in, sorting out whether to pick your arse or you scratch your nuts.”
“Magic,” he said, and spat, and limped off.”
―
Christopher Buehlman,
The Blacktongue Thief
