Walking infection Septic Nick shuffles toward his foe, raking greasy hair with jagged fingernails. Sagging jeans, once blue, now brown, drip sludge.
Belted across his filthy shirt, 100 steel double-bladed knives shine in a bandolier sheath. He grabs two daggers, smears the blades up his oozing legs. His filmy tongue darts out, licking cold steel. Blood coats the keen edge.
“You look like my stepdad,” he says. He smiles, exposing rotted nubs. “I hated my stepdad!”
Then he bolts, serpentine, chucking daggers, twisting boomerangs of death. Silver talons shred air and flesh. The target drops, seeping with 100 septic nicks.