Chapter 17: Barehanded Boar-Plucking
WHAM!
Emm flinched at Glen's fist slamming his counter.
"T-twenty-one coppers…" he stammered.
"Twenty-one? For one bella? What a generous merchant."
Glen's smile cut like ice.
Emm's jaw tightened silently.
A hand flashed.
Coppers clinked as Glen yanked coins from Emm's apron pocket.
"My money—!"
Glen silenced him with a glare. Counted swiftly.
"Twenty-one. Exactly."
He placed them in the old woman's wrinkled palm.
Then tossed the chicken parcel back at Emm.
"Come. Better meat this way."
Dazed, she followed him to the sled. Stared at the bristly boar. Hesitated.
"LADIES! GENTLEMEN!"
Glen's shout echoed down Central Street.
"Gather 'round! Cheap meat today—four coppers per bella!"
Carts halted. Shoppers turned. A crowd pooled like spilled ink.
Murmurs rose:
"Four coppers? But… boar?"
"Worth trying at that price…"
Emm's face purpled.
Glen raised his hands.
"Now… witness a miracle!"
Before gasps could fade, his palms blurred.
SCHLIK-SCHLIK-SCHLIK!
Tufts of coarse hair tore free. Strands rained around the sled.
Hands became steel brushes. Knuckles scraped hide.
Riiip. Riiip. Riiip.
Piles of black bristles mounted.
Ten minutes.
The boar gleamed naked—pink, smooth, ready for the block.
Glen bowed. Applause erupted.
"BRAVO!"
"Sorcery!"
The old woman clapped, tears glinting.
Glen soaked it in. Then raised a hand.
"Now—business!"
He beckoned her forward.
"How much?"
"T-twenty-one coppers' worth…"
"Five bella… plus one free!"
He drew his dagger.
Shink. Shink. Shink.
Ribs parted. Loin fell clean.
Using borrowed scales, he weighed six glistening pounds.
"Heavy? Let's fix that."
Her sack became a backpack under his deft knots.
"Bless you, child."
She touched his arm.
The crowd surged.
"Four bella!"
"Five here!"
"Two!"
Glen carved and wrapped—smiling.
Emm's knife thwacked rotten chicken into paste.
Just wait… chicken tastes better anyway…
Dude Town Constabulary.
A young officer shoved open oak doors. Three detectives froze mid-argument.
"Another missing child."
He waved a report.
"Couple outside—eleven-year-old boy. Vanished three days ago from the outskirts."
The thick-mustached captain groaned.
"Like yesterday's girls…"
"They searched the woods first. Came too late."
"Any sign of Bob?"
"Spotted yesterday. Hiding in town."
The captain massaged his temples. A hawk-nosed detective slammed his fist.
"We must question Glen."
Silence hung.
"Special circumstances…" the captain conceded.
Another officer burst in, panting.
"Sir—Glen's here. Selling meat on Central Street."
Chairs screeched. The captain snatched his hat.
"Move."