“Don’t think you know whuz going on, razor rat,” growled brittle
knight number one. Both their scarves were pulled down,
adorned in cruel black gear, scabby hands on the handles
of yellow blades. “The good knight’s right,” Coral cautioned,
but Balkey spat back
toward them: “Bah!” the room balanced still, everyone tip
of toes on the razor’s edge. “Where are those poor dolls
from the front? Why were the Pin’s men headed here…”
and he looked and gestured about as if to say ‘of all places!’
“Because I asked them to, Bixson,” came a cool voice, cold and
from the corner of Coral’s, cane in hand, cape across the back.
Here stood the Pin, tall and with tact.