Thud. Yes. It slams into his face, cracking over his jaw, dislodging his mask. One side of his mouth is exposed, creaking upward in a ragged, delirious grin. Glorious dark red is leaking out from his nose, and he can taste the iron tang of it wetting his mouth, his throat.

"Fork and knife, knife and fork," he says in droning singsong, "cut me up like a side of pork."

Everything's quiet now. He hates quiet. Quiet means his thoughts meander, quiet means the voice comes back, quiet means he starts thinking about what happened to him, the swell of muscles he shouldn't have. Where's she going? Where's she gone? Finish the job, girl, finish the job!

Krieg tries gamely to rise again, but only succeeds in rolling onto his side. She really smacked up his brain. Feels all leaky inside his skull-head. Everything's cloudy. Why didn't she finish it?

"Knife...'n fork," he mumbles.