Two Eyes Cenote tiburon

earlier that morning, soto briefly considered presenting khusobek with a steaming pile of his own rancid shit: here is what i think of you; here is the measure of your worth, reduced to filth and excrement — 

a satisfying scenario, but not one which soto envisions would turn in his favor. soto gets the impression this hardened man was not one for sentimentality; it’s in the way his eyes glitter like the back of a beetle. armored. hard. 

his ballad ends as the man’s figure is haloed by aureate slants of light. the pleasantry in khusobek’s eyes reminds soto of the genial look sell-swords come to master. 

khusobek, he motions to the objects at his feet. 

a hideously large grub, rudely unearthed and curled around itself. around it, in a painstakingly placed circle that mimics early hominid drawings of the sun, were the white bands of machiavelli’s hair that soto had spent all morning collecting.   regalo, 

he offers, curious to experience the man’s reaction — and waiting, hoping almost —  for the captor to strike his prisoner. 

he had yet to learn soto’s pleasures, but he would come to know them soon enough.