“Fuck Halloween. Fucken yank wank.”
Joan couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or her. He was right there, maybe ten feet away, staring at nothing.
“Kids knock on my fucken door, I’ll cut their fucken knuckles out.”
Geezus.
“Private conversation with myself your honour,” Dave put on a court room voice, “I wouldn’t hurt no kids.”
Drops his voice, mutters, “Nobody’s bloody business what I think.”
“My god,” Joan glared at him. “I’m right here. Fucking nut case.”
Joan though, unlike Dave, didn’t speak her thoughts out loud.
Dave turned and smiled, like the sun came out, the affable neighbour.
“You dressing up this year?” Dave asked, like they’d been chatting all along.
He strode up, (Joan flinched), indicated his outfit.
“Me, dug out the Croc Dundee gear.”
Fake Akubra from the $2 shop, plastic croc teeth hat band, sleeveless leather waistcoat. (The stink of him.)
“Change the clothes, change the man hey.” Dave lowered his head, eyes still on her.
“Dave could never gut a pig.” Head comes up, hard as stone.
“But old Croc Dundee …”
He drew the blade from the sheath.
“This” he said, “is a knife.”