a magnet to it's polar half. Ragnarok looked down at his chest where the dagger handle still stuck out and glared, taking a hold of it and pulling it out of his chest slowly, for emphasis. With a flick of his wrist it was out of his hand and into Futtleschuckle's. It took a few moments for him to realize the pain in his hand was real. When he did, he screamed. They always screamed.

Ragnarok had no sympathy though. Now was nowhere near the time for sympathy. He reached forward with his foot and stepped on the pommel of the knife, making the blade dig in deeper into the man's flesh. He screamed, oh how he screamed. It was more fear than pain, fear that this was onlyfrom me, I'll tear you limb from fucking limb if you don't! Don't screw with me, I'll rip your heart from your still beating chest, I swear it!” The man roared, tugging at his only restraint and letting out a curled cry of fury when more pain erupted and shot through his veins.

Another sigh. He opened his eyes, glared at his adversary and moved his blade. There suddenly came the smell of burning fat and flesh as Futtleschuckles' right cheek caught on fire. He screamed and fell back, writhing on the ground and slapping at his face to put out the flames. Ragnarok held the blade out to his side, the bit of blood that was actually on the blade dripping on the ground. His right hand was