Pablo Picasso The Shadow

Pablo Picasso The ShadowPablo Picasso The Pipes of PanPablo Picasso Studio with Plaster Head
Brutha could see the shackles attached to each iron leg. A man, or a woman, could with great discomfort lie spread-eagled on the back of the turtle and be chained firmly at the wrists and ankles.
He bent down. Yes, there was the firebox underneath. Some aspects of Quisition thinking never changed.
That much iron would take ages to heat up to the point of pain. Much time, therefore, to reflect on things . . .
"What do you think?" said Vorbis.
A vision of the Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah beamed over the top of his lukewarm ice-cold sherbet stand.
"Heard it on the grapevine," he said. "Here, have a slab of Klatchian Delight. Free. Onna stick."
The Place was more crowded than usual. Even Dhblah's hot future flashed across Brutha's mind."Ingenious," he said."And it will be a salutary lesson for all others tempted to stray from the path of true knowledge," said Vorbis."When do you intend to, uh, demonstrate it?""I am sure an occasion will present itself," said Vorbis.When Brutha straightened up, Vorbis was staring at him so intently that it was as if he was reading Brutha's thoughts off the back of his head."And now, please leave," said Vorbis. "Rest as much as you can . . . my son." Brutha walked slowly across the Place, deep in unaccustomed thought."Afternoon, Your Reverence.""You know already?"