I crack myself up. Our hero has just gotten a knife, with which he is confronting a Group of Ruffians:
“Drop it,” one of them said. It was the ugliest of the group, which was a feat in and of itself.
“He’s quick, that he is,” one of the others said in awe.
“Scared of him?” Ugly mocked. He kept in place, though, his eyes fixed on the knife in Alasdair’s hand. “Drop it, or . . .” Apparently his imagination was on par with his looks.
“No. What is going to happen,” Alasdair pronounced, “is you are going to leave us unharmed. Hurt us,” he gestured with the knife, “and I will see all of you hanged.”
“You?” Ugly spoke again. “Who’s gonna stop me?” he asked, making his intentions known as obviously as if he had announced ‘I am about to get violent.’ “You?” His scorn was evident. “You can fool them as were in the army, but no army man was ever man enough to beat old Sid.” He poked himself in the chest. “Three times county champion.”
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You are a funny one, Lady.
LOL, indeed!