“This is such bullshit,” Trevor grumbled.
“Shut the fuck up, Trevor,” the man snapped.
“Hey, fuck you, Jet Li,” Trevor fired back, seemingly realizing the error of his ways when the stranger flicked his gaze towards him.
“Jet Li is Chinese, you racist fuck. Do I look Chinese to you, man?”
Atticus fought the urge to smile at the loaded question.
“How the fuck should I know?” Trevor wailed. “You all—”
“Jesus, please, don’t say all Asians look the same,” Atticus begged. “Die with some fucking dignity.”
The stranger gave Atticus another appraising look that left him feeling hot all over. He wondered if his face was turning bright red. One of many drawbacks of being a fair-skinned redhead. After a moment, the stranger slapped the flat part of the blade against the space between Trevor’s eyes.
“Let’s play a game.”
“No thanks, asshole,” Trevor said, eyelids fluttering like he might actually succumb to his obvious blood loss.
The stranger paced around Trevor’s chair. “Oh, come on. If you can guess where I’m from, I’ll let you live.”
Trevor scoffed. “And then what? This dude fucking shoots me? I’m still dead, man.”
Atticus sized up the man. “What the hell. If you can guess where he’s from, you can walk out of here alive.”
Trevor’s gaze swiveled between the two of them. “Really?”
Atticus shrugged. “Sure. Why not.”
“See, you got nothing to lose and your life to gain,” the stranger said.
Atticus hopped up on the sturdy wooden table, fishing through his bag until he found what he was looking for, making a satisfied sound as he pulled out a granola bar. He tore into it, suddenly ravenous, taking a bite and chewing it slowly while they watched. “What? It was a long walk from the road.”
Trevor quickly lost interest in Atticus. “How many guesses do I get?”
The man tossed the knife in the air, then caught the blade between two fingers, considering the question. “Three.”
“Oh, come on. There’s like a thousand Asian cities.”
“Asia is a continent, you dumb fuck. You only need to guess the country.”
“You know what I mean. Asia has a bunch of countries,” Trevor whined.
“Just forty-eight,” Atticus offered around a bite of peanut butter and dark chocolate, earning a smirk from the stranger.
“Hey, you know I’m not Chinese, right? So, now, you only have to guess from forty-seven countries. Come on, Trevor. Put that big racist brain to work.”
“Fuck. Okay. Um, Korean?”
The stranger mimicked a buzzer noise. “Strike one.”
There was another scream as Trevor lost a finger for his trouble. Atticus swung his feet, looking down at his granola bar. It wasn’t his usual brand. He usually preferred the ones his housekeeper picked up from Whole Foods, but they’d been out, so she’d substituted them with a different, slightly less expensive option. These were far superior.
The scent of urine and blood was cloying, competing in Atticus’s nostrils with the fetid dirt and vegetation from moments ago.
Trevor was whimpering and crying now. “Fuck… Fuck. You didn’t say there was a penalty for wrong answers!”
“You put Jenny Tran in the hospital for six weeks from her injuries, and then you had her fucking deported. You’re lucky I started with your fucking fingers. Now, guess or die.”
