Silverfish

Brunch in Darwin

On top of the bed, across from the very intentional space engendered from none other than my mystifyingly malicious brother lay a small, short knife. Its handle lightly weathered and faded, its blade dull yet still quite convincing, and its purpose perhaps more depraved than its captain.

I didn't like referring to him as a "captain", necessarily, but this unremarkable taste tends to linger in my mouth for hours after calling him Hans. Of course that is in fact his god-given name, but regardless of its seemingly mundane origins, I'd still rather just grant him that garish title.