Battle of the Rhine

The sun has set in the west, hovering at the boundary line between the sky and the earth, dyeing the cloudy clouds like red lead.Through the cracks in the curtains, the mistress of the neighbor's house across the street was looking for the door key in her bag.She is holding a little boy, about two years old, by one hand.Little Will had just turned two years old, and he was the child Michael knew best, so he could be sure that the little brown-haired little one was no more than two years old at most.

The living room of the Quincy house was spotless, a miracle for a single man.Michael sat on a chair, touched the back of his head and looked around. Although the living room was extremely clean, it was extremely depressing.Except for the sofa, the dining table, and a cupboard, the rest of the furniture was covered with a thick, dark cloth.The outer cover of the sofa is also thick dark blue, and there is not even half a pleat on it, as if no one has ever sat down on it.As for the fireplace, a real stone fireplace, bare and unadorned.Normally, a family likes to put things on the fireplace, pictures, little keepsakes, trinkets like that.Mary and Dan also had a fireplace in their house, not as good as this one, but they had carefully decorated the simple fireplace with framed pictures, Mary's favorite dried flowers and a ceramic bear family tied with a red ribbon.

The only bright color in the living room was the bouquet of flowers lying on the dining table—tragic, utterly tragic.Michael scratches at the back of his head. Just half an hour ago, he screwed up: first, Quincy politely "asked" him in, an appointment he knew was a trap; Emma brought a gift... Sending the hostess a bouquet of seasonal flowers is the best choice, and there is a flower shop on the street that is about to close.He ran over and bought the last bunch of flowers, white, pink and red, regardless of variety or color, and tied them into a bunch.And Quincy silently watched all these stupid things happen. He opened the door, and Michael still didn't realize that the situation was in jeopardy. He muttered, "Emma isn't home? I thought—"

Quincy locked the door. "Emma is dead."

O God, your punishment has finally come.From the act of locking the door, it can be seen that Quincy is absolutely going to kill him.Murder in the street is the worst option, but here, a living room, with the door closed, the curtains drawn down, and almost no shelter... It is an excellent place for murder.Michael struggled fiercely in his heart, wanting to kill?Quincy had every reason to chop him up, as a reformed Christian who might buy a ticket to heaven by not resisting.Michael sat in a hard chair, and just to his left stood a grand piano.He'd only seen it in movies before.The piano was also covered with a thick dark cloth. Michael's desire to survive got the upper hand. For a while, if Quincy wanted to shoot him, he could hide under the piano, perhaps until the neighbors called the police.

There was a dull sound from the kitchen, a bang.Very well, using a gun is too easy to expose. Quincy is a smart man, and there is a high probability that he will choose to use a knife to end his sinful life.Michael rubbed his neck. He had to protect this place later. There was something called an artery here. If he touched it accidentally, he would go to hell before the neighbors called the police.

But instead of a gun or a cleaver, Michael waited for a supper.Quincy put a white china plate on the table, then a mug that smelled of coffee.He brought out another serving, sat down at the other end of the table, stood up suddenly, walked back to the kitchen, and took out a knife and fork.

"...mine?" Michael asked uncertainly because the plate hadn't been placed in front of him.

"Eat," said Quincy, looking down, grabbing the knife and beginning to slice a sausage.

Good, Michael remembered the old joke: The Yankee gives you a cigarette and sends you on your way when you're done.Humanism!He has also read a lot of strange novels, each of which swears that what it tells is true and true.Several of them vividly describe the last meal of prisoners on death row-before execution, prisoners on death row can choose any food that the prison can get.Michael studied the food on the plate: two slices of bread, a small piece of cheese, and some slices of white sausage.The sausage was cold and not grilled.Oliver said that German sausages should not be eaten until they are grilled.But what qualifications does Michael have to ask for grilled sausages?After all, to the dead, it doesn't matter whether the sausage is roasted or not.

Quincy's share should be about the same as Mike's.He grabbed the knife and spread the cheese on the bread.The handsome, white college student's hands were trembling as he sliced ​​the cheese, leaving only a crumb.Then he picked up the coffee, didn't drink it, and put it back. "When he's done eating, it's time to kill me," Michael pondered. "He's going to chop you up and make sausages, Mike, grill it, cook it, eat it in different ways—"

"Why don't you eat it?" Quincy said suddenly, his voice sounded a bit sharp, his English had a slight German accent, "This is the only thing now."

"I'm not..." Mike explained in German, "I'm not a picky eater, it's just," he held up his hands, "you didn't give me a fork."

Quincy stood up and jerked the chair away with a bang.He went into the kitchen and came out with a knife.The serrated edge of the table knife was shining palely under the light, Michael touched his neck and smiled, "Very—"

"What are you doing here?" Quincy asked, standing a meter away from Mike. "What are you doing outside my house, Sergeant Fiennes?"

"I've been discharged from the military a long time ago." Michael quietly stretched his legs, he was wearing a pair of slippers, which Quinnessy gave him, "I now... have found a job in Germany."

"Oh," Quincy sneered, "got a job in Germany." He looked up at the thick cloth-covered piano. "You're pretty happy, aren't you?"

"I didn't know Emma died." The bouquet was still lying alone in the middle of the table. "I'm sorry if I—"

"Sorry?" Quincy took a step forward. "You're sorry? Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry..." Michael bent down slightly, and from his posture, Quinnessy was about to attack him, "I'm sorry for what I did to you before, I'm sorry."

Unexpectedly, Quincy held the knife and paused for a few seconds before pounced.He looked like a desperate wolf, the knife only aimed at Michael's throat.He was almost completely on top of Michael, but it was a total weakness—Quinnessy had absolutely no training before entering the Wehrmacht, Michael thought, dodging the first attack easily.He is not a veteran on the battlefield, but he is more than enough to deal with this kind of inexperienced recruit.He nimbly rolled over, pushed Quincy under him, grabbed his wrist, and slammed it on the floor twice, and the table knife flew out and landed on the carpet next to the sofa.

"Calm down," Michael rode up to Quincy's waist and pressed his hands, "You'll hurt yourself if you use the knife like this—"

He regretted that he hadn't brought any rope; all he could use now was his belt.But Michael soon forgot to regret it, because he was so close to Quincy, so close that he could count his blinking eyelashes, smell the soap on his body...

Fuck, Michael cursed in his heart.

There is nothing more embarrassing than this, his brother who had been silent for several years suddenly came back to life at this moment, happily holding his crotch.And Quincy definitely noticed it, and the blood color faded from the flushed cheeks due to excitement.