The chain tugged at my ankle, it was as restricting as it sounds. Was it really necessary for them to throw an axe at me every time they wanted me to play something? Was it so much to ask? Even singing about their dreams, they were so… so… harsh to me. I could have been decapitated. I don't know about them, but I like my head where it is—on my neck. How would Ulf feel if they threw an axe at his head every time they wanted him to mime something? How would Gunther feel if they almost stabbed him every time they wanted him to decorate something?
I don't want to be here, in this rundown pub—The Ugly Duckling—what an ugly name. Full of ugly, useless people that don't care for anyone. Even playing the accordion wasn't fun anymore, was it really worth it? They chuck an axe, sword, dagger, at me and I play a three-minute song, my fingers collecting slivers on the wooden sides like Boy Scouts collect patches.