Notebook with wooden cover

The lads took me in, let me join the band. Must say, not really sure my jib’s the right cut for this racket. Never been a jelly-kneed milksop, mind, but one look at this lot and I near soiled my hose. Why, just the other day they picked up this chap in the woods who was out gathering mushrooms, all bright eyes and innocence. After an hour of our lads having their “fun” with the fellow, he was begging to be sent to his makers. Soon as he said as much, Fourfingers pointed his remaining digits straight at me. I wasn’t surprised -- being new and all, it was only natural I had to prove my chops – but nor was I exactly eager. But what could I do? Hold my nose and slit the boy’s throat, that’s what.

Ugh, I can still feel the sickly warmth of his blood on my hands, no matter how much emulsion I use. Don’t get me wrong, I’d killed before – but always in self-defense, or at least in circumstances which a generous mind or a shrewd barrister could cast in that mold. But no barrister will do me any good if the lads find out my stomach curdled when I did the deed. Then it’s out of the club with me, and that’s the best case scenario, if Filibert’s in a lenient mood. Otherwise… why, I don’t even want to think about it.