The Eighth Dwarf

Stabby squatted atop the crossbar of the tunnel and fingered the edge of his knife.  It was sharp, honed to perfection, and sticky with Gabby’s blood.  The other dwarfs would be coming soon, of course.  They had doubtless found Gabby by now, his throat slit, wide open and flapping like his stupid, useless mouth.

Stabby was ready though.  None of the others had ever liked him, especially Doc, the sanctimonious prick.  Stabby had overheard their talk—their planning and plotting.  They thought themselves clever, waiting until they were down in the mines to whisper and scheme, but Stabby heard everything.  The tunnels and shafts were his domain:  shrouded in darkness and secrets, they twisted through the earth and carried every word to Stabby’s waiting ears.  And he had listened, sharpening his blades even as the dwarfs’ conspiracies sharpened his resolve.

Stabby had always known that this day would come, and he knew he would never escape.  The others would blockade the lift to the surface, and even with Gabby dead, he was outnumbered eleven to one.

It didn’t matter.

Stabby gripped his knife and jumped from the crossbar, whistling softly.  It was finally time, and dwarfs whistle while they work.


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