“Shut UP!” he shouted, and looked around in case anyone had heard him. Timothy had no desire to be pummeled to crap by an angry biker.

And then it stopped, so abruptly that the sound echoed for a moment before it vanished. Timothy sighed with relief.

The shop bell dinged.

“We’re closed!” said Timothy. You’d think a person who wanted to visit a bookstore would at least be able to read, he thought to himself, and went to bolt the door to make clear his point. He stopped at the door: it was already bolted and latched too. Don’t recall doing that, he thought.

There was movement behind him. He turned, to see a woman standing at the counter. She had blonde hair and she was wearing a blue print dress.

“How did you—” he began, more irritated than angry.

There was something in the way the woman was looking—not at him, but almost through him—that made Timothy change his tone.

“Can I help you?” he asked the woman. The words seemed to float from his mouth like balloons. He felt like he was up to his waist in molasses.

The woman looked him in the eye now.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m looking for a hacksaw.”

Timothy knew this was a strange thing for the woman to say, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

“What kind of hacksaw?” he asked, knowing deep down that this was a strange thing for him to say, too.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the woman. “I just said that to get your attention.”

And before Timothy could say another word, she had reached into his mouth and pulled out his tongue.

That’s my fucking tongue, was Timothy’s unhelpful thought as he watched her grab the red, fat object and drop it onto the counter like a piece of sushi. He put a hand to his face and it came away bloody. The odd thing was, Timothy thought as he tried to feel for his absent tongue in his mouth but he couldn’t, ha fucking ha, because he hadn’t got a tongue, that it didn’t hurt. He felt fine, apart from the weird sensation caused by there being nothing in the middle of his mouth anymore.

He looked at the woman, and for a moment it seemed that she must have been moved by Timothy’s puzzled expression because she said, “You can’t be trusted, you see. You’re a talker.”

Timothy wanted to explain to the woman that he could be trusted, that whatever it was she didn’t want him to talk about, he wouldn’t. But how could he tell her? He reached for his pen and grabbed a postcard.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “You can write.” And she slashed his throat open.