This Hammer is a Harbinger

"This hammer is a harbinger of custard stains and doom."

The man in the corner of the crowded bakery spoke very softly and Sara couldn't tell to whom. She glanced around at the other customers. They were all gazing through large glass-plated displays at the rows and rows of pastries. None of them seemed to have heard. Sara absently tucked her blond hair behind her ear, unsure of what to do. Surely that man hadn't just said--

"This hammer is a harbinger of custard stains and doom."

He spoke a bit louder this time. And Sara was left with little doubt--that man had just called his hammer a harbinger of custard stains and doom. She stared at him intently. He was of medium build, about five foot ten, wearing jeans and a collared shirt. Just another guy in a bakery shop--indistinguishable from all the rest--well, except that he was holding a hammer, and mumbling ominous things.

Sara left her place in line and slowly walked up to him. About halfway across she regretted it but it was too late--the line's gap had already filled in.

"Hello." Sara said, giving the man a pretty smile. He met her greeting for a moment with eyes that radiated shame. Then he tucked his head against his shoulder and didn't look up again.
"My name's Sara." Sara said softly. "What's yours?"

The man winced a bit as if struck, and tilted his hammer at her.
"This h-hammer--" he stammered.
"I know, I heard you." Sara replied. "It's a harbinger of custard stains and doom. But I asked you your name."
The man shuddered profoundly, caught in the grip of some personal chill. Sara touched his arm and he all but cried out. His muscles spasmed relentlessly.

"Larson." He managed to say. "My name is Larson." The hammer twitched as if alive.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Larson." Some faraway part of Sara was screaming--why would she talk to this man? It was as if she was caught in some riptide of fate, helpless but to be dragged along.

"This hammer--" Larson was moaning now. "It's a harbinger. A harbinger of custard stains and doom."

Sara slid one arm around his shoulders, pulling him tight to her. He wept on her neck like a child. Sara reached for his hammer.

"You don't understand." Larson sobbed.
"Shh." Sara whispered. "You'll feel better if I hold it for a while."
"No!" Larson gasped. "My hand, your hand--it doesn't matter. There will be a great smashing today. It has needs, this hammer. Needs you can't possibly contain. It is a harbinger, this hammer, a harbinger of custard stains and doom."

Sara grasped the hammer, just below the claw, and something electric slammed into her core. Larson gagged on something unholy, threw back his head and silently screamed. Savage flutters of unusual fury beat against Sara's soul. Larson slid down the length of her body and crumpled to the floor. And then the hammer was hers and his no more.

Something started snarling. Deep snarly snarls. Sara checked her throat for vibrations. It wasn't her. She glanced down at Larson. He was in no shape to snarl. Slowly, unwillingly, despite all rationality, Sara looked at the hammer in her hand. And if ever a hammer could grin, this one was. This one was.

Sara heard herself speaking.

"This hammer is a harbinger of custard stains and doom."

And then a great smashing began.



The End