The “whole milk” boys proved a problem for peace. They weren’t the usual young ruffians that spray painted the streets and let air out of tires.

No, these pernicious SOBs were drawn into Neo-pagan rituals and karmic retribution.

They’d eat raw eggs and perform the worm to induce an altered state. They spun through sacred Dervish texts to find the story of the whirlwind.

The older folks called them punks. But the dirty bass, underpass concert going, lager drinking crowd knew these boys to not be part of the punk nation.

No, they weren’t a force unto themselves.

The city had sent a man after them called the “Thumbcutter.” Rumor had it that he came from an old English family that had been stationed in India during the East India Trading days. Casual displays of shocking violence were commonplace to a man borne to a commercial giant.

Even the dogged pursuit of a genteel sadist couldn’t dissuade the young men from their days of havoc.

Little did they know the price that would come due.