His hands must once have truly been something to behold. They were broad, he could easily cup things in one hand my father used two to handle. Arthritis had twisted his joints but his fingers were still long, powerful, and covered by thick pads of callous. His skin was papery thin yet leathery at the same time. And, no amount of damage inflicted with tiny fists, fingernails, or teeth ever phased him. Piss him off? Yes. Derail him from his course of action? Never. He quickly taught his pet the futility of fighting back, and she only did so when swept away by a wave of incomprehensible rage too huge and strong to control. And, then for a few seconds the tiny pet felt such a surge of joy. Seeing the beast bested, if only for a moment was a wonderful thing. But, then she paid. Paid so bad it was not worth. It was there she quickly learned that fighting is pointless and stupid. Easier, better, smarter, to be easy. To be good. To at least try to curry favor. Which had an effect on everything that came after. It all started there. It all started with the chain around that little girl's throat. And, from there... it just kept twisting and turning.
