THE HIGH TABLE

Six months later, a rehab facility in northern Finland. Two men in group therapy. One Finn. One Swede. Both wearing regular boots. Both learning to live without poison. "How'd you do it?" the counselor asked. "How'd you break the cycle?" The Finn looked at the Swede. The Swede looked back. "We chose," the Finn said. "We chose different." Outside, the snow fell quietly. Clean. White. Erasing old tracks. No spurs. No ghosts. Just men. The syringe went in like a lover. Jaska's teeth clenched. The fire exploded through his veins—hotter this time, purer, the good shit he'd been saving. His heart slammed against his ribs. His vision sharpened until he could count the rust flakes on every machine. His muscles sang. Across the factory floor, Erik Jr. was transforming too. The boy melted away. What remained was pure Järvholm. Same massive chest. Same cold eyes. Same hunger. They didn't speak. Didn't need to. The spurs clicked as they circled. Erik Jr. moved first. Fast—faster than his father, the young blood burning hotter. He launched a kick that should have disemboweled Jaska where he stood. Jaska flowed. Four months of addiction had taught him things. The drugs weren't just poison anymore. They were part of him. He moved before the kick finished, inside it, his own spur slicing up in an arc aimed at Erik Jr.'s thigh. Shiiing—the spur tore through tactical pants, through skin, through muscle. Blood sprayed. Erik Jr. didn't flinch. Didn't even look at the wound. His fist, already moving, caught Jaska across the jaw. Jaska's head snapped. He tasted blood. Felt his teeth shift. Good. This was good. This was real. They separated. Circled again. "Your father's spurs," Erik Jr. said, pointing at Jaska's belt. "They look good on you. Almost like you were born to wear them." Jaska grinned. It was not a nice grin. "I was born to wear something of his. Ended up wearing everything." Erik Jr.'s eyes went dark. He charged. This time there was no finesse. No technique. Just two animals driven by chemicals and rage and the ghosts of dead men. They collided in the center of the factory floor. Fists. Knees. Boots. Spurs. Erik Jr.'s spur caught Jaska across the ribs. Jaska felt the spike scrape bone. He roared—not in pain, in ecstasy—and drove his knee into the boy's stomach. Then again. Then again. Erik Jr. doubled over. Jaska raised his boot, spur pointed down, ready to finish it— Erik Jr. caught his foot. Twisted. Jaska went down hard on his back, the air leaving him in a rush. Erik Jr. was on top instantly, both spurs raised, ready to stomp— Jaska's hand shot up. Caught Erik Jr.'s throat. Squeezed. They froze. Locked. Jaska on his back, Erik Jr. above him, spurs inches from Jaska's face, Jaska's fingers digging into the boy's windpipe. "Your father," Jaska rasped, "said something to me. Before he died. You want to know what it was?" Erik Jr.'s eyes widened. Just slightly. Just enough. "He said he was going to find my family. My mother. My father. Anyone who shared my blood." Jaska's grip tightened. "He said he was going to wear their intestines." Erik Jr. made a sound. Not pain. Something else. "I killed him with his own spur," Jaska continued. "Watched the light go out of his eyes. Felt him die under me. And you know what I felt?" Erik Jr. waited. "Nothing. Not victory. Not relief. Not even satisfaction. Just... nothing. Because by the time I killed him, I was already becoming him." Erik Jr.'s raised boots began to tremble. Just slightly. Just enough. "I don't want to kill you," Jaska said quietly. "I've killed enough. I've become enough. But I will. If you make me. So here's your choice, boy." He let go of Erik Jr.'s throat. Spread his arms wide. Lay completely vulnerable under the raised spurs. "Kill me now. Take your revenge. Wear my spurs next to your father's. Become what I became." He waited. "Or walk away. Live. Find something other than this. Break the chain." The factory was silent except for their breathing. Erik Jr. stared down at him, spurs raised, body trembling with chemicals and rage and something that might have been tears. One second. Two. Three. The spurs came down. Not into Jaska's face. Into the concrete beside his head. Chink. Chink. Erik Jr. rolled off him. Lay on his back beside Jaska, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't become him. I won't." Jaska said nothing. Just lay there, bleeding, pumped full of poison, wearing a dead man's spurs, wondering if it was already too late for him. Erik Jr. turned his head. Looked at Jaska. Really looked. "You killed fifty-three men that night. My father killed fifty-three. You're even. You know that, right?" Jaska laughed. It was a broken sound. "Even. Yeah. That's one word for it." Erik Jr. sat up. Pulled off his spurs. Dropped them on the concrete between them. "I'm done. You want those? Take them. Add them to your collection." He stood. Walked toward the factory door. Stopped at the threshold. "Jaska." "Yeah?" "Get help. For the addiction. For the... everything. My father didn't. Look where it got him." He walked out. Jaska lay there for a long time, listening to his own heartbeat slow, feeling the chemicals fade, staring at the two pairs of spurs beside him. His. Sten's. And now Erik Jr.'s. Three pairs. Fifty-four dead men between them. He picked up Erik Jr.'s spurs. Held them. Felt their weight. Then he stood, slowly, painfully, and walked to the door. The night air hit him like a blessing. Somewhere in the distance, a car started. Drove away. Erik Jr. leaving. Choosing life. Jaska looked down at the spurs in his hands. Thought about what the boy had said. Get help. He dropped Erik Jr.'s spurs in a trash bin by the door. Then he unbuckled Sten's spurs from his belt. Held them one last moment. Remembered the freezer. Remembered the blood. Remembered the click. They went in the trash too. He walked away without looking back. The spurs lay in the garbage, catching moonlight, waiting for the next man to find them. But not tonight. Tonight, Jaska Mäkelä was just a man again. Bleeding. Broken. Free. 

Published: 2026-03-30, viewed 43 times.