The Butcher’s Apprentice strode down the street, a bucket dragging heavy at his right arm. Every second step he took, it would bump his thigh, the contents slopping against the side. His little sister behind him.
“Then he said girls are made from squirrels, because the words rhymed, then Sally said they didn’t rhyme, not quite rightly, anyhow, and she would -“
He turned to tell her to quiet down, but too quick, and lost his balance as the bucket came round. The apprentice’s feet tripped him, up, and he fell, backwards. The offal and blood, covering him as he landed.