Windows [antikvár]

Windows 'YouYell... The Knife Goes Down Your Throat. Understand?' She opened her eyes. A huge pitted face pressed close to hers. A face made up of grotesque unmatched features. Black eye hollows from which something - anger, fear, madness - glowed like icy coal. A nose that looked big and broken and badly repaired and wheezed threateningly. Flecks of spittle flew from the stranger's lips. Thick, wet lips that curled back to reveal large uneven teeth; teeth that looked like a decaying skeleton's teeth, bared, protruding in a death's head grin. His hair shone heavy with grease. His breath was hot and smelled oddly of decay and licorice ... a sharp licorice smell that assailed her in a fetid, pungent mist. Sen-Sens. The man ... the thing ... that crushed her... was sucking breath mints.