Joshua Cook

“The Vigga-Wolf screamed with fury and delight to be out of the horrid wagon and once again at her work, which was murder, and her hobby, too. Also murder. She didn’t know or care why this bastard had a bull’s head. Folk all have their own different heads don’t they? She slipped under his axe, ripped it from his fists, smashed off one of his horns with it, then flung it at the rabbit girl on the wall and split her skull in half. Then she clawed the bull’s guts out with her fists, snarling, weeping, spraying drool, snuffling for the good meat, the nice bits, the tasty morsels. People’s heads might all be different but their insides are much alike. Her jaws snapped shut on a woman with a piggy head, got head and arm together, squeezing, squeezing. The arm snapped first, went floppy as a sock of porridge, and she squealed piggy squeals and beat away with a shield, clobbered with the rim as the Vigga-Wolf snarled in frustration, the bits of arm still wedged in her teeth, and wriggled her head to get the best grip, biting, twisting, biting, wrenching, biting. Squeals became screams then crack the skull popped and the Vigga-Wolf sucked the meat out and ugh, what a horrid salty mouthful. She choked and coughed and ripped at the foul-tasting pig bitch with her back claws and tore her so hard the other arm came off then flung what was left into the bull-man who was struggling up wailing with guts all hanging out and the pair of them went reeling across the yard all the horrid bad meat mashed up together.”
― Joe Abercrombie, The Devils