The golf club bent grotesquely on the fifth swing — metal warping like cheap tin from the weight and hardness of the fragile-looking void-ice balls — but Phei kept swinging, the deformed head making every impact even more brutal, more crushing, more final.
The ice never stopped reforming.
Every ball was the weight of an iron ball that melted for a heartbeat, then reshaped into fresh clusters of razor spikes that burrowed deeper, twisting, grinding, freezing his nerves only to explode them apart with the next strike.
Jonathan's groin had become a pulsating slaughterhouse of shredded meat, crushed testicles, splintered bone, and endless regenerating agony.
Every heartbeat sent lava-ice pain radiating through his pelvis and up his spine like lightning from hell itself.
