They just walked over and grabbed my arms, carrying them to the sturdy table.
“You will get these back when you learn to behave,” snarled Mister Broca, in his stove-pipe hat.
“We should beat him with them,” suggested bowler-hatted Mr Wernicke, saliva dripping from pointed teeth.
A gust swept throughout the grey emptiness of the room. With a “whoosh,” Broca, now sixty-feet tall and six inches wide loomed over me, serpiginous and full of venom.
Then, with a fizz, Wernicke, now sixty-feet wide and six inches tall, curled around me like a shroud
“Kill him now,” they said, in unison.