Ace of Swords. Gwen had sharpened the pencil stub to a pinpoint, fine as a surgical instrument. No more than three inches, probably used to write down bowling scores, that pencil was her ace in the hole. She had taken it from Big Fat Oaf's shirt pocket as he hung over her, breathing cigarette breath into her hair. She had run her hands over the front of his shirt, kneading the loose flesh, whispering into his neck the same words he had demanded every night since he had taken her, and worked the pencil out of his pocket slowly, soundlessly.