Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” the headman demanded, breaking off the debate.

The little man stopped and turned to face him, regarding him levelly with dark eyes.

“Must get meat inside,” he said. “Not good to leave out here. Too warm. Might go bad.”

“Maybe you didn’t get the drift of what I was saying,” Stilman challenged, moving closer. “You can’t unload that stuff while we’re around.”

The little man bobbed his head.

“Good. You take.”

With that, he half tossed, half thrust the meat at Stilman, shoving it forward as the balance came off his shoulder. The headman was unprepared for the weighty mass suddenly launched at him, but he managed to catch it-more from surprise than intent.

The little man ignored Stilman’s reaction, stepping past him to address the stunned thugs.

“You … and you,” he said, stabbing a finger at the two largest musclemen. “Get meat from there and follow me.”

At this point, Stilman recovered his wits.

“To hell with this!” he roared, throwing the meat down and brushing at the front of his suit.

With his back turned, he couldn’t see what happened next, much less have a chance to counter it. Kong was facing in the right direction, but even he had trouble later describing exactly what happened.

With a pantherlike bound the little man was close behind Stilman. There was a flash of metal, which resolved itself into a long butcher’s knife-only visible when it came to rest pressed against the headman’s throat.

“You do not throw meat on the ground!” the little man hissed, eyes slit in anger. “Now it ruined! No good! Understand?”