Six grenades.

Three assault rifles.

A riot of handguns.

Eight sticks of gelignite.

Two years, count ’em, two fucking years, to bribe, cajole, steal to assemble that arsenal. They were, he felt, almost… almost ready. He gestured to Bethany, said,

“Drinks.”

Like most raised in privileged fashion, he had no fucking manners.

A fleeting frown crossed her face but she rose, fetched the bottle of Wild Turkey, the inevitable bottles of Coke,

…. cos everything goes better with it, right

Brought them to the table, thinking,

“Same old macho bullshit.”

Jimmy, always anxious to please, fetched the heavy Galway Crystal tumblers and Bethany poured lethal dollops of the Turkey, with a splatter of Coke, handed the first to Bine.

He raised his, toasted,

“To chaos.”

As was the custom, they near finished the drinks on a first attempt and all managed to stem the

“Holy fuck” that such a dose of Wild demanded.

Bine, his cheeks aflame, said,

“To business.”

Sean stood.

Once, he’d sat while reporting and Bine slashed his face with the Stanley knife. Sean said,

“Attacks:

We’ve hit the old priest, the lesbian, and await your next target.”

Bine moved his finger, meaning

“Refills.”

That done, he almost seemed relaxed. He caressed his manifesto.

By mangling Darwin, he’d managed to convince them of the urgency of ridding the city of: the misfits, the handicapped, the vulnerable, the weak, the pitiful.

Bethany thought it was a crock, but Bine gave her a cold icy channel for her rage, so she acted as if she bought into his motives. And though she despised herself, she had such a lust for him she was prepared to go along with whatever frenzy he’d envisaged. It sated her need to have to lash out alone.