FireVaney

78. Lew kicked it shut again.

79. He winced in at his boss and jerked a stiff finger at him—to stay put.

80. Bart turned away.

81. Disgust and self-loathing permeated his expression.

82. The flask was lying beside him.

83. It glared up at Bart, its metal reflecting the bright, eye-stinging sheen of a streetlamp.

84. Bart squinted, swore, clawed it up and squeezed—hoping it would crush like a soda can.

85. He listened to his own labored breathing and stared down at the flask and at the trembling beet-colored fingers pressed around it.

86. He spun the cap free, it fell, bounced off his knee, left a small stain of whiskey; and where it landed, it rolled out of view beneath the seat.

87. As Lew settled behind the wheel he heard Bart mumble a toast.

88. “To Big Hearts,” Bart tilted the flask to his lips, then stopped, “…and Rat Bastards.”

89. He guzzled the remnants and launched the flask—not through, but—against the window.

90. It clanked the glass hard and ricocheted back, smack-dab into his forehead.

91. Lew caught it all by way of the rearview.

92. He stifled a snort.

93. “Hey,” he cracked, “you asked for bulletproof.”

94. Bart could feel a red welt bulge just above his left eyebrow.

95. He inhaled sharply and shook off the sting and clenched his fury around the grip of his side-armed Colt .45.

96. Unholstered, the barrel pressed into the seat, into Lew’s back, he leaned forward and whispered, “There’s one left, all for you, you want it?”

97. Lew shoved his finger against one amongst a bank of small levers on his door; behind him, the window to Bart's left motored down.

98. Lew said, “ Take Two , Chomp,” through clenched teeth.

99. Bart chucked the flask, along with a few choice expletives, out the open window; Lew stomped the accelerator and the wheels squealed off.

100. She wasn’t looking at Milt, at what was left of Milt, she was looking at his hat—the wind rolling it down the damp street, on its brim, rolling it— chasing — right after Chomple's car...

Just in case you were wondering... (And just in case you were reading...) I am not in any way upset with you. You have done nothing wrong. I am the immature one. I am the one who can't rein-in the bullshit. And you can be damn sure that I will never stand in your way. I never have; I never will. (Although, I think you have a few lousy habits. And, one day, I may even grill you on their worth.) From you, I expect great things. (And, one day, I hope to be great enough in my own right so that the above statement carries a certain degree of weight.) Still, I think you aim too low, but, I barely know you, so, that is entirely conjecture. I do this — It's nothing new — Putting the likes of you up on a pedestal. It's really fucked up. It doesn't do anyone a lick of good. But that's learned behavior for you. (Unless it's conditioned behavior for you.) And, to be perfectly frank would require putting it in truly pathetic terms. I...