"I think it applies to all of us. They're our business, aren't they?" Guns has so many worshippers that he really doesn't sweat the death of a few, because more spring up in their wake. Every day brings fresh converts, and deeper faith; every living human is a new follower waiting to see the light. He laughs outright when she says that she might be leading a bigger clan than him, but doesn't bother to correct her. Perhaps Fetish isn't so worldly, but Guns would be happy to sit her down and show her a slideshow of current wars and ask, 'Who do you think follows who?' He remembers the people of Sierra Leone, the ones with their hands severed so they couldn't vote, and wonders if that's an amputee fetish. He starts to laugh.
"How tragic, to be in so much pain." Traces of amusement still litter his voice, and he glances back and drives his fist into the thug's stomach. The man crumples like a wet paper bag, and Guns points his finger at one leg. His hand kicks back, just like a gun, and there's the sound and sights of a shot, complete with a flash and a bang. He does it again, to the man's shoulder, and delivers another bullet to his stomach. Death is certain; Guns is content. Still, the god stands and looks for a while, listening the labored breathing and watching the blood pool. The playground will be sectioned off as a crime scene.
"Yes, let's go now." He turns around and takes both of her hands again, and there's blood on his face and fingertips. Remorse will never live in his smile.