There'd been a fistfight with Industrial Warfare for shits and giggles. Then the U.S. Military opened a shell-shocked mouth, and at the sound of his favorite toy, Dom grinned with dangerous good humor. Like all great things, it couldn't last; breaking 11 Bang-Bang down into pieces would never be a permanent fix.
But ah-ha, God was a giver, if one of His angels cruising down the I-10 was any indication. The warmongers leapt upon a mouthy archangel; Dom threw himself into the fray with all the excitement of a foam-flecked junkyard dog. It'd been a grand old clusterfuck nailing that winged shit to the wall... until Enola passed it down the line.
So what next? Dom hardly needed to ask himself -- he instead acted, reacted, followed his feet to sniff out the scent of another broken man-shaped thing. Not a man, not a myth, not the symbol he used to be... the Yank and his ilk may've come from a bygone age, but even Attrition Warfare wasn't immune to a little nostalgia here and there. Billy, after all, was a winner. And who didn't like those?
Dom marched north double-time. Finding Billy came like conflict, and when the warmonger stopped outside The Howling Dog, he stared up at its sign and grinned appreciatively. Seconds later absent whistling drifted out to greet him; Dom answered it in kind, except there was tune to his smirking music, and it was a young America's death march.
When he followed after his own warning call, it was with a cheer most men felt distinctively ill at ease around. "Hey. Bayonet. How many men do I have to kill to get a drink around here?"