“They’re probably already dead,” was his response. “Couple hicks I used to jack cars with smuggled fireworks in from the South. Showed us all how to make ‘em. Be pretty fuckin’ funny if they blew themselves up with those same damn explosives.” Silas gave him a look of mock warning when Brandon bad-mouthed the cane. “Cane makes such a satisfyin’ crack when it hits the skull, though.”
Eying the end of the cigarette poking out of between his lips, Silas shrugged. A vice was a vice, as far as he was concerned. “Every time you say that you sound more and more like my dearly departed Grandma. All you need’s the flowery house coat and you’d look just like her.”
A laugh that was partially a cough came with seeing Brandon’s reaction to having smoke blown in his face. “Most everybody’s got a gun these days. Why the hell would I wanna be like everybody else? ‘Least my weapons are fuckin’ original.”
“Shouldn’t be too much longer. Couple more weeks.” Unless someone else decided to shove him down on some hard concrete.
His attention was brought to the duffel bag sitting on the opposite side from his own. Nodding, he knelt down to examine the contents. He grunted his approval. “These’ll definitely come in handy.” He spoke of the alcohol. “And the fuses and stuff will, too.” He fished around a little more. “The fuck is this supposed to be?” He asked of the last item in the bag. Something he hadn’t asked for…