[Here he is whacking away at registers, and then the next thing he knows there's a burst of light and shattering of glass. He looks over just as Chrissy howls her rage at everything, and then hooks the hammer through a belt loop so he can grab the tripod from that broken telescope, wrap it in a shirt and knot the arms together, and hold it to the flames. There, torch.]
How's this?
[Better than a little lighter. He passes that to her, then takes one of those golf umbrellas and holds that to the spreading flame to create another. He grabs one of the few remaining un-burned sweatshirts, but the umbrella is already well-lit. It sends bits of molten plastic dripping to the floor as it burns, and for a quiet moment it's soothing just to watch as they catch on spilled items and help the fire race up the walls.]
C'mon. We got work to do.
[Fuck this building, fuck this mine, fuck the whole goddamned town. They'll all know before morning exactly what it means to suffer.
Next stop is that portable office, through the gate. His flaming umbrella-torch is just about out of its burning plastic by the time they cross the parking lot, leaving a metal framework, but that's fine. He can fix that later. He goes to the truck closest to the building and pries the gas cap open easily, stuffs the sleeve of the shirt into the tank with the butt of the umbrella used to push it farther in, then gestures to it.]
Light that. Then we better fuckin' run, though.
[At least there's a fence to contain the shrapnel from what he hopes is a really big explosion. That better be a nice full tank.]
no subject
How's this?
[Better than a little lighter. He passes that to her, then takes one of those golf umbrellas and holds that to the spreading flame to create another. He grabs one of the few remaining un-burned sweatshirts, but the umbrella is already well-lit. It sends bits of molten plastic dripping to the floor as it burns, and for a quiet moment it's soothing just to watch as they catch on spilled items and help the fire race up the walls.]
C'mon. We got work to do.
[Fuck this building, fuck this mine, fuck the whole goddamned town. They'll all know before morning exactly what it means to suffer.
Next stop is that portable office, through the gate. His flaming umbrella-torch is just about out of its burning plastic by the time they cross the parking lot, leaving a metal framework, but that's fine. He can fix that later. He goes to the truck closest to the building and pries the gas cap open easily, stuffs the sleeve of the shirt into the tank with the butt of the umbrella used to push it farther in, then gestures to it.]
Light that. Then we better fuckin' run, though.
[At least there's a fence to contain the shrapnel from what he hopes is a really big explosion. That better be a nice full tank.]