You really need to stop picking fights with Bug Bite,” said Kyle the next morning, slapping a physical copy of the Rumsfeld Journal on the table between us. “Look at this picture. Poor guy’s losing his mind.”
Still not entirely awake—I hadn’t slept very well last night, thanks to the fact that my back injury kept me up for most of it—I started when the newspaper was slapped down in front of me, nearly spilling my coffee in the process. But I caught myself before I could fall out of my chair and looked down at the headline on the front page, which read:
ALLEGED MURDERER TRICKSHOT STRIKES AGAIN! BUG BITE VOWS TO BRING HIM IN BEFORE HE KILLS AGAIN!
Below the headline was an image of the Hive, showing the broken window where I had flown out of, with police cars surrounding the building. Bug
