20
It was nearly eleven when I walked in my front door. I thought about calling Conor, then decided against it. He’d want me to come over, and I didn’t feel like going anywhere. Not after our argument. A restless energy that I couldn’t shake flowed through me. I needed some time to process the evening’s events.
After stashing Mahoney’s Smith & Wesson next to Daniel Warren’s Colt in my g*n safe, I put on a pair of shorts and a tank top and went into my workout room, where I had a Bodyman II, a man-sized electronic punching bag. I put on the Pink Trinkets’ Orange, You Stupid—a protest album against the current president—and proceeded to kick, punch, and slam the s**t out of the Bodyman.
I pictured Barclay Dietz’s beefy face with its misshapen nose on the head of the mannequin. Fury crackl
