Falconer stopped, probably because, like me, he smelled smoke. He gave me a look that would have made cancer apologize, then ran like hell. Falconer rounded the house in time to see John emerge from the front door with his “lighter,” a Vietnam-era flamethrower he had bought off eBay. Completely legal, by the way. Behind him, flames were turning the rest of my worldly possessions into smoke and ash. Falconer clinched his jaw and said, “Oh, you stupid white trash fucks. What have you done?”
