“I don’t need a guilt-trip from someone who was planning to barbecue a few hundred civilians,”
“I don’t need a guilt-trip from someone who was planning to barbecue a few hundred civilians,” Henry grumbled. Owen stamped on the brake with both feet, throwing them forward into their harnesses again, this time hard enough to lock them. The Humvee skidded to a diagonal stop in the street.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Don’t be talking shit you don’t understand.
“I’m likely going to be a”
dead man because of
“you, so why don’t you just keep all your fucking”
self-indulgent
(picture of a spoiled-looking kid with his lower lip stuck out)
“rationalizing bullshit”
to yourself.
Henry stared at him, shocked and stunned. When was the last time someone had talked to him that way? The answer was probably never.
“I only care about one thing,” Owen said. His face was pale and strained and exhausted. “I want to find your Typhoid Jonesy and stop him. All right? Fuck your precious tender feelings, fuck how tired you are, and fuck you. I’m here.”
