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[anewlanguage]

You know, Dean? Dean, you might be right. Maybe half right.

[Some six hours after Barbara's post, Cain is completely stinking drunk. But he's also feeling more sociable, and between swigs or statements he hums a song, occasionally mumbling the lyrics.]

...Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine...

I'm not rethinking stopping being a pacifist, but I oughta say I'm feeling like doing target practice, and the boat's not real steady under my feet, you get what I mean. So hurry on down, clear out my gun cache.

Knives, too.

[He takes a healthy swallow from the bottle.]

dreadful sorry, Clementine...

[The feed cuts about halfway through that chorus

Comments

[anewlanguage]

[Cain has given a few away by now, but when he sees Mickey he grins like a shopkeeper]

What's your name again?

[americasdirtiest]

Mickey. 'Chu got, man? [He steps closer, like this is clandestine, like he hadn't announced it all over the comms. He cranes his neck to look at the inventory.]

[anewlanguage]

Depends what you want 'em for. Defense, offense? Keep it all hidden away? Show off?

[americasdirtiest]

Home defense.

[Which is at least half bullshit -- he wants it because he wants to take it out to the Enclosure and have some fun with it -- but that's always been the default excuse in his part of town, and he doesn't bat an eye.]

...but not the kind that takes a Beretta.

[Because he has one of those. He perks up.]

Got any ARs?

[anewlanguage]

[Cain has heard that excuse often enough to snort at it now, but he'll still make a deal.]

I've got two. One I'm keepin' for someone. See if you like the other one--it's in the case over against the wall.

[He'd go get it himself but the last time he tried to stand, he stumbled into the desk and knocked everything over.]

[americasdirtiest]

[Mickey doesn't really need to look to know that he wants it, but he goes over to the case anyway, practically salivating as he looks inside.]

My brother Iggy's got one of these.