“HOW DO YOU EVEN SAY HER NAME?” JOHNNY asks his packmates with a sneer. “More-gawks?”

“Come now, poppet, is that what you call customer service?” Pierce asks with a pout as he looks first to his bullet-riddled chest and then at the girl who stares at the three of them down the barrel of a handgun which trembles in her grasp. Her eyes wide, her dark brown visor now slid back and dangling from her ponytail as she backs towards the rear exit. “Trigger-happy twit . . . ” he mutters.

“No wonder no one claims this litterbox of a territory—even the donut girl is packing heat,” Lydia announces as she steps through the now-shattered front window. “Can’t even get an easy meal . . . ” she laments to no one in particular.

Johnny hops over the counter to stand in front of rows of metal trays of donuts. He raises his hand to cup his chin in exaggerated consideration.

“What are you in the mood for, Lyd? A blueberry cobbler croissant donut? Butternut? Apple and spice? Maybe you want something filled with a little red . . . ”

With that he grabs a jelly donut from the tray and stuffs it in his mouth, crumbs erupting from between his lips as he laughs. A glob of jelly oozes out of the end of the pastry and lands on the stubble covering his chin. In an instant he’s inhaled two glazed and half a butternut, the sugary fallout coating his palms, fingers sticky.

In another instant red spews from between his lips as he wretches, covering the counter with blood and undigested donut chunks. Pierce glares at Johnny as the girl huddles with her back now against the wall, chamber empty but still she squeezes the trigger rhythmically, as if in a trance.

“Gross, Johnny! It’s like The Exorcist up in here!” Lydia screeches in disgust from the relative safety of the illuminated storefront window cavity.

“Worth . . . it . . . ” he manages from between spastic, wet heaves.

In another instant the girl slumps against the wall, hitting the dingy off-white tile with a sickening thud.