Mitchell Malacek collapsed into the blue trailer, falling face-first into the basin of a long metal urinal that ran the length of the trailer’s wall. Whiskey Brazos panted in the open door, the butt of his handgun still raised where he had coldcocked Mitchell a moment before. Bethany was pressed into the trailer’s back corner, grasping a toilet seat over her head like a club, ready to swing. If Whiskey hadn’t knocked Malacek unconscious the moment Mitchell had stepped through the door Bethany supposed she probably would have killed the guy. She was unsurprised to realize this didn’t bother her.
Whiskey bent down to grab the handgun that Mitchell had dropped and stuck the pistol down the back of his pants.
Bethany lowered the toilet seat to the floor. She looked first at Whiskey and then at Ricky Turner, bent over one of the trailer’s many toilets, tears in his eyes, a rubber douche trembling in his hands.
Whiskey shouted “Clear!” through the open door.
Mitchell groaned in the urinal trough. Bethany crossed the narrow trailer briskly and slammed the toe of her shoe into his groin. Mitchell let out a yelp of pain and stared at her, aghast. She smoothed the hem of her Bisonette singlet.
“Now,” Bethany said. “Does anyone want to explain what the fuck is going on here?”