The man brisks over to a desk. He takes a small pistol from his drawer, a Tokarev with a mother-of-pearl handle, obviously cherished; he aims it aims it at Tidge’s head. This man is an affront to his god. Undo this dark, undo it.
Mouse begins to speak.
‘Silence,’ the man erupts.
‘Dad,’ his son interjects.
‘Watch this, son.’
‘They’re just kids.’
‘No, you don’t understand, it’s not what they do now it’s what they’ll grow into. Do unto them now as they shall do to us tomorrow, remember,’ and he is quoting the words of your own people, what you have said many times yourself. ‘Have you forgotten what they have done to us?’
‘They’re my friends, Dad. They’re just kids. Listen to me.’
But he does not respond, does not hear; one less of them one less and you were that once, you recognise it; wanted them all removed, gone from your life, he as grubby as you, both of you, both.
Offensive acts come back upon the evil doer like dust that is thrown against the wind.