Page 92 of Antihero

They laughed at that ’cuz what were the odds.

“We could do White On Romanian,” Mikey said.

B-Roll said, “Romanians are white, you dumb motherfucker.”

Taz’s coordination was wobbly. What if he barfed right here, barfed all over the yearbook pages, and then they’d haveta throw them out and—

Finn-Finn was talking to him.

Taz said, “Huh?”

“I said, ‘What d’we do?’”

B-Roll had his back to them, working the remote with both hands. “We could snuff her.”

“Huh,” Taz said. “Nhnn.”

“Kill her,” Finn-Finn said. “Like kill kill her?”

“Why not?” B-Roll said, shoot-shoot-shooting on the game. He accidently smoked an innocent, a mom pushing a stroller on a crosswalk, and the screen flashed red, but who cared, there were more bad guys pouring out of an Escalade behind her and he lit those mofos up like Christmas.

“Dunno.” Finn-Finn shrugged. “Dunno.”

B-Roll said, “I mean, just if we have to.”

“No.” Big Mikey held up a Corn Nut and stared at it with one eye scrunched up like he was a jeweler or some shit. “Nope. I’m definitely changing my vote back to barbecue.”

“We don’t really kill people, though, ya know,” Finn-Finn said. “I mean, ya know?”

Big Mikey popped the Corn Nut into his mouth. “Let’s deal with the scary fucking friend first. He’s the threat.”

“How do we find him?” Finn-Finn said. “How?”

B-Roll said, “Track her to get to him.”

Taz’s phone alerted and it was some fucking viral news text alert that people somewhere were doing genocide but he remembered another text alert from earlier that’d said the other side was doing genocide. The words were blurry. He stared at the screen, trying to make sense of anything.

“Then what?” Finn-Finn said. “We take him out?”

“I could call Dirty Pete,” Mikey said.

That brought a hush. Dirty Pete was a big deal and you didn’t take his name in vain.

“He’s dirty,” Finn-Finn said. “He’s so dirty.”

“Dirty Pete,” Mikey said proudly, “is so dirty.”

“Could Dirty Pete take him is the question,” B-Roll said.

“You seen Dirty Pete,” Mikey said. “He could take anyone, man. I mean, he killed this big black motherfucker in the joint. Like the head of a gang or something. Took him right out in the pen. No one stops Dirty Pete.”

“Mex Street Corn,” Finn-Finn said, chewing and squinting, like he was some wine guy at a restaurant swishing around a mouthful of whatever. “It’s where it’s at.”

“The thing is…” Big Mikey trailed off.

Finn-Finn said, “What? What?”

“Once you hand it over to Dirty Pete, it’s his game.” He puffed on the pre-roll some more. “It’s his game, awright.”