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the bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Through clenched teeth, Hansel watched Zubin arrive, a tiny person in the distance, stepping over a body, shit-eating grin attached to his face. He held his position in the shadow of the gazebo, gun pointed down, waiting. There wasn’t any sense in firing wildly, now, not when his gun took so long to cock and reload, not when so much was riding on every shot. He waited.

He recalled a story in history class, about the American revolution and the generals who’d order their men not to fire until they saw the whites of the enemy’s eyes. Zubin’s eyes were dark, framed by glasses, slightly shimmery. He couldn’t see the whites yet.

He waited. Waited, even though his heart started hammering away in his chest, even when Zubin’s steady approach made his fingers itch against the smooth steel and wood of his gun, even when the other boy brandished a more menacing one.


And when flecks of white showed around Zubin’s irises, when he could make out the essence of his stare, Hansel lifted his own weapon and fired.
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Paradise · Central Park (Endgame)