Ryan Anderson looked with concern at the large amount of weaponry presented to him.
“Oh, uh, I didn’t really expect all this, you know. Maybe I was just going to have a talk with the guy.”
“Just talk with the Smoothie King? Don’t make me laugh.” The extremely fat black man, who had revealed himself to be named Devonte, waved his shotgun around and laughed. “You don’t just talk with the Smoothie King. He has men. Security, if you will. I’ve had dealings with him in the past, believe me, I know. You ain’t gettin’ nowhere without advanced weaponry and tactics.”
Anderson was sitting on a couch, his mind still reeling from what he had done. The house he was in was long abandoned since Hurricane Katrina, and had now been repurposed as a gang hideout, a gang with which he was now fraternizing.
“Hey Maurice, give him that one. Let him see how it feels.”
Maurice took an impressively large weapon from the pile, and placed in Ryan’s unwilling hands.
“Like it? What better weapon for ‘The Flamethrower’ to wield than an actual flamethrower!” Devonte laughed again.
Anderson dropped the weapon like he had just been burned.
Devonte protested. “Hey man, watch the hardware, this stuff ain’t cheap you know! Yo, what’s up? You look funny.”
Before he knew it, Anderson was letting loose his whole tale of woe. He talked and talked, then stopped. The group of men surrounding him looked impressed.
“So, you mean to say, that you had your mind hijacked and you killed all your teammates with an arm-mounted flamethrower designed by SK, then jumped out of a condo complex and broke the thing off, and now you’re on a righteous quest for revenge?” Devonte asked, his eyes wide.
Anderson nodded.
“That. Is. Awesome! No more time to waste! Ryan, grab that flamethrower, I didn’t know you were an expert in the handling of portable incendiary devices! We’re going to show them who really runs this town.”