The sharp, acid scent of gasoline tastes like coppery blood on my tongue. I smile at the meat. I let him see the fangs; it'll be his last anyway.

He blanches at that; stops struggling at the chains. Chains. Nice touch.

The wind outside is picking up...just like the report said. Heh. Report. Like I trust a weatherman. Face it, Mol...ya' gotta nose fer burnin' weather.

The small panes rattle against the windy night. The warehouse is nearly pitch black, some strains of dark light filtering in from gaps in the warehouse windows and walls. Some crappy place about fifty miles into one o' them side towns with three cops and one donut shop. His own damn workshop. Caine, must be a real fuckin' bummer ta' get ambushed in yuir own friggin' workshop.

"Say fucko....what's it like to get done in yuir own friggin' workshop?"

The meat jess' looks at me, tryin' to take in what his brain is havin' a real hard time acceptin'.

He starts gabberin' at me like some deranged monkey. "You're....you're...a.....a.."

"..I'm the guy you cut out of business."

"Wha? A vamp...busi....what?"

"Caine's sake...are you really this fuckin' slow, or what? I can't believe they ever wanted to do business with you. Bad fuckin' judge o' character on their part fer shure."

"Wha....business...you're a vampire. Some fuckin' vampire" He shivers in the chains. Backs up to the center post.

"Yea, well there's tha' too. More importantly, you cut in one *my* client."

He just looks at. This guy's a friggin' moron. Yea....moron....wanted in three states for *serious* arson. Cunning little fucker...watched him fer a week. So spare me the dummy bit; I ain't buyin' it.

"Oh hey, yuir in *luck*. Yuir gonna make some hist'ry books, fucko. Wanted in *six* states for arson, murder, and some serious collateral damage. Yea...it would figure tha' someone like you'd chain yuirself to a post, douse yuirself n' yuir shop in gasoline, n' go *up*. Freakin' pyros". I smile.

Now he starts gabberin, jabberin', wettin' himself. Man....this is sad. I mean, first off, this guy *iz* a major sicko. Goin' fer th' annual Hannibal Lector nutcase o' th' year award. Not in tha' league m'be...well, he *seemed* tough. Course, lookin' death in th' eye does shake 'em. Friggin' mortals. Then, th' freakin' nerve o' him...pickin' up the Don's business....Caine's sake, I've had them as clients fer friggin' 60 years or so. They *usually* go fer quality.

"Shut up already."

I mean, s' not like this thing don't happen every now n' 'gain...someone comes round n' starts up. I could see if'n I was some old, retired agin' shit. Hell, I'd x-pect ta' be bumped off. Lucky ol' me, I practice. N' there still ain't *no one* better at wha' I do...Too bad I can't claim credit for most...hell,any o' them. Hmmmmph. I think five minutesof this jabberin' fool's more n' enuff.

"All right pal....time ta' send ya' on to th' flame. After all, yuir gonna clear Manchester...an' a whole buncha other places...outta a serious backlog of un-x-plained fires, arsons, demolitions, n' x-plosions."

I snap th' battered zippo open n' lit. Touch th' bluish flame, then touch tha' holy burinin' wick to th' gas trail. The zip snaps shut as I look up to see ol' meat go up like a roman candle. Better actually.

I enjoy the sight for a good five minutes, then turn n' head out o' the burnin' building.

Fire....ya' gotta luv it.