Eyes glazed with a joy he hadn’t felt in years, Micah perused the selection. The trunk of Greasy Ed’s ‘77 Buick Skylark, primer orange and replete with rust, wasn’t the most glamorous of emporiums, but it had everything needed. The small arms called to his hands for a delicate touch. The sawed off shotgun whispered sweet nothings in gravely tones. A rifle told of long distance kisses. Assorted explosives begged to be turned loose.

He wanted them all. His mouth practically watered at the thought. The idea of ‘too much’ or ‘overkill’ didn’t even enter his mind.

A hunting knife winked from the corner of the trunk, and Micah had to chuckle as he remembered the Proverb, “And put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to gluttony.” There were certainly throats in need of knifing.

“You, uh, planning anything special?” Greasy Ed asked, barely avoiding a nervous stammer.

Micah pointed to the delights he desired, started counting out bills, and grunted, “Nothin’ special about revenge.”