He didn’t like parties. He didn’t even know what he was doing here.

Actually, that’s a lie, because what he was doing was quite simple. He was standing at the snack table, trying to see the food in the black light semi-darkness. Giving up, he reached out and grabbed a handful of something safe – he prayed – and tripped his way back to a chair in the corner. People had settled into a kind of stupor at the late hour, sitting in obvious groups and talking about obvious things: which music artists they hated, which people they hated, and which color is the winner of the yellow versus pink argument.

Looking down at his plate did not reveal the food he had blindly grabbed. At least, he hoped it was food. It was dry and small, and didn’t smell like anything. Taking a hesitant bite, the mystery was solved. He had found his least favorite snack: pretzel sticks.

Leaning back, trying to ignore the throbbing music, an idea arrived walking hand-in-hand with a sly grin.

He now held a plate full of ammunition.