Skinny Skank fills in the blank: “That’s the faggot.”

Atlanta’s guessing now that Skinny Skank was one of the four who did a number on Chris. Certainly the way Chris is staring at her—as if he’s burning her up with his own pack of psychic cigarettes—tells that tale.

“The faggot,” John Elvis says, nodding, chewing on that information. “Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay. What the fuck you doing, coming up into my barn with that shotgun—”

Manboob suddenly clutches the damaged cymbal to his chest. “I’m not with them!” he yelps, then barrels across the wooden floorboards—shaking the whole barn—and bolts out a side door.

“Goddamnit, Dave!” Skinny Skank shrieks after him. Voice like a fork scraping across teeth, that one. Guess he’s not named Travis. “Pussy!”

“So whaddya want?” John Elvis asks. “Bitch wanna get burned like Homo Boy?”

Chris recoils a little, takes a hesitant step back, but Atlanta hooks his elbow and pulls him forward again.

“No, thanks,” Atlanta says. “I’m trying to cut down. I’m just here to get a little payback for my friend. And also to deliver a warning that this bird won’t fly. You leave him and everybody else around here alone or—”

“You gonna shoot us?” Skinny Skank asks with a laugh. “That’s a one-shot shooter, you little dyke. Take your shot, one of us will be on you like white on rice. And if it’s me, I’ll take this baton and stick it so far up your coochie you’ll gag on the end of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris calls out, “who’s the dyke here?” It’s like he can’t contain his sass—but once it’s out, he pulls back, turtles in once more.

Atlanta ignores that. Decides to clarify. “I’m pretty fast putting another shell in the breach, if that’s what you’re asking.” She really is; she practiced in the mirror. “Maybe I get off a second shot fast, maybe I don’t. That’s on you to figure.”

The two Nazi punks hesitate.

John Elvis has both hands off his guitar—it hangs by a black leather strap, the neck exposed. He gives a look to the Skank. Skank narrows her eyes, gives him a little nod.

Atlanta doesn’t have time for this. What she does have time for: a demonstration.

She aims fast, pulls the trigger. The birdshot takes off the neck of the guitar right at the fingerboard. John Elvis looks like he’s going to mess his pants. He howls and dances backward.

Skinny Skank doesn’t flinch, though. Baton raised like a Valkyrie sword, she bolts forward.

Atlanta already has the barrel ejecting out its empty shell and is tucking another into the chamber—the barrel closes, her thumb pulls back the hammer, and she thrusts the gun up right in Skinny Skank’s face. The girl skids to a halt.