It doesn’t even make the news; editors don’t get out of bed for less than five deaths, regardless of how young the victims are. Shoot up a preschool, kill your ex-wife, kill your children, maybe a teacher or two, die in a hail of bullets, just another Tuesday in god’s holy empire. Warriors are still losing.

There’s a manifesto, but no one reads it, except William Fitzgerald, and he doesn’t care. The words are gone from his mind as soon as he realizes there’s no check included with the package, just a long, poorly spelled diatribe against women as a concept and the lizards running society. It’s not his first manifesto, probably won’t be his last; for possibly the dozenth time William Fitzgerald swears off divorce cases entirely, without heat or conviction. Just another occupational hazard.

Still, when the next sad sack with a too-fixed stare arrives, he silently triples his fee and asks for payment up front. There’s no trouble over money; arsenals are a rich man’s vice.