“I think you’re lying.”
Those were the last words that John Sylvester would hear. A moment after the words touched his ears, he grew a large hole right in the middle of his face, with a much larger hole in the back of his head.
“WHAT IN THE BURNING HELLS?!?”
Alex’s eyes opened wider—though it seemed nearly impossible that they could get any larger—as he shook his head and his hands in exasperation. “What do you mean, ‘what’? You blew a hole in John’s face!”
“Yes,” Owyn said matter-of-factly.
Alex shook with some combination of confusion and exasperation. “Why?” He looked at the body laying on the floor, just below the splatter of gray matter on the wall.
“He was sweating.”
Owyn’s brow furrowed slightly. “I do not understand your confusion. The man was sweating.”
Alex shook with confusion and frustration. He threw his hands in the air. “WHY WOULD YOU SHOOT SOMEONE BECAUSE THEY WERE SWEATING???”
Owyn nodded in understanding, giving a slight smile. “Liars sweat.”
Alex began a slow nod in mock understanding. “Ah, I see. So you shot him.”
“Yes, of course. I don’t know why we’re still talking about this.”
“Well, first,” he said, throwing a passive-aggressive finger in the air, “dead people don’t flaming TALK.” Another finger in the air, counting the transgressions. “Second,” he said, pointing at the man’s ruined face, “there’s another kind of person that sweats.”
Owyn’s head turned sideways very slightly, almost like a dog.
“Fat people sweat!” He slapped the massive belly of the dead man, not breaking eye contact. “And this fat bastard is about five pounds short of a flaming BUICK!”