Brian folded his arms. “Is your pride or stubbornness worth getting those dogs hurt?”
Well, he knows where to hit. Rachel might not care if she gets hurt, but if her dogs do?
She scowled and looked down at the dogs.
“The thing they said about the hotdogs,” I spoke, quiet, “About poisoning your dogs. You couldn’t stop them unless you were here twenty-four seven, and maybe not even then.”
“It’s cowardly,” Bitch spat the words.
Do you mean the hot dog thing, or leaving?
Probably the latter.
“They’re cowards,” I told her. “Pretty much the definition of anyone who joins a hate group.
Get dunked on, ya hate-filled bastards.
It’s true! They’re cowards who fear and hate things that aren’t actual threats and seek the support of others with the same fear and hate. Yoda might have a thing or two to say about this.
In other news I suddenly understand why some forms of this fear carries labels ending in -phobia. I don’t like it any more than I already did, though – a true phobia is an anxiety disorder and as a former insectophobiac, I would rather not have it be equated to the kind of hate you see from islamophobes and the like.
But even if they did take a more direct approach, would you be able to handle it? Could you deal if twenty people showed up with guns? Or if Night and Fog dropped by at three in the morning, when it was just you and these guys?”
RIP Rachel.
Also, looks like Taylor’s cautious side won out.
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