VIII. Continental Breakfast

Of all the numbers in the world, Merango hated math the most.

He was just not the type of guy to do the math.

Trinkets of plastic debris sailed around the head of a shot-down protestor in slow motion. His head was blown out diagonally over the sidewalk, across the broken Molotov, merging the organic matter with the city sludge. Merango did not know this guy, never witnessed the death of his kind. But he readily abs…