The second-in-command of the saints threw down a hefty box onto the desk, an outlier from the usual purple present boxes, a bright shade of pink wrapped in ribbons. It was truly the only inoffensive choice- couldn’t let them get the idea that he was dropping his colors, but Gat figured he had to single out V-Day in particular to spice things up. Were the Boss to get impatient and slice the various fixings to the prize, they would find the blooms of roses in the rich royale shade that adorned the walls and floors of their abode. Among the petals were a stylish set of desert eagles and about as many rounds as he could stuff into the box before delivery.
“Well? I got you guns, roses, and plenty of lead to pack the shit with… Now are you ready to fuckin party or what?”
Valentine’s day couldn’t come soon enough. The boss held back as long as they could, but when they could stand it no more, out came a switchblade that was probably a bit longer than necessary and off went the ribbon. Ravenous eyes devoured the roses—they were exquisite, not to put too fine a point on it—and the shining, embossed firearms beneath. The scroll work on the metal was, in a word, perfection; Gat had clearly gone to plenty of trouble to acquire these.
The leader of the Third Street Saints spared one last, long—and longing—look at the guns and vaulted the desk to wrap arms and legs around the one man they knew would always catch them, without fail or question, no matter what.
“Let’s start with a bang, Johnny,” they said as their lips met in a blazing kiss that communicated all the “bang” they had in mind and then some.
