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Victor was aggravated, lighting matches with the tips of his fingers and dropping them into the shitty whiskey in front of him. He hated waiting, and Miri was making him do just that. God, he didn't know how she had charmed the Old Man. The girl was absolutely incompetent when it came to getting anything done. He shifted in his seat, pulling the black pea coat closer around his ears. He tossed a match into the air, lighting it with his mind as it fluttered down.
Looking around, his eyes narrowed at the sickening sight of the puffy diabetic Louisiana natives huffing through their miserable lives around him. Sometimes he wondered what it was he was really trying to save. The image of Moira, his beloved, lying drained and dead in their kitchen came to mind. He sneered as he watched the crowd, wishing he would see one of the devils now, even though it was still daylight. He was in the mood to kill something. He sighed. The time would come soon enough. They would get the burning they deserved. He was certain of it.