Too early for the sun: must be another bomb.
Impossible to say whether it’s the liver-pains or the familiar crump that jerked Hook out of his dream. From his eyrie the damage seems limited: a faulty car bomb or a quarantined suicide bomber, the latest in a line of hopefuls failing their audition.
Whenever Hook hears about suicide bombers he feels mildly vexed until he reminds himself of phosphorous sprinkled on Fallujah, bulldozers flattening Gaza. He feels sadness for the irrational, desperate act and for those left behind but he quickly moves on. Yet this morning he’s hopeful this latest bomber has succeeded in his task of shutting down the city, shorting all the circuits, because then Hook won’t need to go to work.
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