The enthralling flame, as it consumes paraffin-soaked paper, excites Punch.
“Spread the fire, ya damn fool, or we won’t be paid!” shouts Brack, as he scurries about spraying kerosene.
Punch holds off, enjoying the flame-induced gut churning.
Brack raises the sprayer and swings to locate Punch, accidentally soaking him and creating a conflagration.
Quickly Brack grabs a tarp, smothering Punch and knocking him to the ground.
Punch screams, primal like, heart-rending.
Brack prays, “Good Lord, Good Lord.”
Punch’s deceptive smile is a toothy grin; his lips have withdrawn in the heat, exposing copious gold-capped teeth.
Brack seethes, deploring his mortal sin.