And then he grabbed the reporter by the front of his shirt with both hands, pulled him close, reeling in the fabric by twisting his fists, and sneered at him, inches from his face.

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, steadily, his voice quiet but with a hard edge of menace. His eyes were blazing. When there wasn’t a reply, he suddenly dropped his arm back, and hit the other man’s guts, hard, with one dark massive fist. As the reporter collapsed over coughing and flailing, backing up, Thomas boomed loudly, “I asked you a question, boy! I said what the fuck are you going to DO about it?”

The hapless man was occupied with gasping for breath, until Thomas started approaching him again, and he suddenly cried, “Nothing! I’m not… the one in charge of it, what would… would I even do? What do you even mean?” He was still doubled over.

And then Thomas stopped, and broke into a broad, malicious grin, looking down at him. “That’s right. You’re not gonna do a God. Damned. Thing.”

“Now get out.”