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doesn’t solve anything” crap?
    He knew all about bullies and all that Sunday school stuff about turning the other cheek didn’t work. Brant Coogan was two years older and always pissed off and always coming down on Travis. Bodychecking him into the lockers, trampling him in the yard. Travis had no idea why. He had never done anything to him. The one time he had asked Brant why he was picking on him, Brant had said “cuz you’re ugly.” Kids said Brant’s father was a drunk, that Brant himself was beaten mercilessly by the old man. Like that made a difference. Made it okay. Poor Brant was a victim too. Boo fucking hoo. Travis had tried playing it cool, not making a big deal out of it because whining or snitching would only make it worse. He had shrugged it off the other cheek, thinking it would blow over, but that made it worse too. Made Brant hate him even more.
    So, yeah, turning the other cheek was bullshit. Sorry Jesus.
    The undead Cosmonauts went down one by one, skulls crushed and split. Travis moved on, venturing further into the depths of the haunted moon base. He wondered what a machete would do to Bill Berryhill’s thick skull. Or better yet, Brant Coogan’s fugly face.

    Jim was also thinking about Berryhill as he leaned over the sink, brushing his teeth. The big oaf was always picking fights and getting into trouble. It infuriated him to be accosted like that, in front of his family, by a loudmouthed prick whose sole talent was to draw pay without putting in an honest hour’s work. As maddening as it was, he’d never stoop to Berryhill’s level. Ever. What bothered him most of all was the conversation afterwards with Travis. He could have handled that better. Discussed it openly. Asked Travis why he thought fighting back was the only answer. But he hadn’t.
    Woulda coulda shoulda.
    “Scooch over.” Emma squeezed behind him in their narrow bathroom, reaching for her own toothbrush. “I don’t know about you but I’m beat.”
    “Busy day.”
    “It’s the food in that place. It’s so heavy. It just sits in my belly and weighs me down.”
    He nodded then leaned under the tap to rinse. She ran her hand up his naked back. “You okay?” she said.
    “Yeah.” He looked at her funny. “Why?”
    “I dunno. Just that nonsense with Berryhill. Didn’t that rile you? I wanted to kill him.”
    “Bill’s a jackass who likes attention,” he said, splashing water over his face. “He’s not worth getting upset about.”
    Emma scrubbed her teeth furiously the way she did, her hand still on his back. Her fingers strayed to the scar on his shoulder blade and, without thinking, traced its contours. She felt him flinch, knowing he didn’t like it being touched. Sometimes she couldn’t help herself, the way one puts a finger to a freshly painted wall, just to see if it’s dry. The scar he dismissed as a childhood accident but never elaborated further. Same with the bent finger on his right hand.
    He dried his face, kissed her hair while she brushed like mad. Her palm slid to the small of his back and he felt her fingertips dip into his skin. A little firmer than the usual goodnight squeeze. He looked for her eyes but she was already dipping under the tap to rinse.
    He swung into bed trying to decipher the fingertips. Was there a chance of them getting friendly or was it just the slow burnoff of a few pints? No matter how tired he was, even the slightest hint of sex woke him wide. Especially spontaneous schoolnight shenanigans. Jim scolded himself for getting his hopes up and reached for the paperback on his nightstand. Flipping back a few pages, trying to remember the plot to this potboiler. A ‘Walking Tall’ actioner about a war vet who returns home to find his neighbourhood overrun by Russian dope dealers. Or were they terrorist sleepers masking as dope peddlers? He scanned the back copy blurb, trying to orient the plot when Emma came into the room and peeled off her clothes.
    A nightly ritual, one