Dog Fire
The idea had been simple; first, crush up six packages of Sominex and mix it in with two pounds of hamburger, and form it into meatballs. Then, lob them through the broken-out window of the deserted church where the feral dogs lived. Then, after waiting ten minutes, lob two Malatov cocktails after, so as to land where the meat had landed. The dogs would be in a central spot, dopey and sated, and after a riot of stink and howl they would be wiped out. The shell of the church was brick, so there wasn't much to catch fire. And without it being traced to him, the mauling of children and terrorizing of seniors would stop. And one day, soon, he would tell Rose, and she would look at him with a new admiration in her eyes. He, Paul, would have slain the twelve-headed snarling dragon, he, Paul, would have made the neighborhood safe (relatively), he, Paul; warrior, victor.
The howling, ironically, had come from him, and the stink was from his burning arm. When he cocked his arm to throw the first firebomb the rag fuse had fallen onto his sleeve, which was then soaked with gasoline that sloshed out of the bottle, which he then dropped, turning the sidewalk where he stood into a pyre. The second bottle had exploded, as had the van next to it, setting fire to the awnings of the building next to the church.
Rose had been better than the rest of them—she had not called him an arsonist, or a church-burner or vandal. She had visited him in the hospital once, but only to say that she just couldn't be with someone who killed animals.
So, that was that. When the dressings finally came off in two weeks he would have to start the community service that was the main component of his sentencing—working in the city animal shelter, where a few of the wild dogs—fur singed and paws blistered—had been brought by concerned neighbors. He was pretty sure that Rose was one of them. He was beginning to think that it might not have been such a good idea.