You are considered a threat to the status quo and the British Government has every intention of… Extinguishing you…

All I do is grow flowers in my greenhouse. How could I–

It’s not the flowers, Mack. You know that.

They’re just daisies. Of course some of them are very rare…

The British government couldn’t give a shit about your daisies. What they care about is–

I know! I’ll go to Morry’s store and get some baby powder. That’s what this one needs.

You’re not listening, Mack! They are going to kill you out here!

No, you’re not listening Sandra! Have you ever heard a flower grow?

BAM BAM BAM!! Mack was flung by the impact, doing what looked like a slow-motion cartwheel, white robes and blood spinning through the air and then ultimately settling on the slate tile. Sandra stared, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep her knees from giving out.

You didn’t have to do it here… With all his plant friends to watch.

Where was I supposed to do it? Slate’s easier to clean Sandy. What was all that bullshit about the British government?

I couldn’t help it. I was trying to get him to think about something other than daisies for once.

It wasn’t working.

I had to warn him you’d be coming.

Well, Amanda lifted Mack’s shoulder revealing a lake of blood underneath. He went quick enough. She gently rested his shoulder back on the slate. You comin’ with me?

Sandra looked down to her hands still gripping the edge of the table. Slowly, she relaxed and let go, pushing herself to her feet. You’re such a fucking bitch. She walked down the isle between the tables of daisies and out through the open greenhouse door.

Amanda looked at the gun in her hand. Placed it on the table beside some pruning shears. Ran some water in the plastic basin sink. Washed her face. And went out through the same open doorway.

Mack’s dead eyes stared at a column of tiny ants making their way from one of the flowerpots to a half-eaten pastry that had been knocked to the ground. The ants were working as hard as they could to satisfy their queen.

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