Ferria had disappeared inside one of four available Toronto Nation Guest Suites in the E.C. for visiting dignitaries, where she had taken advantage of the shortened visit by the Celtic Trade Unionists two days before, demanding the suite in Elias’ name; the others were currently housing representatives of Sweden, New Freedom, and an odd gathering of what appeared to be toe fetishists. She was inside that room right there, Roy knew, and she was probably doing to that Dum’Kid (as Roy tagged him) what he wanted done to himself. Her decision to take Dum’Kid over him breached what Roy, whose understanding of power was limited to only the most basic of perceptions, knew to be fair. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell Ferria what he’d seen the Dum’Kid do with his hands on radburns. He wanted to tell Ferria and she had told him that he smelled like shit. Roy Glyn burned. He knew he could beat the Dum’Kid to death if he had a mind to, that was certain, although since he’d practically carried him, wheezing like crazy, into the elevator ten minutes before, it wouldn’t be fair. He turned and pressed his ear against the door and imagined that he heard glasses clinking, Bammo!Burgers frying, and then, to stoke the fires of his anger, the wet sounds of two bodies pressed together.
