Shooter.
He sat inside, in a room whose windows were blocked by curtains. Around him, indiscriminately piled, fast-food and junk-food wrappers mingled with overworn clothing, all covered in a fine and constant layer of ash and cooled smoke. The blue glow of the screen illumined his face, lips down-turned, brows squatting low over his red-lined eyes. The orange crackle of the Dunhill cigarette threw a diffuse light onto his fingertips and his nose for a moment, and he set it on the edge of the table, into a burnt groove made by uncounted previous smoldering housefires. He cracked his knuckles and began to type into the textbox embedded in the crisp, white browser window of the blue-logoed website. "Humanity is doomed. Nobody cares about anything, they just suckle the government teat! They all leave messes wherever they go... I think someone should take care of it. Somebody ought to clean up the mess these moochers make." Brenden himself was "on disability", whi