B pushes the gun into Z's cheek, and Z knew at that moment, with the cold metal barrel hard against his jaw, that he had finally pushed B too far. He laughs like he doesn't know the definition of fear but he hopes that B doesn't notice that he's just acting. B presses the gun harder up against Z, and the more Z leans away, the harder B presses it. Z falls off his chair and stops laughing. He was always such a tease. He was the child that liked to play with his food before eating it, torture his informants before killing them. Even amongst friends, he harboured a smug self-righteousness that bordered on loathsome. Perhaps Z never understood that claiming every malicious act to be a joke doesn't necessarily make it so. B stands over Z with his gun threatening execution.
Z says, “why?”
B says, “don't take it personal, Z. It's just a fucking joke.”
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