[more laughter from the bulgarian mobster trash. he hangs halfway out the window, his fingers tight on the edge of the roof. when the collision happens, the whole cab shakes, the sound is so loud, but he holds on. the momentum shakes him like the wind snapping taut through a flag. flags don't break; flags are built for that, and kavinsky was built to celebrate the chaos of wanton destruction. his eyes are hooded, greedy for the sights. he isn't nearly self-aware enough to acknowledge he's as hungry for the company.

he isn't worried about terrorist charges. he'd come up with something if it happened, but he isn't worried. they'll be in and out. like motherfucking thieves.]

Hey. Hey, [he twists his head around to look at ronan. baby boy's doing well, but even kavinsky in the thrall of adrenaline is aware that victimless crime don't come as easy to some as to others. and that catholic guilt. he scrapes a tug at ronan's ear to get his attention. lets go before the inevitable bite or shove of retaliation. he squats one leg on the seat, a gargoyle in a hijacked crane.] Lynch.

Push it over, [push the fucking ferris wheel over,] or we can switch to cocktails. Your choice, honey. Whatever you want for dinner. Long as you don't get fat.