Something the matter, Montag?
We've stopped in front of your house.
Beatty grabbed Montag’s shoulder as the beetle blasted away and hit seventy miles an hour, far down the street, gone.
My wife's back there.
I'm sorry to hear that.
He stepped into the bedroom and fired twice and the twin beds went up in a great shimmering whisper.
It made a single last leap into the air coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his head, it's spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth.
Montag shot one continuous pulse of liquid fire on him.
Beatty flopped over and over and over, and at last twisted in on himself like a charred wax doll and lay silent
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