HELL IS CHROME

She was driving to the town because of the weapons, the shiny new ones that rolled off the line in happy little dollops of steel and brushed aluminium. Her fathers warnings were forever in her ears, and she had to explain to him, silently, inside her own head, that she didn't want to use them, just look at them. Her father had his own rich and oft-rewarded history of killing people on wide open beaches and the thick canopies of jungles, and despite this, or perhaps because of it, he always kept any violence at a long arm's length from his children. She just liked the heavy rich feeling. Holding chaos in her four fingers. And she almost felt it now, driving the wide roads with the fir trees towering at each side of her, funnelling her quickly through the white-grey day.