“That was closer,” one said, with his frosted moustache moving slowly over the steaming cup.
“Grads ran out, got to Kindjals,” the other replied matter-of-factly.
The blows and whistles from the other side started. Their deafening music sounded familiar to the bones.
“Our artillery.”
In silence, they counted the seconds between outs and ins.
“Go so smoothly today.”
“Like magic.”
“Yeah, Merry Christmas, morons. Santa sends you little gifts.”