Do we have any chlorine? It seems to be kind of explosive when mixed with other stuff." "Like what, your socks? No, we don't have chlorine. No swimming pool.

Why was the blind guy playing with matches, you ask? Because he's good at it. Anything to do with fire, igniting things, exploding things, things with fuses, wicks, accelerants . . . Iggy's your man. It's one of those good/bad things.

He gives my hand a tight squeeze, but that desperation, that urgency between us is gone. No insecurities. Max and Fang. Fang and Max. No longer a question. We just are.

What was premeditated murder if not calculated leverage?

It's so strange. Everything can be going alone just great, and then one day, whack, you're blindsided-- a lousy, crammy blow you didn't see coming.

I read some, and then visited with people involved in this curious, exciting and somewhat misunderstood sub-culture. I met with a fang maker, who offered to fit me for an exquisite pair.

People always remember the worst day of their lifes. It becomes a part of them forever.