In a deep alleyway of the Pittsburgh South District sat an old Irish pub.
The rainy night left business rather slow.
Leo sat in the innermost semi-circular booth.
On the table rested a glass of whiskey on the rocks, the ice slowly melting in the amber liquid.
He wore an ordinary dark jacket, looking like an exhausted worker who had just gotten off the night shift.
The accusations and suggestions from the council hall still echoed in his ears.
"Fight for military-industrial projects."
"Get the factories running."
He wondered if he really had to eat that blood-soaked meat just to survive.
Leo stared at the ice cubes in his glass.
"Mr. President, does the United States wage war simply because a few executives from Lockheed or Raytheon slipped politicians some checks in the corridors of the White House? For that little bit of money, do they dare send tens of thousands of people to the battlefield?
"If that's all it is, then it's far too stupid."
