"I have done it," Booth announced, removing his gloves and walking up to the bar.
"Huzzah!" Guiteau cheered. The rest of the Assassins offered similar sentiments in a half-hearted manner.
"Which? Shooting Lincoln or yourself?" Byck took a swig of his beer and smirked at Booth.
"Both," Booth glared and snarled.
"Whoop-de-doo."
Squeaky rolled her eyes, "Leave 'im alone, Byck. At least he succeeded."
"Says the whore that didn't even bring a loaded gun," Byck retorted.
Squeaky huffed, "Why, if Charlie heard you say that!"
"He'd probably laugh!"
Czolgosz groaned, "Charlie this. Charlie that. Do you ever talk of anything else?"
Moore, who was sitting next to Czolgosz, tipped her drink back and finished it off. "The people this, working man that, do i you /i ever talk of anything else?"
There was a click as Czolgosz cocked his gun. "Do you want to repeat that?"
The problem, Booth thought to himself as he stood, with his conspiracy, was that he was giving guns to a group of people with questionable sanity and sticking them in a room together. They went through fights like this at least three times every day. He fired his own weapon at the ceiling. "Knock it off. Behave. Et cetera. Zangara?"
Zangara groaned, face down in a puddle of luke-warm water.
"Zangara, wake up."
"I awake, I awake," Zangara sat up and blinked blearily at Booth.
Booth sat down again and grabbed his drink. "It's your turn."
"Yes." Zangara stood and stalked out of the room, clutching at his stomach. A silence fell about the room, as tended to happen when one of them left to do their job. Shooting the president wasn't a happy thing, especially when you failed. Wordlessly, the Assassins raised their glasses and took a drink, toasting to their respective prizes.
Just as silently, the Proprietor slipped out from behind the bar and cleaned the table Zangara had been sitting at.