"...and in the downtown area, a rash of fires has burned down three of the five houses on North Poplar Street. Officials are remaining tight-lipped for now, but an unnamed source has confided that the fires may have been purposefully set. Locals suspect a long-dormant group called the Arsons, responsible for the buring of over twenty houses and a subsequent shooting in the uptown area nearly twenty-two years ago, resulting in fifteen civilian deaths and the imprisonment of their leader.
In other news, the city council..." The television blared out into the silence of the Roadhouse until one of the patrons grabbed the remote from the bar and turned it off.
"Do you think it's really them?" a scraggly looking man asked, sipping on his beer.
"Well," replied another, tall and sturdy, "They have been growing in numbers lately. I remember just yesterday seeing a group of eight or nine of them skulking around the abandoned factory near the border. Yellow headbands and all."
A collective murmur rose from the tightly huddled group, five of them crowding around the same table: "Eight? They usually come in twos!", "I heard they have a new leader...", "What do you think they're planning?". Above the chattering rose the tall man's voice, silencing the rest.
"Winchester!" he called to one of the bartenders. "You think your old man would be up for looking into this with me?"
The young man looked up at the sound of his name. "'course," he said, taking a sip of beer. "Anything to get back at those sons of bitches."
(I seem to do this a lot on my first chapters, but I'm sorry this is so short)