The conversation, as far as I can remember, went like this:
"40 acres firebombed," the pustule infested swine said, almost bouncing with enthusiasm as if he could feel joy. "Now we just drop down the facility and away you all go."
I glared at him.
"Well," he admitted with a grin and a wink, like a con man or a gameshow host stage whispering details about the 'big deal' or the 'chance of a life time', "We had to nuke it on top of the firebombing to keep it contained, you know? The radiation'll probably give you cancer, but it's not like you'll live to appreciate it."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I loathe you. I love to see you suffer. And in any case, nobody'll believe you, even if your thoughts don't kill you first."
As far as I can remember that's what he said.
But I can't be sure.