A Sad Brew

"y'know 'e jus'be spoutin' bu'shit. mook says 'e ain't gonna 'urt no women and children. no one wants t'call 'im on wha' 'e didta michelle. you know if michelle be carryin' a black baby, chriso'd be firs' in line tryin' t'roast 'er on a spit."

tense fury marks the sad man's every word as he sulks in a darkened corner of a bar with jonesy. both men are heavily patched up with bandages, bruises and scabs.

"we know this crap wit'those freaks ain't over yet. not when they still be in the company."

"you don't need t'tell me twice 'bout them bein' dangerous," jonesy agreed as he sipped his drink. "man i can't wait to get this frickin' cast off. it itches like hell."

the sad man eyes jonesy grimacing as he downs his drink. clearly his friend is still in pain, but he insisted that the sad man take him somewhere that didn't have the smell of doctors and disinfectant. so here they are.

the united heavyweight champion takes a sip from his own mug, furiously recalling the freaks' actions, and how payback will be claimed from them.