2:38 PM, Tuesday, The Strip

'I have one in the back. Two fifty.'

I'll wait here.

'Two fifty.'

Heard.

This asshole punk little shit with a faux hawk thinks pretty highly of himself, don't he now.

'Yeah here it is. You want it?'

Let me hold it.

'Jesus Christ you ain't never held one before? It's like all the rest.'

Let me hold it.

'Okay okay, here.'

Keep fucking off and I'll take it for free and use your skull as a goddamn tray for my after-dinner blow. Goddamn fucking punks.

One twenty-five.

'One twenty-five!? No, no I can't do that for you.'

One twenty-five.

'Listen. I'll do you, uh -- I'll do you two. S'low as I can get, buddy.'

One twenty-five.

'...Guy. I don't know who the fuck you think you are. And frankly, I do not give a fuck. You take this for two, you turn your fat ass around to the door, and you wobble yourself to the old goddamn folks home down the way. You got that?'

He's baring his teeth. 

...

He shouldn't bare his teeth like that.

'AY! YOU OLD FAT MOTHERFU---'

 ...
 
Jesus. Franky, clean that shit up.