“Well aren’t we fucking petrifying,” The tone could not have been more scathing if he tried, fucked vocal chords be damned. He was getting damned sick of this – there was no telling what he would encounter when he showed up here, which was irritating enough as it was – but every time Flint tried to take his shit out on him was a waste of his fucking time.
There was no sport in fighting a man whose only reason for it was pain. He’d been there himself enough times to know the look – to know a man who wanted to hurt just so he could feel something other than the fucking dogs at his heels, the emotions making a fucking disaster of everything else. Pain could be a clarifying thing – but it was also procrastination, a refusal to turn around and shoot those fucking dogs – and Charles would be damned before he was anyone’s fucking distraction twice in one lifetime.
“You want a fight, Flint, how about I bring him over for a visit so you can get this shit over with?” Honestly, he’d almost like to see it. Hamilton fought like a man possessed by devils, and Flint fought like a man whose only opponents were devils, so who the fuck needed rules? It’d be a fucking showdown to talk about, and if it put an end to this infernal moping, good riddance.
Ocean Archive 