Gift sense

"F. U.! F. U.!"

"You saying 'fuck you' to me? Why, you stupid punk…"

Valentine's anger rose to the surface like the lava in a volcano. Why someone cursing him bothered him more than having his balls squeezed, he didn't know. He brought his knee up into Al's jaw and sent him into dreamland.

Valentine laid him out in a stall, then rifled his pockets. A few hundred bucks and an empty inhaler. Typical.

Back in the bar, he found Mike standing stiffly at his post. Al's screaming had put the fear of God into him, and his upper lip was sweating BBs. Valentine slipped onto his former stool, pleased to see a fresh Diet Coke awaiting him, sans a frothy head. He raised the plastic mug to his lips and took a healthy swallow.

"Where's Muscles?" Mike asked.

"Napping," Valentine said.

He finished the soda and reached for his wallet.

"On the house," Mike said.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Valentine said.