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Have it ready and willing to be taken directly off her tongue?

Fuckme.

That thing has a CE rating all on its own.

Otherworldly shit.

I don’t think even the Greek Myths could handle the thought of its existence.

“Careful with that,” complains Harry on an overheated cough, attention now dedicated to the clipboard he’s death gripping. “That crate contains artwork more valuable than you.”

The shorter, sandy shaded male helping maneuver the transported items over to the waiting moving truck rolls his eyes and murmurs something.

Dude’s probably cussing him out.

No one likes Harry.

Then again, Harry’s not exactly likeable.

Punchable?

All days of the year.

Pleasant to be in the presence of?

Less than the handful allowed by the city for turkey hunting season.

“Rugrats,” Kegger calls out to the two guys waiting near the truck, “go ahead and start taking our inventory inside and make sure our store’s actual inventory matches what we said has been received.” He kicks his chin to the boxes that need relocation. “Make Dock’s job easier for the morning, or he’ll make your lives harder tomorrow night.”

Unlikely.

Giving Rugrats hell isn’t really my style.

I’m all for paying your dues, but that power trip shit ain’t me.

Or really…any of us.

Or our club.

But Kegger gets a kick out of pretending.

“Ooo! Ooo!” Harry practically tap dances in place. “That one is glass!” He scolds the Rugrat in charge of opening the containers. “Glass!” Unnecessary reiteration is accompanied by him leaning towards the young recruit’s face. “Glass that is older than you.”

Like that’s hard?

New body’s basically twelve.

Actually eighteen.

He put his name in to be a possible Misfit the literal day he turned eighteen.

Men in this town wanna be us.

Women in this town wanna fuck us.

Best of both worlds.

I guess.