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"What's wrong with you?"
"I want a pie." I swear--and I'm sure you can back me up on this from previous actions--I'm definitely like a kid at times. A giant pain-in-the-neck kid. Marv's not the only one.
The one who slapped my face imitates me in a childlike voice. "'I want a pie....'" He even sighs. "Would you listen to yourself? Grow up, for God's sake."
"I know."
"Well, that's the first step."
"Thanks."
"Now where were we, anyway?"
We all think.
Silently.
The Doorman walks in, looking guilty as all hell.
I s'pose a coffee's out of the question? he brings himself to ask me. The neck of him!
All I do is glare at him and he walks back out. He can tell he's in the bad books.
All three of us in the kitchen watch him make his exit.
"You can smell him coming, can't you?" one says.
"Damn right."
The slower eater of the two even stands up now and begins rinsing the plates in the sink.
"Forget it," I tell him.
"No, no--civilized, remember?"
"Oh yeah, that's right."
He claps his hands now and turns around. "Any sauce on my balaclava?"
"Not that I can see," replies the other. "What about me?"
He leans in and examines. "Nah, you're clean."
"Good." The slower eater wrestles with his own face a moment, saying, "Ah, this bloody shit thing. It's itchy as all get-out."
"Is that right, Keith?"
"Doesn't yours itch?"
"Of course it does!" Daryl can't believe he's having this discussion. "But you don't hear me complaining about it every five minutes, do you?"
"We've been here an hour."
"Even so, remember--these are the things we have to suffer for the greater good of..." He clicks his fingers over at me.
"Oh--mankind."
"That's right. Thanks, Ed. Lovely. Good work."
