RC downs the whiskey. Bows his head while he twirls the empty shot-glass in the fingers of his right hand. There is an occasional clink when the platinum skull ring he wears on his middle finger brushes the twirling glass.

His eyes are closed. Opens them. He looks up. The twirl becomes a toss—up and down in his hand. Pamela walks over. Snatches the glass in mid-air during one of his tosses.

“I’ve seen that look before, RC. You need to take that shit outside if you want to throw things like a little boy.”

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