cursing, racial slurs, LOL SL JACKSON SHENANIGANS

"Then why are you here?" White shakes a packet of cigarettes against his palm, tapping one out. His lighter flickers to life with just one snap of the flint, which agitates him so he snuffs the flame and breaks the cigarette over a napkin.

"Well Pink has the diamonds, don't he?"

"From what I've been told, yeah."

"You got the car?"

"I might."

Blonde clicks his tongue against his teeth like he's tasted something bitter. "Mr. Black isn't going to appreciate a 'might'."

"Oh, you working for this Mr. Black clown now, too?"

"Naw -- thank you darlin'," Blonde accepts his coffee with the same subdued grace as White, all P's and Q's and smiles, but goes right back to his deadpan drawl the minute the waitress is out of earshot. "I don't work for Black. Used to think I did, but..." He fingers the rim of the mug without drinking. "Nobody really works for the guy. Mr. Black has his job, and we --"

"We got ours. Thanks. Heard that already."

Blonde sucks at a tooth. Nods. He pulls the sunglasses off his nose, tucks them away in his jacket. Forces a polite smile. Closes his hands together under the table. "So where is he?"

White pulls his coffee away, extremely put upon that he's not allowed to just sit in peace and have a hot cup to himself. "Where's who?"

Blonde's grin sweetens. He wipes the table of imaginary crumbs, then sits back, reaches into his jacket as if to pull out a photo, or a gun. To White's surprise, though, he pulls open his shirt. Thumbs the buttons down to reveal ragged, bloodless holes in his torso. Great bruising down his chest and ribs, and little frothing bubbles peeking out with each new breath.

White leans back, glancing around the diner. Uncomfortable.

Blonde slams a hand on the table, gaining White's attention. "'Where's who'? Where's who -- where's the little ratfuck cop that did this? Huh?"

"Put that away, people are tryin' ta eat."

"Aw, fuck 'em. And fuck you too; you need to face some reality here, Mr. White. Orange shot me."

"I'da shot you myself, the minute you started murdering bystanders --"

Blonde holds up a hand, tucking his shirt back around himself with a dry chuckle. "No, no. No. If you'd have done anything, then you'd have gone ahead and done it. But you didn't. So I know you wouldn't have. See?" He begins to button.

"No. What I see is a psychopath what finally got what he deserved."

"Psycopaaath," Blonde slouches back, flapping a hand at the air between them. "Semantics. What we need to focus on now is getting our loot back. Do you have the car, or don't you?"

"It might be outside."

"What? You mean you don't know?"

"I mean I didn't take it to get here. Obviously."

Blonde bites his cheek, glances sideways at White like maybe his cuckoo fell out of its nest.

"It'll be there when I finish my coffee, or it won't. Worse case scenario, we take the bus."

"Worse case scenario, you lost Mr. Black's car." Mumbles over the edge of his coffee, "And he plucks your eyeballs right outta your head to fry 'em up with hotsauce."

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