“Fragile little flower, aren’t you?”
Excuse me?
“One little cancer and you lay down and die. I beat cancer more times than Joe Jackson beat Tito. I beat cancer three times while I was taking a shit this morning.”
Really?
“I forgot my phone. Had nothing to do.”
Sure.
“We tell disease to go fuck itself. You know I had Lou Gehrig’s for two weeks in 1992?”
You did? What happened.
“I told Lou to fuck himself! Weren’t you listening to me?”
Sorry.
“Pay attention, you little creep.”
I said I was sorry.
“Don’t cower. You leave your warm bed in the cold, dark dawn. You dress by feel. Your rifle is already loaded, and you can sling it over your shoulder without waking your family, and you go to the ancient wood. You go to the ancient wood with your rifle and find the disease and shoot the motherfucker right between the eyes. That’s what you do. Don’t you fucking cower.”
Yeah, okay.
“And get back to the jokes, dirtdick. No one wants to hear you whine.”
You’re probably right. What’s in the briefcase?
“Bottle of Beaujolais, half-an-ounce of Merck coke, and a couple X-Man comics.”
Cool.
Thats right! Listen to Phil for once.
Awesome.
So the briefcases were standard issue. Noted.