Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Jan 30, 2017 21:14:44 GMT -5
If you really take a step back and watch people, you'll be very surprised at what you see in every aspect of them. But more importantly, what conditions they find soothing and aesthetic once you really boil down their surroundings and actions. The people now in question sit in dimly lit rooms, usually with one, or no windows at all. Whatever light seeps in from the outside is dimmed even slighter by the taint of the glass, casting a dull natural light over the hardwood, cigarette stained countertops, illuminating an alarming amount of dust floating about. A ragged cough from one man, a heavy smoker who probably has only a few years left of life, only causes pause from his flat tap beer long enough to wipe spittle from his lips. Another, seated further down the bar, was a disheveled man in his forties with a resting face of depression and wearing a Bills windbreaker from the 80s, staring blankly at his whiskey on the rocks, questioning his life choices. Truth be told, he was facing the worst crisis of his life; a nasty divorce is taking his house, money, car, and children. Drowning himself in his sullen sorrow in the dingy Le Cage, one of the more notorious local watering holes in Lewiston, Maine, seemed like the only acceptable choice.
The other half dozen patrons were much of the same; all with bad stories, worse memories, and an unquenchable thirst. Would they go to church and beg forgiveness for their sins? Maybe seek a new hobby or new friends, or could they possibly join a support group with a well dressed mediator with a colorful, outgoing, optimistic approach on life? No. These men were losers, and the strangest thing is that any place that could bring them happiness, they wanted no part of. This smelly, dirty, dank bar was the only place they could find any acceptable happiness, and that was the sad truth of things. They'd sit there until the day they died or until their money as no longer good for a stiff drink.
As always, there are exceptions to the rule. Some very successful men and women have made their fortune dining and drinking in such establisments, embracing the roughcut and barely clean way of life, drowning in alcohol and substance abuse but still finding their niche in the world. Raol Duke comes to mind almost right away; that man did it right. And in the same vein as Raol Duke but in vastly different approaches to find their success was the only man in La Cage that day that didn't wear a perma-frown was Whitey Ford.
The ever eccentric "asshole" was bobbing his head to the CCR that played from the jukebox, not as loud as he would have liked, but it WAS 3 in the afternoon, after all. The other alcoholics came there for quiet, not to party. Ford didn't really give a rats ass, though, and continued to pump money in the machine. He sported a simple brown flannel jacket and a bright white baseball cap that stated "COCAINE"in bold black letters on the front. That type of obnoxious attire really made his day.
Turning on his heel, Whitey danced with himself all the way back to his barstool, taking his place in the center of the bar. Reclaiming his Long Island Iced Tea as if reconnecting with a loved one, Ford sought out the straw and drew in half of the beverage in a few gulps. He took a sidelong glance at the man in the windbreaker, and craned his neck around to give a chastising look at an obese man sitting in the back of the bar, nursing a PBR. "Get a load of these sad saps, Fish. It's almost as if they think your drinks are weak!"
Whitey was addressing the bartender, a short man with a small frame, with long groomed black sideburns and one of those funny little frenchman caps. He was the perfect stereotypical bartender, wiping down the bar with a wet white rag, as they always seem to be doing. "Maybe they're not all millionaires. Maybe they have to go home to the families they hate in an hour or so. Maybe they don't get to leave back to South Carolina to live the rock star life." Fish shrugged. "I think you're an idiot. You should be fuming. You WOULD be fuming, if this was the Whitey I knew three years ago."
Ford whipped his head back around and gave him a warning glance and a point of an index finger. "Why should I be fuming? I'm a millionaire. I don't have a family to hate, and I WILL be going back to PCWland to fight one of the three who fucked up my house while I took a break."
Fish was an old friend of Whitey, who was no stranger to La Cage, but he still had to walk on eggshells from time to time, although not nearly as often as anybody else. "Well, do you want me to be frank?"
"I want you to be Fish and make me another drink, then say what's on your mind. Tell me. Tell me why I should be angry." Ford slid the now empty drink to his bartender, who scooped it up off the bar before it stopped moving, dipping it into the ice bin.
"Well, let's just use basic fuckin' logic here, sir, Mr. Ford, sir." He spoke in a mocking tone. "You came back into the PCW atmosphere with big promises to make big changes, but what have you done? You've let Seromine ruin your match with Eira--"
"I was going to win that one!"
"You got a double countout DQ to the World Champion, who--"
"I was going to win that one too!"
"I have no doubt. I don't think there's anyone in the world that you can't beat, you know that. I'd say don't let it get to your head but you're already an arrogant prick." Fish set the fresh Long Island on a coaster in front of the former World Champion. "But you didn't. And now you get to fight Grimm, the CONTENDER for the title."
Whitey lifted the drink gingerly by the top of the glass with his index finger and thumb, and with his free hand picked up the coaster only to frisbee it at the face of the man in the windbreaker. Either too depressed to react or too afraid, the man just let the coaster bounce off his cheek and land on the floor. Whitey gave a cackle of approval. "What's your point? I don't see what you're getting at."
"You WERE going to win both of those matches. But you didn't. Now you're 0-2 in your return against two of PCW's top talents, and now you're going into the third bout, thinking you have nothing to worry about. You have no momentum!"
"Momentum?" Ford tapped a finger to his temple. "You're a lowly bartender, I'm the millionaire wrestling legend. I'm smarter than you."
"This lowly bartener can cut you off." He snatched the drink from Whitey's precarious grasp, setting it behind the bar.
"Then you'd be a lowly bartender with no teeth and one sideburn." The two shared a long stare, neither wanting to back down right away. Fish relented, as always, and slid the drink back to his best paying customer. "But I'm going to enlighten you, Fish. I'm going to tell you why I'm NOT worried about facing Grimm. I don't think anyone really grasps just what I mean when I say I'm going to save PCW. There are some things that people aren't understanding correctly."
Ford leaned back in his barstool, letting it balance on the back legs, tempting the old stool to break and embarass him. "Eira. Held my own against Seromine and his fucking horde, and Dan Fierce. I showed them that I'm not a pushover, and reminded them who the fuck I am. Eira...did not beat me. Dan Fierce...COULD NOT beat me, I had his number and that colorful little fellow knew it. Two of PCW's best, right off the bat, and they couldn't take me down. So I'm being rewarded. I came back to not only set things right in PCW, but to get revenge on the Black fucking Hand. Now I know their not a presence anymore, but I have an assumption that if I can beat the shit out of Grimm not just at Trauma, but again after that, and again after that, so on and so fucking forth, I'll not only send a message but hopefully call out the big dog: Sadistic."
By now his voice was starting to grow in inflection, and the other patrons durned their dull eyes and duller minds to regard Whitey, and he noticed it. His voice raised a bit more. "I KNOW, what I'm doing. The road to conquest and doing what's right means I can't just run in, guns blazing and exacting my vengeance. I proved a point to two people who...well, one person, who could be a valuable ally when I really get into the thick of things. I think Eira is always going to hate me, and I can't say I blame her. But the match with her, the match with Dan...I sent a message. I played by their rules and I fucking hung in there, and god damn you straight to whatever hell you wish if you don't believe I would have won those matches."
"Looked like you ran away from Dan Fierce, though." The man in the windbreaker spoke abrubtly, and immediatly lowered his head, eyes winced as if he was in pain. Maybe it was preemptive to the strike that was bound to come.
There was no shocked silence, no awkward tense moment, only Fish giving a loud wordless bark. It was all he had time to do; Whitey closed the gap between him and windbreaker in a matter of half a second, his nose almost touching his antagonists cheek, getting as close as he could without getting violent. When he spoke, his words were molent lava, their intent matching his eyes which could almost be seen glowing red. "Phil, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fuck your daughter. I don't care if she's only 17, I'm going to go to your house...no, YOUR WIFE'S house and knock on the door, give her a crippling cocaine addiction for the 3 months until she's 18, then I'm going to...fuck...her. Then I'm going to burn down your house and kill your dog with a fucking rock, I'm going to go down to your third shift job and make you get drunk in the parking lot, THEN make you go inside and cause thousands of dollars of damage and get you fired and hopefully put in jail for manslaughter if anyone gets hurt. I will do all of these things, Phil."
Now for the shocked silence. Now for the awkward moment. Phil didn't move, and anyone could see he was on the verge of tears of rage and fear. Whitey's voice dropped to just above a whisper, for all the onlookers to hear. "Why would I do that to you, Phil? I've known you for twenty years. I don't care if you thought I was running, you're a fucking failure. Say what you want to me, that's what I say...if you're actually a man. But you're NOT a man, Phil. I will do all of these things if you ever speak to me again, or if you ever..." Ford jumped at his prey, headbutting him in the temple but not to cause damage, but only to sow more seeds of fear. "...TOUCH...YOUR WIFE...AGAIN. People send me letters, asshole, I know you hit her. That's why she's taking all you got, you useless piece of shit. Here's something you didn't know; I paid for her fucking lawyer!"
"Any man who hits his wife out of anger doesn't get to speak out against better men like me. You're a piece of shit. Get the fuck out of my bar." Ford grabbed Phil by his shoddy windbreaker and hefted him off the barstool, giving him a shove towards the door. The latter gave no argument and exited the bar with haste. No man spoke...besides Fish. The patient barkeep gave a nod and gathered Phil's abandoned whiskey drink. Ford stopped him, taking the half full glass from his hands and sending it down his throat, still shaking out of anger.
"Savior of PCW, huh? Phi's a real piece of shit, Ford, but you just threatened to fuck a child." Phil went about cleaning the glass, shaking his head in dissapointment.
"Fuck you. Now I'm a bit...heated. That's what I was talking about, right there, what you said." Ford reclaimed his seat. "I'm not going to do that. Well, I might burn down his house and shit but his dog and daughter are safe. He's a bad man, Fish. He needed to be scared. I would have killed him on the spot for speaking to me in the first place if I didn't already have two murder raps under my belt."
"Oh, and you're a good guy now, Mr. Savior?"
"Shut the fuck up! That's what people aren't getting, Fish. I'm NOT a good guy. I'm a bad guy too, but I know what I've done was for a reason; a bid at greatness. I can do whatever the fuck I want and sleep like a baby that night. When I walk into PCW now, though...when I walk anywhere, honestly...I see bad people, left and right. I see the good guys getting their asses kicked because they lack the ability to push past the moral validity of an action and just GO FOR IT." He leaned closer, voice dead serious. "I'm playing by their rules beceause I want to put fear in their hearts. I want them to understand that even at MY worst, I'm better than THEIR best. I'm going to go back to S.C. and I'm going to beat Grimm by playing by the 'good guys rules.' if I don't win, there'll be some bullshit that stops me but my message will be loud and clear. I'm the one who's going to save PCW."
Fish just shook his head, not quite sure if he bought Ford's story. "Why do you want to save PCW anyways? Why not dominate somewhere else?"
Whitey shrugged, and in a true show of practiced alcoholism, downed his Long Island in a few seconds flat. "Because I fucking want to. Because PCW is my home. And I don't like seeing my home turn to shit."
By now the jukebox had ran out of credits, so Ford threw his hands up to end the conversation and leapt off his stool, whirling around to stroll over to the machine. As he dug into his pocket to pull out a crumpled pile of ones...
Griiiiimmmmmmmmmm
...he stopped dead in his tracks. The fuck was that? Other patrons in the bar, who were already on edge after seeing Whitey toss out a friend of theres, a friend who they'd turned a blind eye to his obvious and glaring problem of beating women. Everyone waited for the sound again, but just when they were about to let their guard down...
GRIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Whitey whipped around towards the door, thinking that it must be someone entering through the creaky old wooden structure. But no one came, and Whitey steeled himself for a fight. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but if he's here... A figure came from behind Whitey then, and he was just barely able to catch the movement off a mirrored Budweiser plaque. He was in the back, playing pool! Is it just him, or...
"Gotcha, cocksucker!" Whitey fired with a back elbow, catching his would be assailer in the middle of the nose. Twisting around with a vengeance, Whitey drove a knee into the bony, frail frame of Grimm's chest, cocking back a haymaker punch to smash his nose as far back into his head as possible. He could almost already see the red stains dripping down his stupid beardless face...
Beardless face?
It was another patron, exiting the bathrooms and walking past the jukebox. Whitey lowered his fist and pulled the elderly man to his feet. His nose was bleeding profusely, and his knees were shaking, either from the blow to the face or the eighty something years inflicted on his body. The creaky hinge must of been that of the bathroom.
"Get out, Whitey! Just go, I'll smooth it over. Just...just fucking go, man." Fish cried from behind the bar, his face buried deep in his hands, already trying to figure out how many beers he'd have to bribe Whitey's latest victim with in exchange for his silence. Whitey chuckled sheepishly, slapped the old man on the shoulder, nodded his apology, then made for the door.
"Sir?" Whitey turned, and it was the man he had just assaulted, feebly waving a hand for Whitey to stop. Ford didn't make any sound, but waited to hear the reason for his halt. "Please don't fuck my daughter."
"Jesus christ, man." Whitey shook his head, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head as he pushed open the door, shielding his eyes against the now blinding sunlight. "People just don't fucking get it!"
The other half dozen patrons were much of the same; all with bad stories, worse memories, and an unquenchable thirst. Would they go to church and beg forgiveness for their sins? Maybe seek a new hobby or new friends, or could they possibly join a support group with a well dressed mediator with a colorful, outgoing, optimistic approach on life? No. These men were losers, and the strangest thing is that any place that could bring them happiness, they wanted no part of. This smelly, dirty, dank bar was the only place they could find any acceptable happiness, and that was the sad truth of things. They'd sit there until the day they died or until their money as no longer good for a stiff drink.
As always, there are exceptions to the rule. Some very successful men and women have made their fortune dining and drinking in such establisments, embracing the roughcut and barely clean way of life, drowning in alcohol and substance abuse but still finding their niche in the world. Raol Duke comes to mind almost right away; that man did it right. And in the same vein as Raol Duke but in vastly different approaches to find their success was the only man in La Cage that day that didn't wear a perma-frown was Whitey Ford.
The ever eccentric "asshole" was bobbing his head to the CCR that played from the jukebox, not as loud as he would have liked, but it WAS 3 in the afternoon, after all. The other alcoholics came there for quiet, not to party. Ford didn't really give a rats ass, though, and continued to pump money in the machine. He sported a simple brown flannel jacket and a bright white baseball cap that stated "COCAINE"in bold black letters on the front. That type of obnoxious attire really made his day.
Turning on his heel, Whitey danced with himself all the way back to his barstool, taking his place in the center of the bar. Reclaiming his Long Island Iced Tea as if reconnecting with a loved one, Ford sought out the straw and drew in half of the beverage in a few gulps. He took a sidelong glance at the man in the windbreaker, and craned his neck around to give a chastising look at an obese man sitting in the back of the bar, nursing a PBR. "Get a load of these sad saps, Fish. It's almost as if they think your drinks are weak!"
Whitey was addressing the bartender, a short man with a small frame, with long groomed black sideburns and one of those funny little frenchman caps. He was the perfect stereotypical bartender, wiping down the bar with a wet white rag, as they always seem to be doing. "Maybe they're not all millionaires. Maybe they have to go home to the families they hate in an hour or so. Maybe they don't get to leave back to South Carolina to live the rock star life." Fish shrugged. "I think you're an idiot. You should be fuming. You WOULD be fuming, if this was the Whitey I knew three years ago."
Ford whipped his head back around and gave him a warning glance and a point of an index finger. "Why should I be fuming? I'm a millionaire. I don't have a family to hate, and I WILL be going back to PCWland to fight one of the three who fucked up my house while I took a break."
Fish was an old friend of Whitey, who was no stranger to La Cage, but he still had to walk on eggshells from time to time, although not nearly as often as anybody else. "Well, do you want me to be frank?"
"I want you to be Fish and make me another drink, then say what's on your mind. Tell me. Tell me why I should be angry." Ford slid the now empty drink to his bartender, who scooped it up off the bar before it stopped moving, dipping it into the ice bin.
"Well, let's just use basic fuckin' logic here, sir, Mr. Ford, sir." He spoke in a mocking tone. "You came back into the PCW atmosphere with big promises to make big changes, but what have you done? You've let Seromine ruin your match with Eira--"
"I was going to win that one!"
"You got a double countout DQ to the World Champion, who--"
"I was going to win that one too!"
"I have no doubt. I don't think there's anyone in the world that you can't beat, you know that. I'd say don't let it get to your head but you're already an arrogant prick." Fish set the fresh Long Island on a coaster in front of the former World Champion. "But you didn't. And now you get to fight Grimm, the CONTENDER for the title."
Whitey lifted the drink gingerly by the top of the glass with his index finger and thumb, and with his free hand picked up the coaster only to frisbee it at the face of the man in the windbreaker. Either too depressed to react or too afraid, the man just let the coaster bounce off his cheek and land on the floor. Whitey gave a cackle of approval. "What's your point? I don't see what you're getting at."
"You WERE going to win both of those matches. But you didn't. Now you're 0-2 in your return against two of PCW's top talents, and now you're going into the third bout, thinking you have nothing to worry about. You have no momentum!"
"Momentum?" Ford tapped a finger to his temple. "You're a lowly bartender, I'm the millionaire wrestling legend. I'm smarter than you."
"This lowly bartener can cut you off." He snatched the drink from Whitey's precarious grasp, setting it behind the bar.
"Then you'd be a lowly bartender with no teeth and one sideburn." The two shared a long stare, neither wanting to back down right away. Fish relented, as always, and slid the drink back to his best paying customer. "But I'm going to enlighten you, Fish. I'm going to tell you why I'm NOT worried about facing Grimm. I don't think anyone really grasps just what I mean when I say I'm going to save PCW. There are some things that people aren't understanding correctly."
Ford leaned back in his barstool, letting it balance on the back legs, tempting the old stool to break and embarass him. "Eira. Held my own against Seromine and his fucking horde, and Dan Fierce. I showed them that I'm not a pushover, and reminded them who the fuck I am. Eira...did not beat me. Dan Fierce...COULD NOT beat me, I had his number and that colorful little fellow knew it. Two of PCW's best, right off the bat, and they couldn't take me down. So I'm being rewarded. I came back to not only set things right in PCW, but to get revenge on the Black fucking Hand. Now I know their not a presence anymore, but I have an assumption that if I can beat the shit out of Grimm not just at Trauma, but again after that, and again after that, so on and so fucking forth, I'll not only send a message but hopefully call out the big dog: Sadistic."
By now his voice was starting to grow in inflection, and the other patrons durned their dull eyes and duller minds to regard Whitey, and he noticed it. His voice raised a bit more. "I KNOW, what I'm doing. The road to conquest and doing what's right means I can't just run in, guns blazing and exacting my vengeance. I proved a point to two people who...well, one person, who could be a valuable ally when I really get into the thick of things. I think Eira is always going to hate me, and I can't say I blame her. But the match with her, the match with Dan...I sent a message. I played by their rules and I fucking hung in there, and god damn you straight to whatever hell you wish if you don't believe I would have won those matches."
"Looked like you ran away from Dan Fierce, though." The man in the windbreaker spoke abrubtly, and immediatly lowered his head, eyes winced as if he was in pain. Maybe it was preemptive to the strike that was bound to come.
There was no shocked silence, no awkward tense moment, only Fish giving a loud wordless bark. It was all he had time to do; Whitey closed the gap between him and windbreaker in a matter of half a second, his nose almost touching his antagonists cheek, getting as close as he could without getting violent. When he spoke, his words were molent lava, their intent matching his eyes which could almost be seen glowing red. "Phil, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fuck your daughter. I don't care if she's only 17, I'm going to go to your house...no, YOUR WIFE'S house and knock on the door, give her a crippling cocaine addiction for the 3 months until she's 18, then I'm going to...fuck...her. Then I'm going to burn down your house and kill your dog with a fucking rock, I'm going to go down to your third shift job and make you get drunk in the parking lot, THEN make you go inside and cause thousands of dollars of damage and get you fired and hopefully put in jail for manslaughter if anyone gets hurt. I will do all of these things, Phil."
Now for the shocked silence. Now for the awkward moment. Phil didn't move, and anyone could see he was on the verge of tears of rage and fear. Whitey's voice dropped to just above a whisper, for all the onlookers to hear. "Why would I do that to you, Phil? I've known you for twenty years. I don't care if you thought I was running, you're a fucking failure. Say what you want to me, that's what I say...if you're actually a man. But you're NOT a man, Phil. I will do all of these things if you ever speak to me again, or if you ever..." Ford jumped at his prey, headbutting him in the temple but not to cause damage, but only to sow more seeds of fear. "...TOUCH...YOUR WIFE...AGAIN. People send me letters, asshole, I know you hit her. That's why she's taking all you got, you useless piece of shit. Here's something you didn't know; I paid for her fucking lawyer!"
"Any man who hits his wife out of anger doesn't get to speak out against better men like me. You're a piece of shit. Get the fuck out of my bar." Ford grabbed Phil by his shoddy windbreaker and hefted him off the barstool, giving him a shove towards the door. The latter gave no argument and exited the bar with haste. No man spoke...besides Fish. The patient barkeep gave a nod and gathered Phil's abandoned whiskey drink. Ford stopped him, taking the half full glass from his hands and sending it down his throat, still shaking out of anger.
"Savior of PCW, huh? Phi's a real piece of shit, Ford, but you just threatened to fuck a child." Phil went about cleaning the glass, shaking his head in dissapointment.
"Fuck you. Now I'm a bit...heated. That's what I was talking about, right there, what you said." Ford reclaimed his seat. "I'm not going to do that. Well, I might burn down his house and shit but his dog and daughter are safe. He's a bad man, Fish. He needed to be scared. I would have killed him on the spot for speaking to me in the first place if I didn't already have two murder raps under my belt."
"Oh, and you're a good guy now, Mr. Savior?"
"Shut the fuck up! That's what people aren't getting, Fish. I'm NOT a good guy. I'm a bad guy too, but I know what I've done was for a reason; a bid at greatness. I can do whatever the fuck I want and sleep like a baby that night. When I walk into PCW now, though...when I walk anywhere, honestly...I see bad people, left and right. I see the good guys getting their asses kicked because they lack the ability to push past the moral validity of an action and just GO FOR IT." He leaned closer, voice dead serious. "I'm playing by their rules beceause I want to put fear in their hearts. I want them to understand that even at MY worst, I'm better than THEIR best. I'm going to go back to S.C. and I'm going to beat Grimm by playing by the 'good guys rules.' if I don't win, there'll be some bullshit that stops me but my message will be loud and clear. I'm the one who's going to save PCW."
Fish just shook his head, not quite sure if he bought Ford's story. "Why do you want to save PCW anyways? Why not dominate somewhere else?"
Whitey shrugged, and in a true show of practiced alcoholism, downed his Long Island in a few seconds flat. "Because I fucking want to. Because PCW is my home. And I don't like seeing my home turn to shit."
By now the jukebox had ran out of credits, so Ford threw his hands up to end the conversation and leapt off his stool, whirling around to stroll over to the machine. As he dug into his pocket to pull out a crumpled pile of ones...
Griiiiimmmmmmmmmm
...he stopped dead in his tracks. The fuck was that? Other patrons in the bar, who were already on edge after seeing Whitey toss out a friend of theres, a friend who they'd turned a blind eye to his obvious and glaring problem of beating women. Everyone waited for the sound again, but just when they were about to let their guard down...
GRIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Whitey whipped around towards the door, thinking that it must be someone entering through the creaky old wooden structure. But no one came, and Whitey steeled himself for a fight. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but if he's here... A figure came from behind Whitey then, and he was just barely able to catch the movement off a mirrored Budweiser plaque. He was in the back, playing pool! Is it just him, or...
"Gotcha, cocksucker!" Whitey fired with a back elbow, catching his would be assailer in the middle of the nose. Twisting around with a vengeance, Whitey drove a knee into the bony, frail frame of Grimm's chest, cocking back a haymaker punch to smash his nose as far back into his head as possible. He could almost already see the red stains dripping down his stupid beardless face...
Beardless face?
It was another patron, exiting the bathrooms and walking past the jukebox. Whitey lowered his fist and pulled the elderly man to his feet. His nose was bleeding profusely, and his knees were shaking, either from the blow to the face or the eighty something years inflicted on his body. The creaky hinge must of been that of the bathroom.
"Get out, Whitey! Just go, I'll smooth it over. Just...just fucking go, man." Fish cried from behind the bar, his face buried deep in his hands, already trying to figure out how many beers he'd have to bribe Whitey's latest victim with in exchange for his silence. Whitey chuckled sheepishly, slapped the old man on the shoulder, nodded his apology, then made for the door.
"Sir?" Whitey turned, and it was the man he had just assaulted, feebly waving a hand for Whitey to stop. Ford didn't make any sound, but waited to hear the reason for his halt. "Please don't fuck my daughter."
"Jesus christ, man." Whitey shook his head, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head as he pushed open the door, shielding his eyes against the now blinding sunlight. "People just don't fucking get it!"
