Scabior’s had one walk-in—a giggly eighteen year-old girl
who’d wanted a cartoon Jessica Rabbit and some Taylor Swift lyrics tattooed on
the middle of her lower back, tomatch her boyfriend’s, she’d said, which,
what—and one appointment with
Dolohov, who had a shit-load of
terrifying disposable-pen prison ink to cover up.
And since Dolohov had left a little after nine to go get
drunk with his shady stoner parole officer at a fancy interdepartmental
softball game—and again, like, what—Scabior
had been all by his lonesome for almost three
And he’s fucking bored, right?
He’s bored, and
he’s antsy, and he’s super tempted to just close early and go
get hammered with the cooler half of the glorified Justice League—