Mad Dog’s face twisted.
Did his fits flare up again?
“Why are you cussing in someone’s face like that? You classless bastard.”
“I dunno. I just suddenly feel really, really shitty. Filthy, sticky, gross.”
Santa Monica, California, USA.
Two men sat under a beachside patio umbrella.
The Latin man with white dreadlocks—Mad Dog—snapped, nerves exposed.
“What gives me the creeps more is you, asshole. Always talking about stuff only you know. All meaningful and shady—makes you look like a real rotten bastard.”
“Oh, come now, Mad Dog. We are rotten bastards. You didn’t know yet? Poor thing.”
Kido sipped grapefruit juice as he spoke.
With sunglasses and a bucket hat, only his annoying mouth was visible.
Mad Dog, fuming, chugged his own juice. In true roughneck fashion, it was a manly strawberry juice.
“There are kinds of rotten, and you… you! You look goddamn vile and sneaky!”
“Too much. That hurts, bro.”
“Don’t act hurt, you damned prick! You’ll make me feel bad!”
“Shh. Call. I have to take this one.”
Kido grinned and tilted his screen toward him.
[Caller: Child]
“Great, that gross…