Only a PG-13 rating because of strong language. Be advised, and enjoy!
The human body --- a road map of how a soul has lived. Some display themselves with peak physical shape, while others are left to sag with time. Some may choose to adorn their skin with ink, while others leave a clean slate. So what does the condition of one's body really tell a person? It can show how they lived, but how are we to differentiate the markings inflicted by the occupying soul, from those dispensed by others?
"We're not getting anything done here," Pete whined, hoping to make an impact on his equally miserable peers.
Ant looked up from the window, cautiously eyeing the semi inebriated man.
"We were supposed to come up with a plan," Pete began to shout through his slurring speech, "but instead, you jackasses get me drunk!"
"We're not the one's who suggested the 'BYOB' policy," Danny shouted from across the room.
"Shut your rat... ass... fudger face," Pete's attempted a comeback caused quiet a disturbance through the men.
A wave of laughter wiped over the small crowd, making their already red faces slightly brighter.
Ant sighed as he watched his belligerent cohort’s chuckle at the mildly humoring acts of a drunken moron. He would have spoken up, but he had nothing of importance to say.
"Hey, how..." Alex wobbled as he tried to stand, "How about Packo's on fifth? Packo is loaded, and the old man couldn't lift a sling shot even if you propped his arms up."
A devilish smile wiped across Pete's face.
"Packo's off limits," Ant spoke up without turning his attention away from the window.
The group turned their attention to the man sitting near the darkened glass. His deep hazel eyes sat still, staring at the downpour that surrounded their meeting place.
"And why is that?" Pete finally shouted.
"If you morons were smart enough to actually survey the neighborhood, you would know Packo hired muscle, and a lot of it," Ant continued to watch as the rain pelted the ground outside the building.
It seemed as if Pete made it over to Ant's side at an inhuman speed. The man stood, and wobbled, as he growled at his peer. Ant may have been the brains of the group, but Pete was the leader, and no one would be able to get away with the heinous act of talking back like Ant had to Pete.
The drunken man grabbed for the hood on Ant's dark sweatshirt. He pulled the seated man up, and flipped him, making their eyes meet. Pete's bourbon soaked breath tickled Ant's nostrils, giving him the greatest urge to sneeze. He held it back, but almost unsuccessfully. His eyes began to water, causing a pleased chortle to escape Pete's lips.
"You afraid of what I might do to you, wimp?" Pete growled through his teeth.
Playing dumb, Ant shook his head. He wasn't afraid of what the imbecile might do; he just wanted to get his horrid face out of his own.
"Come on, Pete, show the kid some mercy," a voice called out.
Pete turned, and with him holding Ant by the shoulder, Ant was forced to look as well. Pete eyed the man, seated just about ten feet from him. Like Ant, this man was actually sober, not letting a drop of alcohol touch his lips. A grim look was plastered on his face. This guy was brave, especially because he was the most junior in the group, only following along for about the past two weeks.
While Ant hadn't been there much longer, he generally had the common sense to keep his mouth shut. Pete was likely to get physical with any one who talked back to him, especially if he was drunk, like he had been that night. Ant didn't even bother to learn this new guy's name, and by the look on Pete's face, neither had he.
