“Spill it” I said.
The stranger turned his head and smilied. Not a real smile; doubt he’d smilied in years. But one of those cocksure smiles a man gets when he’s seen to much to live and drank to much to care.
“Alright. I’ll tell you.”
He sat back in his chair. His trenchcoat was pulling on the front of his body tightly, and ‘e was of a decent build. Of coarse, no one heavier then a mouse was alive anymor’, but he he still had a certain muscularity to ‘im.
“I’m a PI. After the shit started 10 years back, rules don’t matter much to people. Just want to survive. Now that those undead shitcocks are gone and that little antidote spread in the water people have a hard time ajusting back to civilization. But you asked about why I hate news men, right?"
He shifted his weight in his chair ever so slightly. Pushing his fedora back a tad, he threw me that same cocksure smile. He was prob’ly so drunk that night he saw four-a me.
“Buy me a drink first sailor?”
He laughed; a cocksure laugh for a cocksure smile.
I ordered.