The air in the dimly lit room was thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of stale beer. Empty takeout containers littered a scarred wooden table. At its head sat Big King, a hulking man whose bald head gleamed under the single bare bulb, a jagged scar pulling at the corner of his left eye. He slammed a massive fist onto the table, making the cheap plastic cups rattle.
"Fuck that kid!" he roared, his voice a gravelly rumble that filled the small space. "He said he'd pay us in a week. Now what the fuck is this?!"
Brick, the tallest of the thugs, stood nervously before him, shifting his weight. "Boss, that Ethan… Jeremy said didn't pay us. We went to the gym like you said, but the kid wouldn't cough it up."
Big King's good eye narrowed, fixed on Brick. "He wouldn't pay? What, did he think this was a charity, huh? We're not running a charity!" He leaned forward, his knuckles white. "You telling me you let some high school punk walk all over you?"
