Trevor's just so pleased with himself and his incredibly clever comment about the drink and the shit, he doesn't see it coming. Not that he... would in the first place. It becomes painfully (literally) obvious that this short fuck is of the supernatural persuasion.

Trevor's essentially slammed to the floor, his entire face exploding from the punch to the jaw and-- is it broken? Ain't like he hasn't had one of those before. But no, he can move it, just-- maybe a molar's loose now. Ah well. Didn't like that one anyway.

He spits out blood, looks up at the-- short fuck-- again, squinting. Pointing.

"You-- think you're-- fuckin' better than me..." Yeah. He can really feel that whiskey now.