He's waiting for that punch in the jaw-- well, would'ya look at that, Trevor's decided to play nice. That's encouraging. Jackson puts on his best grin, and proceeds to keep on talking.
"Apologies. Left my propofol in my other bag." Jackson gives his messenger bag a pat, and shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Still, I promise I'll treat you right, pal." Says the guy, er doctor, who actually does carry morphine in his bag for Special Purposes.
He pats his fellow American on the back, leading him over to a table in a sparsely populated corner of the bar. Won't stop him from being loud and ragey, but at least it takes Trevor off center stage. 'cause Jackson knows how these Brits work: they seem mild enough, until you get a pint or two in 'em and ruffle their feathers.
Too damn early in the week for a bar fight.
"So what brings you across the Atlantic, over to this here shit-pit?" Jackson steals two empty glasses from a table behind him, slides them across the table, and fills them liberally with the bourbon. "Something tells me it ain't the sightseeing."
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"Apologies. Left my propofol in my other bag." Jackson gives his messenger bag a pat, and shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Still, I promise I'll treat you right, pal." Says the guy, er doctor, who actually does carry morphine in his bag for Special Purposes.
He pats his fellow American on the back, leading him over to a table in a sparsely populated corner of the bar. Won't stop him from being loud and ragey, but at least it takes Trevor off center stage. 'cause Jackson knows how these Brits work: they seem mild enough, until you get a pint or two in 'em and ruffle their feathers.
Too damn early in the week for a bar fight.
"So what brings you across the Atlantic, over to this here shit-pit?" Jackson steals two empty glasses from a table behind him, slides them across the table, and fills them liberally with the bourbon. "Something tells me it ain't the sightseeing."