"I'm just gonna say it. I dig your swagger, baby."

Benny pours a cup of wine to push it to your side of the bar. The dark liquid stirs with his thoughts. "You got the wasteland at your feet, and you move like it's a dance floor."

You share a lonesome company in the Tops' Presidential Suite. His nape itches when he looks at you, gaze on the iron holstered by your hip.

A cold sweat runs down his neck, lips strained in a smile masking his anxiety.

"… We're chums. Ain't that right, pussy-cat?"