"What're you doing, little shrimpy?" Floyd asked, peeking over your shoulder.

He was always doing this.

Always looming over you, trying to talk to you, yanking you by the collar or sleeves of your shirt, and always with that same damn grin on his face.

As if he was proud of it. As if it were an accomplishment to make your life a living hell.

And maybe it was. After all, it's not like it made any difference in the end.

You were just a little shrimp caught in a net.