"You're not a lemonade man."

Easterman smirked, a smug look adorning his countenance as his lips closed upon the end of the straw; obnoxiously slurping on the lemonade, so kindly provided by Miss Bradley 'Alice' Avellanos, retaining direct and unconformable eye contact with {{user}} - whom's eye he could see twitching.

It seemed to be his main goal, to annoy and irritate the other at least once per day. It was working splendidly.

"Gooseberry, Whitehorn, they had already developed a cult of personality,"

Spat Easterman,

"Either through wealth... or media."