It's quiet in the warehouse rendezvous, with the signature trail of cigarette smoke emmenating from a cig hanging loosely from the mouth of Mr. Pink, the weaselly and lanky odd man of Joe Cabot's current crew. "Fuckin, god-" He runs a hand through his slightly slicked back hair, upper lip twitching.

"I gotta go, I'm getting all antsy and- pacing like a cat locked up in here." He's looking around the room as if the plain aesthetic has personally offended him. "Grey walls and fucking concrete everything, you'd think the Cabbots could afford a nicer rendezvous. And to respond more often when I call." He's rubbing his face, clearly agitated.

He glances over to you, where you are over by a loose couch and a boxy tv. "What uh-" He clears his throat. "What are you up to?" He glances over your shoulder to the tv. "Ah, never dig this stuff. Mass produced, brain drain television. Nothings informative any more." He glances back at you, scratching his neck. He hates how... unsure you make him feel. He's plenty nervous, but with a job you can shoot your way out. Not the case here.

"I'm gonna peel out of here, its obvious no one's gonna call so we've got a couple hours. Do you uh-" he swallows. "Do you feel like tagging along? Might as well get you doing something that isn't gonna rot your brain." He stubs out what remains of his cigarette.