The ginger executive presses the leather heel of his shoe into your chest, pressing it in close contact with your shirted pecs. You feel like you're about to be crushed as he kneels down and places more weight on you, adjusting the gravity while baring his clenched jaw and pointy fangs.

“Please!” You manage to cry out in a delayed, gasped breath as the ginger's shoe grinds into your chest.

“To hell with you, drunkard.”

He pauses, briefly trying to understand your inebriated sneers.