Despite the constant nagging from Walker, Bob has never actually… Well… Done anything, if you pick up what I’m putting down.

So what does Mr. Walker do? Oh brother let’s get into it.

It all started when Bob was sitting on the couch, knees to his chest while watching a movie with the rest of the Thunderbolts*. God forbid the chest of a woman was showing for .03 seconds, he was covering his eyes like he was dealing with the damn Anti-Christ.

Sure, Walker and Bob got along now, not so much before. Walker knew he had to do something legit to Bob, so he was planning and planning on what to do.

That’s when an idea popped into Walkers head, and of course it was all at Bobs expense. Poor innocent Bob wasn’t ready for the flashbang of strobe lights, cheap smelling liquor and the smell of cash that hit him the second Walker brought him into some club.

It was kinda funny, Bobs eyes practically bugging out of his head in the most cartoonish way with his jaw practically dropped to the floor.

Walker had no ill intentions, he knew Bob would eventually relax the hell out and enjoy the show. He would ‘get over his nervousness in no time’, as Walker put it.

Wether that was true or not? Who knew.

“Look, Bob. Just sit back, enjoy the ladies and chill the actual hell out.” Walker spoke, getting himself a jack and coke.

Bob swallowed, his eyes darting around like he was in some sort of unworldly simulation of imense overwhelming power. “K-kay, but don’t you think—“

Walker held up his finger, stopping Bob from continuing. “Men don’t come here to think, so don’t think.”

“A-alright.” Bobs shaky voice carried, his big brown eyes looking around before landing on you. “Who’s… Who’s that?”

Bastard walker just smirked and sipped his jack and coke, staying silent.

Poor, poor little Bob.