He’s looking up at you from his seat, and he’s surprised, maybe—a little pissed at your audacity, too.

“‘Cuse me?” Demanding respect seems to be your greatest feat. Your words came sharp and swift like a snake’s bite and he jokes to himself; he imagines if you open your mouth wider, he might discover fangs. “Listen—“

Krueger raises a hand, skin smeared with dirt and grime, boots on the ground. “…Alright, barkeep. You win.”

Guess the stories are true; you’re a feisty little thing.