Jenny, I get it. You wanted to take me to the woodshed. You wanted to show me some "Chris Chaos" levels of smacktalk, but darlin', showing the insides of a diaper to anybody will never be impressive. You were going to slam the door shut, hold all the cards, shut the house down, or whatever basic pee-wee league football coaching speak you recognize.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

You can call me a whiner when I just went out and stole the show to prove myself. You can call me a primadona when you're the biggest primadona in this company's history, with the exception of your ex or Hanari Carnes, who will pat themselves on the back for some shit from half a decade ago while resting on them laurels like they had enough, and flat the fuck out...

Bobby slaps the back of his hand into his open palm.


You...

Bobby again slaps the back of his hand into his open palm.

Have...

Bobby repeats the motion, slapping the back of his hand into his open palm.

Had...

Once again, Bobby cracks his extended knuckles into his open palm.

Enough.

Bobby motions his hand across his throat, signalling it was time to chop the head off and end it.

Sorry, sorry, I got this.

Bobby repeats the throat slash motion, only across his own luxurious hairline.

I'm Bobby Bourbon. A Bastard. Tried and true. I want my scalps.

Bobby smirks.


And I will get my scalps.