Shaking his head in wonder, Bill stomped his way to one of the supply racks as the newcomer babbled. Gritting his teeth and half-ignoring Jack’s rambling, his eyes combed the labels on the shelving unit until he spotted the one marked for “bits”. The space was occupied by hose fittings, and Bill snarled, clearing the entire area of the shelf with a sweep of his massive left arm.

Grumbling, he gripped the precariously-balanced drill bit on his right shoulder and heaved it onto the shelf, then glanced around despondently at the work still to be done. Finally, he turned a baleful eye on Jack, then stomped back towards another piece of filthy machinery.

“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about,” the drill-hand growled. He gestured vaguely at the mess littering the tables, shelves, and floor of the storage area. “Look, man, I got this shit to deal with. All this talk of sluts an’ pockets an’ hen’s assholes… I ain’t got time for that. Whadaya want? If it ain’t drill gear, I prob’ly don’t have it, an’ if it [i]is[/i] drill gear, I ain’t sharin’.”

He turned away, muttering to himself.

“Got few enough pieces of serviceable equipment as it is, without loanin’ shit out. Few sluts might be nice though, not that I have time for them, either.”

Reaching for his rag, he abruptly turned to face Jack. “An’ who the hell are you, anyway? You one of the other crewmen? A driller or somethin’? Did they stick us with two crazies, insteada just the girl with the bomb fetish?”