"What does it look like, asshole?" he snarled. No love lost there, since Flint crawled up his ass in the 1980's trying to prove him guilty of a string of ugly murders that involved cannibalism, "Maybe you should ask the host instead of acting like this is your house and I broke in. Ever think of that or were you too busy whippin' it out to think it through, Whitey?" [i]Just like last time,[/i] went the unspoken added comment.

He relished calling the man 'Whitey.' It was so appropriate. One letter changed the whole texture of the conversation.

But what Tony really wanted to do was just rip the man's head off, and it was hard to count more reasons off in his head than he had fingers. His nostrils flared and took in the tobacco smoke, which was offensive and harsh -- of course the guy would smoke something that smelled like a lit fart. 

There were reasons, of course, not to start a fight in another being's home -- being a guest and behaving accordingly was a big deal with certain sets of supernatural. But then there were fuckers like Flint who didn't think they had to play along with the niceties, and perhaps that's why, unable to resist, Tony pointed out, "I can see why you'd be wary around werefolk, Whitey, I bet there's more than a few scores they want to settle, especially with the Court's cops. Guess that's karma comin' round real hard, looking for your ass. Shit, you protect anyone? Your place is the first place they're gonna tear up, boy. Right after this place," he added pointedly to Parael -- tick-tock.

At least getting that bit off his chest, smirking rather than snarling now, though suffused with malice that reached his eyes knowingly, seemed to stabilize his response a bit.