When Parael cracked the door, Tony could smell the silver, a lot of it, "Watch that shit, this muthafucka's loading a lot of silver." And he didn't smell v-juiced or like a thrall, "Whoever that is, they brought a fuckin' hunter." He reached for an AK, mostly because it was a better option than charging a hunter. Flint had the right idea -- that guy was loaded for goddamn werebear. Well, it was sort of like wearing a headband that said, "Allah Jihad!" and wearing a slightly bulging vest and walking into kosher pizzeria in Solomon Village, the Jewish part of town, or carrying a sign that says, "God Hates Baby Killers" and waving a shotgun in the parking lot of an abortion clinic.

Silver and werecreatures.

To be sure, Tony understood that mortals might have good and legitimate reasons to kill werecreatures, especially when they started to go on a rampage in built up areas, and, in a sense, he understood why when Nemsemet had a lot of weres on his side of the divide, this guy might come packing sterling silver double ought. 

But you couldn't stop that visceral emotion of [i]fuck that guy.[/i]

Tony tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, "Real careful, here Whitey. This guy's got the drop on us and he's packing a lot of shit." 

Sense of smell again, Tony had a good nose and he was wiser than a lot of weres; on the ball about things regarding modern weapons. But on the other hand, he was worried; some dude that thought he was hunting the fuckin' monsters running amock like the Terminator -- contrary to Parael's assessment, Tony was actually up on things like movies, music, cars and the current men's fashion (though even as a brotha, he wasn't nearly as flamboyant as Parael, but purple shirts were doable in this social circle, as were three piece suits and double vents) and this guy could be one of the calmer types or he could be one of the crazy whacko "Kill the witches!" good ole boys. The nose didn't tell you everything, after all. He could smell metal, oil, powder and that sort of thing. He could smell the man's sweat. He might be able to take a stab at his diet. But that left a lot of holes in the threat assessment.

But Tony hadn't clicked off the safety on the Kalashnikov, or chambered a round-- yet. Parael and Casper were taking the lead, and Tony knew to shut the fuck up and let them talk it out. Parael was off his rocker, but he was generally juiced in with folks.