methisms
A lingering black haired thug stood laxly against a wall of crumbling bricks in a relatively not so busy location with a freshly ignited roll of tobacco between his lips and a not-to-be-fucked-with demeanor. He possessed a very laid back attitude in regards to the run down world around him and a very specific observation of his surroundings. It was when another male approached that his forefingers took the cigarette from his lips in their v-shaped nook, carrying it away from his face as his stance showed he was taking a lax preparation to speak. Confidence buzzed from his comfortable stature and smoke drained from his nostrils.
“You the guy I'm s'posed to be meetin'?” he asked, looking up with an unimpressed quirk of the brow, his cigarette hanging from the moisture of his lower lip. The guy had a shady essence about him, the hi-i'm-a-drug-dealer-disguised-as-a-contributing- member-of-society type of vibe that anyone in the trade -- especially someone as well versed as Mickey Milkovich -- could pick up on with ease. He wasn't fooling anyone. But if the worst case scenario came and he wasn't the guy in question, well he could always just beat the shit out of him and threaten to burn his house to the ground if he breathed a word about his suspicions.
