….“I-I, I never spoke with a French accent, I must just have one of those voice,” Oliver says with a nervous smile painted across his pimple infested face.

“I doubt you have one of those voices,” she says with a heavy frown upon her lips “If I were to be honest, and that’s what I’m going to be. I’d be adding very much just before the word doubt and continuing on from there.”

“T-T-That’s f-for you to say, b-but I’m s-saying I n-never called you, a-and I never p-put on a f-fake French a-accent!” he spits back with a desperation.

“Liar!”

“S-Sez you. But I bet you, you can’t prove it!” he says with a smarmy grin and a nod of the head.

“What makes you think I need to prove it, why can’t I just cut you and be done with it?”

“You think you can just walk away, and I’ll let you go without recourse? You’ve insulted me, and my honour needs sedation!” he grunts as he smacks his chest like some steroid junky encouraging the next burst of adrenaline through their system.

She smiles wickedly, “You’re smoking your own product, cause I ain’t talking about walking away,” she says as she pulls a switchblade from her back pocket, and expertly wields it around like she was a young Tom Cruise throwing bottles around in that movie about dreaming and cocktails….