Something changed briefly on Sweeney's face at the mention of stories. It seemed like just the other day when that that damn bird Mr. Ibis (imaginative name) had literally opened the pandoras box of Sweeney's past incarnations, and then shortly after, Sweeney had fallen to that piece of shit Gungnir and popped up in Madison Valley.
"Sure I've got stories, tomes of them." He gruffed out, taking the final drag off the pitiful excuse of a cigarette end, smashing the stub into the nearest ashtray and exhaling the smoke through his nose. "But they're mine.. " and the majority of them still stung. Digging a very dilapidated and grimy debit card out of his pocket, he set it on the bar. "Next few's on me, Canada."