As Scott preached, Victor scarfed down his feast. He ate with his hands, and in less than a minute, the poorly seasoned meal was completely devoured. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. The big brute’s face crumpled from annoyance each time the other man made mention of the Morlock Massacre, and subsequently pardoned the misdeeds of his team-mates.
Once the beer was offered to him, Creed held it in his hand, and cocked an eyebrow upward. “You done?” he asked in jest. The man was visibly agitated now, but made it painstakingly clear when he crushed the can in his hands and snapped the tray in half. Globules of beer orbited around his body. “Coulda’ just said ‘yer fulla’ shit, Creed', an been on yer’ merry way… Don’t like bein’ called a liar to my face, Sunshine. I really don’t…”
The deep bass of his voice amplified. “You gonna sit there, an’ go on an’ on about Morlock this, and Morlock that? Fuck those motherfuckers!” Victor roared. “They were just like cancer babies born without faces, or had dicks where their ears shoulda’ been! All of ‘em were fabricated from that Dark Beast whack-job! Or did’ja forget that? That guy gotta hard-on from stitchin’ chicken heads on mutant bodies! Far as I’m concerned, after I figured that out, I did ‘em a favor by puttin’ those dick-eared, faceless cancer babies outta their misery!”
Sabretooth scowled at Scott. “An’ fuck you, Boy Scout! I been knowin’ Jimmy long before you were even a' itch in yer’ daddy’s ballsack! An’ yer’ gonna stand here, an’ tell me what I don’t know?” The man opened his left hand, and for each word he said with poignant emphasis, he pounded his right fist into his own palm. Even with his strength reduced, the slap of his knuckles against his skin resembled a mild clap of thunder.
“You free pass givin, hypocritical, spineless little snot! Unless th’ next words outta’ yer mouth are ‘I’m gonna power down that cell an’ take that collar off yer’ neck’, don’t say another – FUCKIN’ – word ta' me!”