"What's it to you, whore?" Mouse didn't hesitate to return the glare, though in his eyes lingered a touch of interest. No wonder: Mustang carried herself with confidence. She was a woman well-accustomed to being looked at, coveted, even pursued. A pretty face was in high demand these days.
"Think the lady's doesn't like your tone," Hagar ventured, bottle held aloft in one hand. "We're big on etiquette 'round here. Say you tell me to go fuck myself -- I might be forced to do sometin' dumb, like throw my bottle at your head to see which cracks first: the glass or your thick skull. Or you can do the polite thing, go back to your friends and in the spirit of the holidays, your next round's on me. What do you say, Mouse? Gonna be polite?"
The Chet enforcer seemed to weigh this. "Toss in a free lap dance from the broad and we've got a deal." The 'broad' was supposed to be Mustang. Hagar winced.