The commitment to the bit, even with the clear acceptance that he was at high risk for permanent disfigurment, was the only thing that kept Daisy in her chair, slowly raising a hand to the wide brim of her hat to lift and get a better look at that stupid, self-satisfied smile of his. There was a distinct familiarity to that particular look, but it was that of a familial relation to the wider Entitled Douche genus, surely.
"I don't, but I could try rearranging your face for you," she offered and pulled the hat off to set aside with the same dark promise as a good cracked knuckle. One of them was leaving this fucking beach, and Daisy didn't care if he did it by water.