Sol has a notion that Zik isn't always honest with the Missus, but that's really none of his concern, and he isn't in the business of judging other people, anyway. He also isn't in the business of telling a man he can't have his ChipsAhoy, when he could be zombie chow tomorrow. So instead of doing any of that, Sol stands and watches while Zik uses the little black arrows marked out on the shellacked wood floor to enact some voodoo magic and obliterate the pins. Sol laughs loud when they go down, a short loud and joyful sound.
"Well I guess you showed me, Larry Bird," he laughs, marking the score down on their sheet with the nub of a pencil they found still behind the desk. Folding it with a flourish, Sol presents the score sheet to Zik. "A memento of your victory," he says. "I guess that means the next round is on me." He finishes off the semi-terrible nip, full of phony lime, and he smirks at Zik while he bends to untie his shoe. His cargo pants and long-sleeved tshirt leave him far more casual than his advisor, but he's never been especially interested in projecting any certain kind of air - especially one that includes a necktie. He tugs at his collar at the thought. "And I mean, I never said old men can't bowl..." he adds, innocent.