Re: The Trashcan/The Carnie
He took a swig of his own flask and scrubbed pink-red from the edge of his lips with the back of his hand. He didn't flatter. He saw those eyebrows go up, and he scoffed. "I don't say untruths," he said. "Flattery's fucking hot air, nonce." He gave him an affectionate tap to the calf with the tip of his boot. "No, Garbage. fuck the French. I was at bloody Agincourt, you know?" He snorted. "Don't go pissing on me with French. Gar-baj. Sounds like a fucking poodle."
"You ought to get that out, mate." He tapped the side of his own head. "Does no good up in that." When told the trouble was written on him, he set the flask aside and slapped his hands against his bare chest with a sharp slap. "Wot?" He looked down at himself. He was drunk, but sharp enough, and he wasn't even slurring. "I don't see a fucking Th - ope, wait."
He prodded a spot near his hip bone. As he looked, a new tattoo emerged. It faded into his skin with blotches of ink, as if it was seeping through a piece of paper.