Sandor was on his third drink of the evening, and was feeling a little unusual. He'd gotten into a fight a few blocks back, but usually he fought after he got drunk, not before. It was messing up his routine.
"Maybe you ought to slow down on those," said the pretty college boy sitting next to him. Sandor turned his death glare on him. "Maybe you'd like to scurry back to your mother's skirts before I break your fucking neck. Go on, now. Piss off."
The boy seemed to want to say something, but left. It was a wise strategy.