"Not likely," he replied, looking down at his cigarette. Sweeney loved cigarettes. Not as much as he loved alcohol, but a definite second on list of favorites. Neither asked anything of him, which is why they took favor over women and rendezvous of a conjugal nature. Neither had been the death of him yet and it wasn't bloody likely that was going to change. "If these fabled cancer-sticks would ever live up to their name and give me cancer... killing me, it would be nothing more than another adventure in this great spectacle of life."
Death for Sweeney... unlikely. Especially since the last time he was certain he was dead, it turned out he was anything but. Funny how that worked.
Then, he smiled. "Hooves, horns and hurts things. By that definition, I pity the male ruminants of the world. Not a mountain goat nor muskox is safe with that sort of qualifier. Anyone who has ever been plagued by a raging bull should thank you then, shouldn't they?" Was he mocking her, perhaps. But the Irishman had been around far too long. Evil was not just evil and good was not just good. Everything was grey. Everything fell in between and at the end of the day, it was just some guy doing his nine-to-five as his cards were dealt.